Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: jerry garcia (page 1 of 132)

All I Know Is That She Sang A Lille While

Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?

“Ah’m boogyin’, sugar. Most nobody don’ know what kinda moves Ah got.”

You mostly just swayed gently onstage.

“Ah was under strict instructions! Miz Donna Jean, we ain’t that kinda band. That’s what e’rybody would tell me. Otherwise, Ah woulda done a li’l hotsteppin’.”

I had no idea.

“Dancin’ Queen Donna Jean. That was mah nickname growin’ up in Alabama. Ah once had the honor of performin’ the tango with Governor Wallace.”

What was that like?

“He kept jammin’ his pecker into mah stomach.”

Sounds right.


I see you back there, Ramrod.





There’s Not Enough Question Marks For This One

The important questions, Enthusiasts. We concern ourselves with only the most vital of the day’s issues. Let lesser sites finger their rosaries over peace, war, coffee cups left on tables, et cetera. These are trifles. No, we’ll not be spending our ever-shrinking lives boodling about in the intellectual shallow end. We’re gonna get down to what’s really real, you and me.

And, thus, we come to our question: Did Phil yoink Bobby’s BMW shirt?

I told you it was important.

An Aesthetic



Why must there always be pandemonium?

“Referring to?”

The stage. It looks like a woodworking shop had a baby with a Guitar Center, and then the baby exploded.

“Eh. Band liked it this way.”

How could anyone like this?

“Maybe ‘like’ is wrong. How about ‘The band didn’t give a shit if it looked this way?'”

That sounds right.

Acrostic The Rio Grand-ee-oh

W is for water, as in rain, which was dripdripdroppifying all over the scalawags and reprobates and chickies at Woodstock, which is where this photo was taken.

O is for omelettes, which you couldn’t get because there was no food because it was just a fucking field with no amenities.

O is for opera, which is the plural of opus, which just means “work.” When you call something an opera, you’re literally saying “this thing someone made.” Lot less fancy when you know that.

D is for Dirty Dingus Magee. Sinatra was in it. He played a cowboy.

Because when you think “cowboy,” you think “Sinatra.” Blue-eyed Enthusiasts will note the luxurious toupee under the hat; Frank named all his hairpieces, and called that one Husky Boy.

S is for Sly Stone, or perhaps Sha Na Na, (PREDICTION: When the absurd “every single note of every single band” 38-disc Woodstock box set is released, Rock Nerds will all rediscover the Na’s brilliance. Pitchfork is already readying a thinkpiece on Bowser, I guarantee it.)

T is a drink with jam and bread, or crystal meth, or testosterone, or the mohawked muscle of the A-Team, or a square, or one of two events that stop play in a basketball game.

O is pissing me off, honestly. Three appearances in one word is too much, O. Let the other vowels get a chance to play.

C is for Country Joe and his Fish, and I’m gonna pass. Hard pass.

K is allowed to ask me about my business just this once, and also potassium.

Say “Cheese”

Hey, Garcia. Gonna stop by the lunch counter at Kresge’s after this and buy yourself a grilled cheese?

“That’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had, man. Might send Parish over for one.”

Can’t go wrong with grilled cheese.

“Oh, sure you can. Some folks wanna get fancy with it. Fresh baked bread, artisanal cheese. And that ruins your sandwich, man. You want Wonder Bread and Kraft Singles. Everything you need for a good grilled cheese is available at 7-11. Don’t get frou-frou.”

I agree completely.

“I know how to play a little guitar, and how not to fuck up lunch. Beyond that, you wanna ask someone else.”

DUDE! Someone just yoinked your briefcase!


“It’s sitting right there, man.”

I know. I was fucking with you.

“This is the kind of shit that makes people not like you.”

I know.

Happens To The Best Of Us

Hey, Garcia.

You lose a bet?

“It’ll grow out, man.”

Last Will And Toilet

Being a fan is necessarily humiliating. The two parties cannot be of equal status; this is by definition. A fan is not a customer, though the two positions are often co-held, as a customer is in a reciprocating relationship with the artist, athlete, entertainer, whatever: You got the goods, and I got the currency. Let’s swap. Such is not the case with fandom. From the subjects come cheers, claims of love, and more blowjobs than there are stars in the sky; in return, the object says Thank you very much after the slow numbers and checks into hotels under assumed names so fuckers like you can’t find him.

Recall that “fan” comes from “fanatopsis,” which is an Ancient Egyptian word meaning “a guy who gets over-excited and throws himself under Pharaoh’s chariot wheels.”

When Garcia was alive, he owned a home in Sonoma. He shat there, specifically but not exclusively in the toilet. After Garcia died, he longer needed the house (or toilet) and it was purchased by a fellow named Henry Koltys.

This may or may not be him:

(Mr. Koltys has also created KidsLast, which calls children of divorce in the middle of the night and tells them it’s their fault Mommy and Daddy don’t love each other anymore. Personally, I don’t see how that helps anyone, but free speech is free speech, right?)

Anyway, Henry tore the old shack down so he could erect a house more befitting a man with his haircut, and–being a capitalist–chose the action which was both most predictable and most depressing: he sold Garcia’s shitter to an online gambling site. This was Golden Palace, whom the more depraved of you will remember from paying palookas and Butterbean to paint its name on their chests during boxing matches, and bought one of William Shatner’s kidney stones.

(It should be noted, however, that the company was doing all this stupid bullshit in the aughts before the Crash of ’08, and everyone was spending money like an asshole back then. Golden Palace was just trashy about it.)

SO the online gambling site buys the dead rock star’s crapper from the lawyer. These are the lumps you take for a market economy. In the Soviet Union, you couldn’t buy a toilet at all, let alone a famous one, and if you left the seat up, you were sent to the gulag. In terms of the freedom to engage in the defecatory appliance trade, we’re leading the world.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the Capital Theater. (Don’t be naive: Shapiro would totally install Garcia’s commode in the Capital Theater, and it would be in a VIP bathroom that he would charge extra to use.) While waiting on the curb for pickup, the toilet disappeared. A helpful angel, perhaps? A tweaker? Scabiolus, the angel-tweaker? Or, you know, the garbage men?

Or maybe it was a Deadhead, one with a sense of dignity, and who didn’t have a bad back. Maybe a guy, could be a gal, someone with a station wagon or a van who figured it was fair enough to display the man’s guitars, or even that bad luck briefcase of his, but Christ leave a poor fellow’s toilet out of it, huh?

You Sexy Things

Women–hot ones, with perfect titty-balls and asses that went woobblewobblewobble when struck (consensually) with a belt–would line up to blow these dudes. Sometimes, the women would blow other, uglier, men to get to these paragons of masculinity. Your dongs, the women would wail; We need them!

What I’m saying is that you should learn how to play guitar.

I’d Walk A Mile With A Camel

“You sure this is the way to the stage?”

“Yes, sahib.”

“Usually, you know, Parish takes me.”

“Yes, sahib. Barish.”

“Parish, man.”

“Is no ‘P’ sound in Arabic, sahib.”


“Seriously, man, I don’t see a stage.”

“Camel knows way.”

“This is almost as bad as playing Florida, man.”

“Is not as humid.”

“Yeah, okay.”


Parachute Me A Look That Says “Let’s Go”

On the campaign trail, John Kerry never brought up his brother, whose Christian name was Robert but everybody called Rooster.


There’s two types of junkies: short-sleeve boys and long-sleeve men.




Where’d you get the parachute?

“Stole it from an elementary school.”


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