Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: 4/12/78

Paint It Bob, You Devil

“People don’t know this, but I am a longtime youth basketball ref.”

You’re not.

“Gotta keep ’em off the streets. No such thing as a bad kid, just one that needs some coaching up. And, you know, no one coaches better than a ref.”

None of that made any sense.

“The kids call me Double Dribble.”

No, they don’t. Why?

“It’s the only rule I’m familiar with. Turns out basketball is complicated.”

Sure. The whistle is for Truckin’, Bobby.

“No, it’s too small. And there’s no engine.”

Not trucking. Truckin’. The song. You enjoy starting it with a blast from the whistle.

“Ah.”

Weird that you didn’t remember that.

“Hey, I don’t remember the lyrics half the time, either.”

Okay. Have a good show.

“We do. It’s, uh, Duke ’78. This is a hot one.”

How do you know that?

“Time Sheath.”

Jesus.

In The Timbers Of Fennario

A friend of mine enjoys camping, him and his boys they go romping about New England forests and such, miles away from a fresh and reasonably-priced cup of coffee. At night, after what is, I’m sure, an improper and rushed toilet, they all kip out on the filthy ground like marmosets and then in the morning, they make their doodies squatting in a bush. Then a moose eats everybody; it’s no way to spend a weekend.

At base level, at the concrete bedrock of what “civilization” means to me, lies a non-temporary shelter connected to the water and electric mains. After that, we’re negotiable but I really must insist upon not having to build my home right before sleeping in it. ¬†Or having to make my doodies squatting in a bush. Deal-breaker, that.

I’ve been camping once in my life, and halfway through, I faked being sick so I could walk back to the infirmary. I went to sleepaway camp and once a year they would herd us a couple hundred yards into the woods with our sleeping bags, just far enough to be a real pain in the ass. Build a fire, all that goyim bullshit. I made it until around dinner when I realized how dirty my hands were and that I was expected to just eat my franks and burgers like that and fuck that shit, man, I’m a HUMAN BEING, BABY! MAN ON THE MOON, MOTHERFUCKER! I get to tidy up before I eat my franks, so fuck this shit, my stomach hurts, and I find the counselor whom I know wants to be there even less than I do and before I can get the lie out of my mouth, he has his stuff packed and slung around his shoulder and we’re humping the quarter-mile back to the real camp, with bunks and sinks and cookies.

But these guys love this camping nonsense.

What I’m trying to say is, before you mock someones misguided love for the dire pace of ’76, remember your irrational love for the arena rock of ’78. (Especially Spring ’78. Check out the boys at Duke on 4/12/78. Garcia’s vocals come in after a bit; what is with 1978 and his vocals?)