Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
What was the dress code for this wedding? Watch the opening scene of Rocky Horror and do that?
Also: is this Garcia’s wedding, or is he walking someone down the aisle? Because if it is his wedding: holy shit, buddy. You could have had someone pick you up a collared shirt.
Also also: I have seen that blazer on Garcia before. It is his courtroom appearance jacket.
Also also also: Hunter.
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Why does that monitor have “Jerry” written on it?
…
“Belongs to him.”
Good talk.
“Okay.”
Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?
“Feelin’ it, sugar.”
I see that. You look like Kate Moss.
“All pretty people look alike.”
Your hair length says to me that you’ve suffered no extended illnesses.
“Okay, that’s enough. Don’t talk to me like you talk to those Burnin’ Man skanks, darlin’. I ain’t gonna contemplate the universe with you.”
Sorry.
“Besides, I’m married.”
What?
Oh, Mrs. Donna Jean. I don’t want to do this bit with you.
“IS THIS GUY BOTHER–”
shlummmmph-plop
…
Did Keith just slide off the horse?
“Looks like.”
Where’d he get a horse?
“Stable?”
Good talk, Mrs. Donna Jean.
Parish, stop looking for people to hit.
“I’m not looking for people to hit.”
…
“I’m scanning to see who needs hitting.”
Big difference.
“To not hit someone who requires it does a disservice to them, and to society in general.”
You know Danny McBride is gonna play you on the Amazon show, right?
“Ooh, look. I just found someone who needs hitting.”
I’m leaving.
“I didn’t know you knew how to play the sax, Oteil.”
“White motherfuckers…”
(Also: look how complicated Garcia’s guitar is. The power supply has its own power supply.)
You look terrible.
“Me or Steve Miller?”
You. Steve Miller looks like he’s about to start a fight at a Hooters.
“Okay. Fuck off.”
Why is your moob in your armpit?
“Parish!”
All right, I’m going.
…
You wanna talk about–
“PARISH!”
–the pants? Okay, okay.
“You’re doing what?”
“Not returning their calls.”
“At all?”
“Not one.”
…
“HAHAHAHAHA!”
“Yeah, right? Garcia, what the fuck are you guys wearing?”
“Repeat the question. I couldn’t hear you over your fingerless gloves.”
“Touché.”
What did I tell you about that fucking Time Sheath?
“Nice cropping, man.”
Don’t change the subject. What are you doing in 1972?
“Soloing.”
I’m not in the mood for your charismatic bemusement.
“Ah, come on. Get off my back. I couldn’t find my briefcase, and for some reason, I thought I left it in on another continent in a different decade. Common mistake.”
Not at all.
“And I figured I might as well squeeze a show in while I’m here.”
Dammit, Garcia, the Time Sheath is not a toy. You can’t–
…
You lost your briefcase?
“Just disappeared. Checked Keith’s room, but he had already quit the band and died.”
I’m confused.
“Well, hey, jackass: I’m not the one who made the universe where everything happens simultaneously. Misplacing things is a real bitch: you have to remember where you left it, and when you left it.”
Sorry.
“Yeah, yeah.”
We are talking about the Briefcase of Infinite Felonies, right? The magical bag of holding that contains all that was, is, and will ever be?
“Yeah, man. My briefcase.”
Goddammit.
“My stash is in there.”
Everything’s in there! It can’t fall into the wrong hands!
“It already belonged to the Grateful Dead.”
Wronger hands!
“Keep yelling at me and Parish hits you.”
You brought Parish?
“Of course I…it’s like you never met me before.”
Dammit.
Sometimes we go left to right, sometimes we don’t. This is one of those “don’t” times.
This is another article about the Grateful Dead, also from Rolling Stone, but not by David Browne, as it is from 1973 and David Browne does not have access to Time Sheath technology. (I might have let him borrow it, but there was no discussion of me in the Bobby interview, so David Browne will remain an unpilgrim, stuck in time.) The article’s a good one: half about the band’s ludicrous ramblings and plans, and half about the logistical process of getting a PA in and out of an arena.
Watches, Enthusiasts, are a dead technology fetishized by anoraks and the moneyed bored; they’re like horses for your wrist. But this Guardian article about the luxury watch market is excellent and fascinating, filled with all kinds of hilarious facts. Did you know the fancy timepieces, the shit Josh buys, the real high-dollar stuff: they don’t keep particularly good time; a quartz watch beats them, and obviously your phone beats everything.
(There are activities that require watches still–outdoorsy bullshit, and navigating, or if you’re off the grid–but we don’t keep the time in clocks any more. Along with everything else in our society, we’ve translated time into binary and entrusted it to the computers. If you want to know what time it is in 2016, you need to ask the computers, otherwise you ‘re just estimating.)
I promised you a picture; here is it:
Goes with the Bobby one, doesn’t it?
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