- The picture of the sloppity-ass staging is from 1980, not 1981. In my defense: I wanted to be right. That should count for something. Also, the location is Folsom Field in Denver.
- The woman seated next to Garcia in picture accompanying my aborted attempt to discuss the state of Garcia’s scratchy patch was not, in fact, one of his wives, but a dive instructor named Gina. In my defense, Garcia had a lot of wives.
- Phil did not get a beej from a woman in an anteater costume at one of Brent’s furry orgies. The costume was that of a tapir. TotD regrets the error.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 41 of 139)
If you asked the best production designer in the world, “Can you make it look like no one gave a shit?” the stage would still look a million times better than this. Any effort or eye towards aesthetics–even if it’s to deliberately fuck it up–would ruin the perfect middle finger that is this haphazardousness.
(Precarious Lee has a cousin named Harold “Hap” Hazard, but I don’t know if we’ll ever hear about him again.)
Which wife was that? Massapequa? Monstermash? Whoever she was, if her leg wasn’t there, we would be able to see Garcia’s balls. Which brings me to the topic of the evening: let’s discuss Garcia’s bush. Now, some Dead scholars assert that–
No, no. Not gonna happen.
No.
Nuh-uh.
–his pubis was…how did you do that? We alternate lines. That’s not supposed to happen.
Neither is you speculating on a dead stranger’s genitals for a thousand words.
Bush is not genitals.
The entire area is off-limits. This is over the line. I know sometimes it seems like there isn’t a line, but there is, and Garcia’s crotch-curlies are over it. Way over it. Can’t even see them from the line.
I understand your point, but this is a fascinating topic. I mean: Garcia had all the hair in the world on his skull, but below the neck, he was as sleek as the orca on his shirt. Which side did Garcia’s potato salad take?
…
Please don’t say–
CIVIL WAR.
–Civil War. I hate you.
You mention that a lot.
I hate you a lot. I hate you a very lot.
Europe in 1972 was not the Europe that exists today; it was still a bunch of little countries that had been trying to kill each other a generation earlier. There was new money every hundred miles, and new cops and officials to give that money to: Europe was a collection of borders with countries separating them.
It was also farther away, and expensive to reach in any medium. Air mail required a whole different set of tools than regular mail: obscure stamps and special envelopes with red-and-blue wainscoting and see-through paper to save on weight. You could not call Europe. I mean, you could if someone else was paying for it, but if the bill was in your name, you could not call Europe.
In 1972, the Grateful Dead didn’t play any shows in Germany.
This is from the Scarlet>Fire; the angle makes Keith look heavy.
What is it, Rando Night?
“You’re doing this to me, man; not the other way around.”
Oh, right. Great jacket.
“It’s warm.”
Where’d you get it?
“Drug dealer gave it to me.”
Drug dealers give you a lot of stuff.
“But never enough, right?”
Nope. Who is this rando?
“He’s a rando.”
What’s he doing?
“Randing.”
Sure.
If we’re only going by this picture, then Mickey Hart is the BEST EVAR Mickey. No contest: look at that glorious sumbitch. He looks like how the guy from Monster Magnet thinks he looks.
AHHHH!
“What? What is it, man?”
Garcia, don’t freak out, but I think the Devil is behind you.
“Why do you think I’m making this face?”
Makes sense.
Garcia’s juvenile delinquency started early, and continued for the rest of his life.
Little known fact: Garcia put himself through cosmetology school with his winnings from the track. (He had a system.)
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