Knit Sisters

This weekend Alex and I hung out in one of our favorite coffee shops (mainly to take advantage of their fabulous meat-locker-level air conditioning and only secondarily to consume some joe), a great spot for working on Rogue, who is growing a hood:

Detail:

And they were playing some reggae. I love reggae, used to listen to it all the time in college, but this time I was listening a little more closely to the lyrics and I noticed that a number of the lines seemed, um, how should we say? Written after smoking a little too much ganja, mon? In spite of my well-known love for and fascination with Bob Marley, I still have to ask what Bob was thinking when he wrote Rat Race, and included the ridiculous line, “Rasta don’t work for no CIA”?

Bob. My friend. Tell us something we don’t know.

Were Bob and his fellow rastamen frequently grilled about being in cahoots with the CIA? I gotta say, it just doesn’t seem likely. In fact, I’ll bet my whole stash that the following exchange NEVER TOOK PLACE:

Man (or mon) on street: So, Bob, as a prominent rastamon and international reggae star who spends most of his time rolling spliffs, relaxing on the beach, impregnating various women, growing his dreadlocks, and singing dreamy ganga-inspired songs about “one love” and other elusive concepts, I’m betting that you make some extra greenbacks on the side doing contract work for the CIA.

Bob: No mon.

Mon: Aw, c’mon. Just admit it.

Bob: No mon.

Mon: I don’t believe you.

Bob: No, mon, rasta don’t work for no CIA.

Rightio. Bob Marley is dead, so we’ll never know for sure, but…yeah, last I checked, the CIA, bumbling though it is, was still not soliciting help from guys who smoke pot every day.

Hey, wait just a minute! Maybe. They. Are. That would explain so much.

Now I don’t want to single out Bob for abuse here because we also heard Peter Tosh’s paean to marijuana, Legalize It, winner of The American Lung Association’s Setbacks and Misinformation Award for this stunner of a line: “It’s good for asthma.”

With this kind of firm grip on medical science, it is not entirely surprising that Peter Tosh is dead too. He was allegedly murdered, but I think we may have stumbled on a likelier, if less exciting, explanation for his demise. RIP, Peter, but maybe in your next life, think about enrolling in a basic health class.

Shelley, meanwhile, spent her weekend mornings attempting to rouse her pack members from their slumbers:

“Can you see what I’m up against here? Hopeless, I tell you, hopeless.”

“Dear Lord, what will it take to inspire this slug-a-bed to rise up and face the day?”

“Perhaps like in the fairy tales, a little kiss will do the trick.”

“My work here is done. I will take this sock as recompense.”

This entry was posted on Tuesday, July 11th, 2006 at 8:48 am and is filed under Heavy sweaters. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.