Tag: jerry garcia (Page 61 of 139)

Hey, buddy. Look how hard you’re rocking.

“Real hard.”

You did that good.

“I heard there’s some new guy now.”

He’s not like you.

“No?”

You were…special.

“Sure, okay.”

I ran into some of your friends the other day; some of them looked good.

“That sounds right.”

…

I should go.

“Wait.”

Yes?

“Nothing.”

Oh.

“I fixed that door. The one–”

Upstairs.

“–upstairs that wouldn’t shut.”

That’s good.

“Painting over the baby stuff; figured I would.”

Please, Garcia.

“He would have been three in March.”

Don’t! Just don’t.

…

Hold on: what the fuck is this?

“No idea: high as a witch’s tit, man.”

(With thanks to Mr Completely for the engiffination of the jammy goodness.)

Hey, baby.

“Nah, man. Not a baby.”

…

Garcia?

“Hey, pal.”

Reincarnated, huh?

“Be seventeen for Dead60. Play me some guitar, get me some tail.”

Ew.

“I’m gettin’ real good at being Garcia, man.”

Yeah?

“Burned down my treehouse.”

Nice.

“Got dishonorably discharged from the Boy Scouts.”

We don’t like to bring that up.

“Oh, right.”

…

You’re the reincarnation of Jerome Jeremiah Jermajesty Garcia, formerly of a choogly-type band called the Grateful Dead?

“Yup. Fucked up, huh?”

Little. Okay, if you’re Garcia, what do you want to be doing right now.

“Soloing and heroin.”

Well, that’s the right answer. First wife’s name?

“Mountain Girl.”

Real name?

“Mountain Girl Adams.”

Close enough. How much does a guitar cost?

“Dunno…$20 grand? Around thereabouts?”

That is what Garcia would think a guitar costs, yeah.

“Told ya, man. C’mon, gimme some shit only Garcia would know. I’ll prove it to ya.”

Okay. Um. Ah: gimme your children’s birthdays.

…

“Wow. Hoo.”

Any time.

“At least one was in the summer.”

This is actually a trick question: Garcia had no idea when his kids’ birthdays were.

“Still loved ’em. Someone would always tell me, anyway.”

Making no value judgements here.

“Phil was born on the Ides of March, I know that.”

That is both true, and the sort of thing Garcia would remember.

“Yeah. Garcia.”

Huh.

…

“You got–”

I will not give you a cigarette.

“–a smoke I can borrow? Ah, bite me.”

Hey, Stuffed Garcia. I got one of you.

“Most Enthusiasts do, yeah.”

You’re kinda adorable.

“Kinda?”

Um.

“I’m full-on hot, Broseph Campbell. Think cuz I’m a Stuffed-American, I’m incapable of getting my fuck on? STUFFED GARCIA GETS HIS FUCK ON.”

You need to slow down and then come to a complete halt. None of this is okay.

“We are tired of being thought of as asexual creatures to be humped by dogs. We want to hump on the dogs, not the other way! We’re tops!”

I regret everything leading to this conversation.

“Give Stuffed Garcia a tugger!”

Y’know, this is getting awful close to that Seth MacFarlane teddy bear movie.

…

“Oh.”

Yeah. And, you know: let’s not.

Sure, sure.

…

So, are you Garcia or, like, an entirely separate being? I don’t really understand what’s your deal.

“Cards on the table?”

Yeah, of course.

“You started writing before you had an idea.”

Yeah, I do that.

“And my character is loosely-sketched at best.”

Ah.

“At best. I resent it, actually.”

Excuse me?

“Why create a character without vesting it with an inner life? A narrative is a contract.”

…

You are a stuffed drug addict.

“THAT IS FUCKING RACIST.”

TotD, despite his nigh-on-sexual longing to get the hell back in bed, instead does the job no one else will do and hunts down the real stories and puts his journalism degree (honest) to good use.

I have with me now–EXCLUSIVELY– the star of last night’s show, Rainbow That Everyone Assumed Was Garcia.

Mr. Was Garcia?

“Call me Rainbow.”

Thanks, Rainbow. The Enthusiasts have only one question: are you actually Garcia?

“Oh, no. Sorry to disappoint: just a random, but fortuitous, meteorological phenomenon.”

Darn.

“Not to be a diva or anything, but could you use the other picture? I look so fat up there.”

Sure, sorry.

“There ya go. I’m off gluten: lost forty pounds.”

Good for you!

“Acid reflux has completely disappeared.”

That’s great.

“I know, right? Dig it.”

…

What?

“Um, nothing. Just a trick of the light.”

No.

“Photons bouncing off water vapor in the air.”

…

…

…

“Maaaaan.”

YOU ARE GARCIA!

“Dammit.”

I cannot have this talk with you again about the timestreams and not fucking with them.

“I’m a goddam rainbow, man! No one knew it was me.”

SIXTY THOUSAND PEOPLE KNEW INSTANTLY.

“Well, yeah, but they didn’t have, you know: proof, man.”

…

You’ve got Cheetos in your rainbow beard.

“Aw, dammit.”

Last chance, Garcia. Stop showing up as different facets of nature. You’re not Zeus.

“Well, I’m not gonna swan-rape anyone.”

…

“Billy might.”

Billy might.

“Just gonna say this once: the entire time I was alive, he never got within ten feet of a microphone.”

Coincidence?

“Fuck, no.”

Five minutes.

“Already?”

Yeah.

“I’ll be there.”

Nervous?

“Been doing this a while.”

Yeah. Garcia?

“That’s me.”

…

What did I tell you about that fucking Time Sheath?

“Aw, come on. Just the first set.”

Absolutely not.

…

Holy shit, you’re not even wearing a disguise.

“You know how many bearded fat guys are gonna be here?”

Good point, but you have to find a reality where you haven’t been dead for two decades.

“Dick.”

Whatever. Someone has to be the grown-up, apparently.

…

Why do I smell smoke?

“Dressing room caught fire; no idea what happened.”

You’re gloriously consistent, you know that?

“I’m not as complicated as I seemed.”

Worcester, I think.
I’m sure.
I think I’m sure, sure enough.

They get the magic;
I get the Ramada.
Lots of fuckers say they’re wizards;
Lucky me; I got believed.

Kids get the rain dance;
I get the plane ride.
I ask for pears and I don’t get them.
The pears would go nicely on that dealy-bob behind me.
No pears.

The Centrum?
The Sportatorium?

Everywhere is some place,
They tell me.
Abbadon and the rest of the Abandoned Gods
Hear us
From anywhere

With their noise engines.

All for them.
We get fruitless hotel rooms and
Swollen ankles.

(With thx to Mr. Completely for the inspiration.)