Hobo In The Park Walks Into The Pitch With Stoeten

So in this edition of this little brewski-and-Birds series, I headed south from Lansing to Dunedin to meet and spit words with Bo Bichette. And I’m not gonna lie, I was pretty excited to take my ol’ beat up 1980 cream colour Chevette through the good ol’ US of A in pursuit of finding out just what Bo actually knows. Unfortunately Mother Nature threw your intrepid Hobo — and a whole lot of other people, I should say — a nasty curve ball known as Hurricane Irma.

Let me take you back: After meeting Jesse Goldberg-Strassler and some of the great young sunflower seed spitting Lugnuts, I jumped in my shit box and hit the I-75 S on my way to the sunshine state. This long road felt like it was leading me to nowhere land, but I knew that it would get me where I need to be going. The truth is, though, it wasn’t long before I started to get bit homesick. I missed the brewskis and the Birds, and I hadn’t had a drink in over a day — because we all know, drinking and driving is for bozos. So this Hobo was as dried up as a California raisin and let me tell ya, it wasn’t fun. At times, I’d play around on my shitty radio with some kind of hoser hope I’d come across Jerry Howarth’s voice filling the air with the sounds of baseball and my hometown, but to no fuckin’ avail.


 bat flips are poetic
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