So, Jerry Garcia was still alive and the Dead were touring during those summers in the late 1970's and early 1980's when work was plentiful and jobs were always interesting. Bruce was still just a local hero and he played large in Philly, NYC, and at the Stone Pony in Asbury. The (Vietnam) War was over and attitudes began mellowing; it was just too hard on the senses to keep the emotions going full tilt boogie. Computers were still huge blobs of steel and wire and portability was limited to Porta Johns. Cassettes were starting to outsell LP's and Sony was making a killing with Walkmans and their Big Ass Brother, the boom box. The Talking Heads were combining wit with vigor and Tina Weymouth was topping Bonnie Raitt in young men's hearts. Bob Marley was hitting his stride and the white boy bands were doing their best to copy him. Someone suggested Peter DeVries to me and the life-long obsession with his novels began. The Olympics were in Montreal in '76, putting the nail in Montreal & Quebec's financial coffin for decades to come. Oh, the price of hubris. In the summer of 1977, I was walking from the beach to one of the limestone outcrops parked off the shore of Sidari, Corfu singing "Sugar Magnolia". Life was limitless and bursting with possibilities.