Way back in 1798 I was sailing the high seas with an aspiring pirate named Mitch. (Well, his pirate name was Captain Neck-Beard but that’s way more syllables.) He was an eager young buck and, he having just set out on his own, I decided to go on some adventures with him and help out. I served as First Mate, crew, cook and parrot-on-shoulder.
So, one time we were sailing about aimlessly, looking for a place to dock for the eve. Lo and behold we came upon a healthy-sized cave that seemed to suit our requirements to a tee! O happy day! As I fastened the anchor to one of the many smooth white stalagmites I suddenly felt a gooch-quivering rumble…to my surprise I discovered that this was no mere cave. No. Were in the jaws of a mighty giant narwhal!
“Ahhhhh! Blast,” shrieked Mitch. “O great narwhal of oceans blue, what must we do to convince ye to spare us?” (We said “ye” a lot in those days. It was a simpler time.)
The narwhal answered, “YE MUST FIND ME A MAN. A MAN OF GREAT WISDOM AND HEART. HE HOLDS THE KEY TO ALL EXISTENCE. BEING A CREATURE OF THE SEA, I CANNOT GO TO HIM. HE RESIDES ATOP THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN IN THE GREENEST COUNTRYSIDE. I’VE MAPQUESTED A ROUTE FOR YE….”
And so we travelled for 40 days and 3 nights (we weren’t really the night-hiking kind, but occasionally the Mad Croc Energy Gum would work it’s magic.) After many further adventures that shall be revealed in other tales soon to come, we finally reached out destination. We came upon the precipice of this great mountain and found a man serenely hunkered down in the crotch of a great oak tree, playing a two-stringed sitar of sorts (kind of like that M. Ward video.)
We would come to know the man as Boss. I believe he was sent to this world by Zeus himself to take fucking awesome pictures of (mostly) fucking awesome bands and other fucking awesome things.
Here comes Boss, in control.
Marvin knew he should’ve let his mom give him the care package of SPF 200 and extra hair gel when she dropped him and his sister off.
Savor that cigarette for all it’s worth, Tim. Don’t let a millimeter go to waste. It’s been a while since …And Out Come the Wolves.
It’s also been a while since “Mmm Bop.”
Ahhh, I remember being 17…all full of youthful exuberance…starting a political punk band ’cause I was angry at my soul patch.
Portland’s better than us. It just is.
The ghost of John Belushi, patron saint of ankle socks.
Flee, young ones! Ride thine authentic bananaboards into the magical land of indie rock Narnia!
Visit Boss. He misses you.
Yours,
Torquil Crossingham
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