An uncomfortable number of years ago, I spent a summer at an archaeological field school in remotest taiga-est Alaska, where I learned how to use a transit, fire a shotgun in the approximate direction of menacing wildlife, drink cheap-ass rye whiskey, deploy chemical agents against the local arthropoda, cook a wide variety of packaged foods, and hate, with a fiery unyielding passion, the music of Creedence Clearwater Revival. These days I never have to try to level precision equipment in squashy brush, brace against a shoulder-bruising recoil, drink anything inferior to Macallan, check the room for bloodsucking insects, figure out how to make Product of Hungary bacon edible, or listen to shitty music just because someone thought it made our camp seem more like a 1970s Vietnam movie.
I may reconsider my lifelong CCR ban, though, now that Finland has revealed its strategic reserves of AWESOME WTF.
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4 comments:
Whoa. That's Skynyrd, dude.
The CCR cover of it is burned into my memory with the searing heat of a thousand burning mosquito coils.
I haven't heard the CCR cover - but Lynard Skynard version I do lurve in a decadent way. Being a Floridian by birth. Alabama was close enough to fear.
We had one tape deck (way to date myself) and starting around week 3 we got rotating rights to access: one tape per person during afternoon work hours, then absolute rights for the two people who had KP that day. One of the students always used her turns for her CCR tape. Another one to blast Joan Whatserface, "What If God Were One of Us," so loudly that we literally couldn't escape it: river on one side, marsh on three others. We tried, though; boy did we try.
This trip also nearly cost me my eyebrows. Turns out that trash won't burn in the pouring rain even if you dump an imprudent quantity of jet fuel on it, but the short-lived fireball will still be significant.
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