Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Have we discussed your eyebrows lately?
“Please don’t start with the fleek again. I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I have a feeling you don’t quite know, either.”
Y’know, I was trying to compliment you.
“I get a lotta compliments. I’m passing on this one.”
But–
“Hard pass.”
–the fleek is such that–
“Pasadena.”
…
Aw.
Wow.
“Hey, guy. I…hold on…haaaaa…okay…gimme a sec…”
You are not living your best life.
“HAAAAummm HAAAAummm HAummmm.”
Oh my God, is that how it sounds when you breathe?
“No good?”
No good at all. Why are you so out of breath?
“Heavy jacket.”
Oh, buddy.
Hey, Garcia. You look happy.
“Yeah, well: you know. Playin’ guitar real loud, man. What could be better?”
You have a point. Settle something, tho.
“It’s pronounced with a hard ‘G’. GIF like gift.”
I was not going to ask your opinion on that.
“Okay.”
You Mexican or Spanish?
“I’m from California, man.”
Only right answer.
In the interest of fairness, we now present Garcia with all the sexy in the world in a pic from Lindley Meadows I don’t know if I’ve seen before.
Not to generalize or blow things out of proportion, but every one of you that pointed out that Garcia was Spanish instead of Mexican is racist against Mexicans.
Mexico is better than Spain for many reasons: it touches America, which has got to be a good feeling. They also do not, as a people, take three-hour naps every day. Sure, some Mexicans may snooze the afternoon away, but it’s not an integral part of the national character.
Mexicans do not pretend to have lisps: point Mexico. Mexicans have (to my knowledge) no problems with the Basques: another mark in their favor. When Germany was all “Help us invade the States,” Mexico was all, “Oh, that sounds like a great idea,” and then they told us about it because Mexico is both rico and suave like that: that is yet one more point for Mexico.
Spain has a king, which blows, but Mexico had an emperor, which is awesome. Mexico wins that round.
The Dead played in Spain, but Bobby sang a number of songs about underage Mexican girls. Is that a tie? Let’s call that a tie.
Salma Hayek is Mexican; Catherine Zeta-Jones is not from Spain, but I thought she was for a long time. I do not know how to score that.
And, in a final and crushing defeat to Spain, Mexico is not Portugal’s big spoon.
Ergo and ipso facto and QED: Garcia is Mexican and everyone’s racist but me.
Guys, can you give us a hand here? What show is this?
“I think it’s 1974.”
“It’s ’73, Mrs. Donna Jean.”
“What? ’73?”
“Yeah.”
“I sincerely thought we were in Santa Clara.”
“Okay, first of all, Bobby: I’m alive.”
“Jer, you always know how to get to the heart of an argument.”
“Thanks, Bob.”
“I thought we had all kinda just agreed not to talk about Santa Clara anymore?’
“Oh, yeah. That, too.”
“Also, um…”
“Yeah, uh…”
…
“Oh, I know y’all mean me.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Donna Jean.”
“Sorry.”
You are absolutely no help.
Keep your Buddha of Marin County, and take your Gentle Hippie Shaman Garcia® out back and beat him with chains.
I’ll take this guy. The broke Mexican kid with a fucked-up hand who got thrown out of the army. The chain-smoker with the bad skin.
All he wanted to do was play guitar and all it ever got him was everything he wanted.
Oh my stars and garters. Did all of you bring your sexy to the same show?
“Is Keith in the picture?”
No.
“Then, yes.”
This might be the best-looking the Grateful Dead has ever been.
“Did you take my potato salad into account?”
I did, Bobby, yes.
…
Phil, are those Geiger counters?
“Yes. It’s a rock concert.”
Right.
Hi, Mrs. Donna Jean.
“Very.”
Uh-huh.
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