Thoughts On The Dead

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

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?)


  1. he took the better part of a year to recover from his January bout of laryngitis it seems. As for ’76, no mocking just trying to nudge your ship in a good direction. The nuegut in the middle of a 3 musketeers bar thinks jerry’s lines were gooey in ’76. ’76 isn’t even my favorite year, but i admire it’s uniqueness.

  2. You’re right in the fact that you can spot a ’76 at a hundred paces. (Of course, getting to you from a hundred paces away takes ’76 forever. COMEDY.) If we get to the heart of it (inadvertent), I had been working on a post declaring Spring ’78 to be the greatest, yet most overlooked, tour of them all when I realized I had written pretty much the same post four times all ready. So I took it out on the loyal, lovable ’76 afficianado. To make it up to you, you’ll be receiving a new wardrobe from Uncle Billy’s Surfers and turfers! Like to get shitfaced near the water? Uncle Billy’s got the garish shirt for your weathered old pervert ass.

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