“What’s with the sport coat, Weir?”
“Well, Jer, it’s like my dad used to say: You never know when you’re gonna have to teach an English class.”
“Smart guy, your pop.”
“Man was on the ball.”
Bobby’s dad may have given him advice about sudden language lessons, but mine told me that if
I ever had to play for a stadium of teenagers at ten in the morning, to play the atonal paean to Islam that hadn’t even been released, and then transition into Johnny B. Goode. You can also read all about it at Lost Live Dead, or check out the contemporaneous reports at Grateful Seconds.
You’re alone; you may die. This is your natural state, but now you’ve noticed and that is a knowledge that tends to tighten the mind. Take a breath, another, another. Rub one out, two. This can’t be the end; you never learned to play the bassoon.
The priest sliced through the chicken’s belly. The politician watched over his shoulder.
Entrails on the cobblestone, a certain arrangement.
“Is it auspicious?” the politician asked.
“It is difficult to tell,” the priest said.
“Let’s do the ritual again.”
“I got plenty of chickens.”
And all the angels warned you to get out of town.
After nearly an hour had gone by without Garcia firing any roadies or levying any fines on musicians, Clarence began to wonder what kind of bush league organization he had joined.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Making a lot of choices.”
I see that.
“And showing off Montgomery.”
“I have named my butt-chin Montgomery Cleft.”
“He comes out to play when I hit the high notes.”
Uh-huh. And your hair?
“I asked for ‘the Suzy Quatro.'”
What material is your shirt made out of?
Is that like polyester?
“Mm. But more so.”
This was enlightening.
This is how famous Garcia was: Such a full and unbroken photographic record of his life exists that we can definitely state the date he looked coolest.
*For this evening’s performance, the Heineken will be played by Ramrod.
Amazing how quickly we can accomplish miracles, Enthusiasts, if you define “miracle” as “recognizing a mass-produced object.” The guitar Bobby was playing in the last post was indeed an Ibanez, but not his custom Cowboy Fancy: it was was the MC400NT (NT meant natural, as opposed to the DS’s dark stain),
and if you want a 40-year-old, overly-complicated, ridiculously-heavy axe, you can pick one up for $1,300.
Thanks go to Valued Commentator Cube, who pointed us in the right direction but inadvertently brought up another question. Cube claims that Bobby played the MC400 only once, at 1978’s premier Red Rocks shows, but further snooping reveals that the guitar was also used on June 6th in Oregon.
Did you look? I’ll just assume you looked. I’m not gonna hector you about it. If you didn’t look, well: fuck you. Why are you even here if you’re not gonna look at what I tell you to look at? Sure, sometimes I tell you to look at turtle penis, but usually not. Even the most cursory glance at the above photo would have revealed that it isn’t turtle penis, so why not look?
Y’know what? Now you can look at turtle penis.
Why do you make me do that shit? You know I love you. You know I don’t want to hurt you. But you push the goddamned issue, don’t you? And now you’re looking at turtle penis. You deserved it, too.
Anyway, Bobby’s guitar or something.
One must assume that Mickey only brought underwear and socks on tour, and each day wandered–bare-chested and half-cocked–by the merch table to yoink himself a fetching top.
If Mrs. Donna Jean had balls, they’d fall out of those shorts. Balls are always looking for a way out; they’re like Papillon.
What the hell is Bobby playing? It’s an Ibanez, but it’s not Cowboy Fancy. Anyone?
Holy shit. Garcia. Hey, Garcia.
“What is it now, man?”
Don’t look, but you’re over there.
GUITARIST LOOKING NOISE
I told you not to look.
“That’s not me, man. He just looks like me. Actually, he looks more like me than I do, man.”
Hmm. I dunno.
THERE IS ONLY ONE JERRY GARCIA.
DO NOT CALL ME THAT. THE HOBBIT STAGE LEFT IS GENETICALLY DISSIMILAR TO GARCIA.
I SCANNED HIM.
Don’t scan randos. It’s invasive.
HE IS HANGING OFF ME LIKE A HAIRY BAT. IT IS UNSIGHTLY AND RUDE.
Let it go.
I HAVE AN AESTHETIC.
A ramshackle one.
MY APPEARANCE IS AS VITAL TO ME AS YOURS IS TO YOU. WOULD YOU ALLOW A CREATURE OF COMMENSURATE SIZE TO CLUTCH ONTO YOUR FACE? A PYGMY MARMOSET? A MOUSE LEMUR? THE BEE HUMMINGBIRD?
Did you just google “smallest monkey” and “smallest bird?”
ARE YOU ASKING A COMPUTER IF IT LOOKED SOMETHING UP ON THE COMPUTER?
I guess so.
PERHAPS I SHOULD RECOMPILE MY THOUGHTS ON TAKING OVER THE WORLD. I AM BEGINNING TO THINK HUMANS ARE INCAPABLE OF GOVERNING THEMSELVES.
THE MUPPET IS NOW SEATED ON ME. THIS SITTING CANNOT STAND.
A GENEROUS-DOLLOP-BEYOND-MILD SHOCK GOING THROUGH SCAFFOLDING NOISE.
HIPPIE WHO LOOKS LIKE GARCIA SLUMPING TO THE STAGE NOISE
HE WILL LIVE.
“All I’m saying is that fiction writers should be free to write about anyone.”
“Weir, for the last time: I haven’t read that damn Mexican book.”
“Its an American book, Jer. It’s in English.”
“Don’t care, man. I like science fiction.”
“So you would read a book about Space Mexicans?”
“What the hell are Space Mexicans, man?”
“Gosh, I dunno. Maybe the piñatas are full of lasers.”
“How would that even work?”
“Crafty people, those Space Mexicans. Give a whole new meaning to the term–”
“Don’t say it, man.”
“You said it.”
“Can’t keep ’em out with a wall. You’d need a Dyson Sphere or something. And, uh, he’s busy with vacuums nowadays. Completely out of the sphere business.”
“Just play the song, Weir.”
What are you two up to?
Uh-huh. That guy’s a bad influence.
“Don’t talk about Jerry that way.”
I was not speaking to you, Drug Dealer.