“Oh, so you’re going to see the girly band?” Our neighbor looked sympathetically at my husband, sure he was being dragged to Mammút’s set by me, his wife.
We laughed him off. We had already identified the middle-aged man in the camper next to our tent in the Eistnaflug campground as one of those whose only measure of quality was the yardstick of external genitalia, and knew there was no point in arguing the merits a witchy band like Mammút to such a person. Read More