Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: jerry garcia (page 2 of 135)

Stop This Shit, Peter Shapiro

Garcia’s briefcase isn’t the only attraction we’ve brought with us! Come on down to Garcia’s at the Cap™ Forest and see more of our collection! We have:

  • Montgomery Clift’s windshield!
  • Natalie Woods’ life preserver!
  • One pair baby shoes, never worn (from Sharon Tate)!
  • The pickle that accompanied Mama Cass’ ham sandwich!
  • Book on knot-tying that belonged to Michael Hutchence!
  • Gram Parson’s skeleton!

That’s right! Garcia’s at the Cap™ has the the bones of legendary country/rock musician Gram Parsons! His friends stole his body and buried him in the desert, and then we dug him up and mounted him! For you to look at while you drink $11 beers!

Garcia’s at the Cap™! Come on down!

OR

That was where he kept his death. He carried his death around, and took out a little bit at a time. That briefcase was where he kept his death.*

And you hung it on the wall like a trophy.

 

 

* Garcia kept all of his death in there. The narcotics, obviously, but you know he also had his Camels and some cookies in there.

The Loneliest Walk

Everything fuzzes and slides together, where you start and the world ends, and the colors eat each other.

The summers become one, but the beatings will remain sharp until they don’t; violence has an integrity which kindness does not.

And then no more faces, no more words, it’s all just the hard, white empty.

It’s A (Mocca) Sin

“Hey, uh, guys? Did we forget something?”

“We’ve got our soft-soled hippie shoes.”

“And our enormous guitars.”

“Sure, right, yeah, uh-huh. But, uh, aren’t there usually people in the seats?”

“Goddammit, we forgot to sell tickets.”

“Let’s blame Mickey.”

“He doesn’t join the band for two weeks, Lesh.”

“I don’t give a shit. I say this is Mickey’s fault.”

Face Dancing

“Jer?”

“Shh.”

“Are you making a stinky?”

“Quiet, Hewis.”

“Oh, God, you’re taking a dump.”

“I am not, man.”

“I have children. I know that face.”

“Shh.”

OR

If you gave Garcia’s sport coat to a refugee who had just washed up on the shore, they would give it back, wade back into the water, and swim home.

That’s The Smile Of A Dental Floss Tycoon

“Ha, ha! Bobby’s dick is on your jacket!”

“He’s rubbin’ it! Rub that dick, Bob!”

“Joe Montana! Sheila E.! Stop encouraging him! It’s not funny!”

“Jerry thinks it’s funny.”

“Look at him.”

“Hee hee hee.”

OR

The possibility that Garcia bought that jacket from a homeless guy cannot be ruled out.

Don’t Tell Me The Heart Of Rock & Roll Ain’t Got No Heart

“We’re not dressed for the same season, man.”

“I’m not a shorts guy, Jer. Maybe on the golf course, but not for the stage. Do you golf?”

“I want you to stand there and think about the question you just asked me, man.”

“Hey, you never know.”

“No, you do. That’s a thing you know without having to be officially informed.”

“All right, all right. Do you have any hobbies?”

“I like smoking.”

“Smoking isn’t a hobby.”

“The way I do it, it is.”

“Anything else?”

“What year is it?”

“1993.”

“Yeah, I got another hobby, man.”

“Not gonna be any more specific?”

“Nah.”

“You wanna discuss the Bobby Situation?”

“Nah.”

“Is Mickey gonna keep rocketing drumsticks at my head?”

“He’ll run out pretty soon.”

Eye Of Horus, Forgotten Chorus

“Hey, Billy?”

“What, Mick?”

“You and me are Bass Drum Buddies.”

“Yuh-huh. That’s right, pal.”

“Billy?”

“Whaaaat?”

“And we’re Mustache Muchachos.”

“We both got mustaches, yeah.”

“Bill?”

“WHAAAAAAAAT!?”

“I love drumming with you.”

“It’s a treat, man.”

When He’s Chargin’ The Chopper

“Stop depressing people, man.”

It’s a depressing day, Garcia.

“Still, man. Have some self-control.”

Yeah, you’re right. Where are you? It looks like an apocalyptic hellscape.

“San Bernardino.”

I stand by my observation.

Worst Prom Ever

“I tried, Jerry. I really did. You know me: I wanna get along with everyone.”

“Don’t worry about it, man. Weir can be a little hard-headed. I remember one time we were out somewhere and he said, ‘Look at the baby squirrel.’ Except he was pointing at a fucking chipmunk. I tell him, ‘Weir, that’s a fucking chipmunk.’ Turns out he thought chipmunks grew up to be squirrels. So I set him right, but he refuses to accept it. I even took him to the zoo and had one of the animal ladies explain it to him, but he wouldn’t give in.”

“He’s steadfast in his beliefs.”

“You could put it that way, sure.”

“He said something about Hollywood. Has Bob tried acting?”

“Shit, man, he’s been going on auditions for eight years. He was real close to getting on Streets of San Francisco one time, but I don’t know if he’s cut out to be an actor. He can’t act, for one. That’s disqualifying on its own.”

“Hey, it’s not like I’m Olivier.”

“Weir’s worse. Trust me, man: I’ve run lines with him.”

“Well, there’s gotta be something he’s better at than me. Guitar, man! I can barely play.”

“Neither can he some nights. Do you fence?”

“Traffic in stolen goods, or fight with swords?”

“Either.”

“No.”

“Shit. Wait, man: is your daughter an Instagram Hottie? And, if so, how many followers does she have?”

“What the hell is Instagram?”

“It’s this thing from 30 years from now. There’s all kinds of artworks on it, and there’s chicks, too.”

“30 years from now? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Oh, right. Your band doesn’t have a time machine.”

“A time machine?”

“It’s a Sheath, technically.”

“I’m gonna see if I can find Sheila E.”

“Sure thing, Hue.”

Happy Birthday, Harry Mendoza

A REMINDER: The so-called “Days Between” are not celebrated here, as this website does not sell merch and therefore does not need an excuse for a 20%-off sale.

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