Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Late one night in a hotel room somewhere, Bobby awoke to Garcia sitting on the edge of the bed; he was backlit by the moon, and the fire he had accidentally set.
“Um, Jer…?” Bobby mumbled.
“The thing about life, Bob: no matter how nice the view, there’s only one window.”
And then he got up and walked out of the room. The next morning, Bobby thought it had been a dream, except for all the cigarette burns in the carpet.
Whatcha doin’, Garcia?
“Being a rock star.”
Thought so.
If you have the wrong number of fingers and a taste for opiates, you’re going to drop your pick in the guitar from time to time.
First off: this party’s dress code is poorly enforced at best.
Second: what’s with the handsome guy? I’m going to call him Dan Francisco.
Garcia loved this cabin, and the sessions of bluegrass picking he did with his friends aided in his recovery after the coma. He still burned it down accidentally, but that doesn’t lessen the love he felt for it.
Fun fact: Garcia built this cabin by hand.
Somehow, Garcia always just knew when someone was eating his ice cream, and he would sprint up on that unlucky motherfucker.
Presented without comment.
The folding chair was actually a step up from the original set-up, in which Parish would go into the crowd and find an unconscious fat guy.
Hey, where’s Pig?
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