Hey, Garcia. Whatcha doing?
“Giggle-running.”
Yeah. Whatcha wearing?
“Blanket.”
Sure. You know who Meredith Hunter is?
“Nope.”
Give it a day.
…
“I’m also here.”
Hi, Bobby.
“Hey. Gonna have some fun today!”
Umm…okay.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 72 of 139)
Reasons for Phil’s absence:
- It was a Friday night show during Phil’s brief flirtation with orthodox Judaism.
- It was a Tuesday night show during Phil’s long entanglement with orthodox alcoholism.
- Takin’ a piss.
- Ballin’ a fox.
- Doin’ a line.
- Saw a duck and ran terrified into the dressing room, slammed door, burrowed under couch, made keening noises.
- Crowd surfing.
- This was the only appointment he could get at the podiatrist for weeks. (Phil’s got corns.)
- On line for the new iPhone.
- At a playground slapping ugly children while telling them to “get used to it.”
- Saw a carnival on the way to the gig.
- Stepped in a normal-looking pile of leaves and a rope tightened around his leg and yanked him up to the ceiling.
- In a crazy rich guy’s house, dressed as a kitty, and dangling from a rope as a living motivational poster.
- Picking a fight with two Puerto Rican women in a Steak & Shake parking lot.
- Galveston, Texas.
- Charging (Light Brigade.)
- Taking (Omaha Beach.)
- Sieging (Stalingrad.)
- Cross-dressing (Rocky Horror Picture Show screening in Petaluma.)
- Had Bobby draw him a map to the show and Phil is either in Narnia or East St. Louis, and either way he’s about to get stabbed.
When the paper in front of him started breathing and the mic became much more dragonnish than ever before, Dave knew he shouldn’t have accepted that shot of tequila from Bobby.
He’ll come for you just like he came for Garcia. Like he’ll come for me. For our parents and children. Even for the bastards, though he always seems to take his time with them.
Maybe peacefully, quietly, gently. Perhaps in a packed soccer stadium immediately after being declared an enemy of the state. It’s all the same.
The question comes down to your wall. Where do you build it? Garcia built two. One around him, as high as he could? Keep the fuckers out. Keep the light out, too, but worth the bad for the good. Right?
He laid that wall in sturdy and tall and he liked it in there until he didn’t and tried to get out. But he had built it so sturdy and tall.
Garcia had another wall, though. One that didn’t keep anyone out: it broadcasted. It sent his heart out to the horizon and sailed through the air for anyone, anyone at all, to catch and keep or pass on. He built this wall behind him and it was held up with rope and duct tape and fell apart every night, to be erected anew down the road. It required much more energy and upkeep; there were a million reasons not to build that wall.
We will build our walls. Let us choose carefully.
Everyone had fun throwing the towels until Brent got a bit out of control and chucked one at Garcia, who straight-up backhanded him.
“Why do I always end up having to teach the keyboardist lessons?” Garcia said, as he advanced on Brent’s slumped body.
Bill Graham, being a street kid, had already made himself scarce. Bobby watched and cried as Garcia undid his belt and taught his terrible lesson.
I’m going to need this to stop. Right now. Right the fuck now, please, asshole.
What? This is the usual thing: pictures and japery and magical realism with dick jokes.
Yeah, this is not that. This is you describing a beloved entertainer as asserting his dominance through sexual terrorism.
…
Have I found the line?
I believe so, yes.
Keen-eyed Enthusiasts will note: Billy in his finest Sammy Miami cabana wear, Parish is Dennis the Menace, and a whole bunch of goobers staring at Garcia like he had a dick growing out of his neck.
After a while, the Estate realized they could save a ton on supplies and shipping by just mailing a fiver to customers with a note reading, “Here’s five bucks: go buy a black t-shirt. BOOM: Jerry T.”
*The period when you may buy this package extends from now until the last person who wants to buy one, buys one. After that, there will be no more sold! (Unless someone changes his mind and wants one, in which case we will absolutely sell one to that customer.)
You think Garcia took that flannel with him to the hospital and rehab? Did he see it as a partner in his year of rough health? Was there a anything save the cleansing power of a naked fire that could get the funk out of it?
For fuck’s sake, Phil.
“What’s wrong with those white boys, Melvin?”
“They’re always like this: don’t worry about it. Just stay over here.”
New commentator Derpa reminds us of this infamous cover photo from Frets magazine in 1985, in which Garcia has apparently been eating powdered donuts, or putting up drywall, or coming into the game LeBron-style.
Or something.
Here’s the interview, and it’s a good one: Garcia was always lucid and intelligent and willing to bullshit about the banjo, even at his lowest.
If you don’t have time to read the whole thing, Garcia’s answers to the questions raised on the cover are: I love soloing so fucking much; Bluegrass is great, man; the Dead is getting on my tits, to be honest.
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