Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Precarious?
“Yo.”
What the fuck?
“Scaffolding?”
Scaffolding.
“We thought it provided an incongruously beautiful mise-en-scene.”
What?
“Fucking with ya. I got no idea why we put that up.”
What are the monitors propped up on?
“Pizza boxes full of sand.”
It’s the Grateful Dead way.
“Yup.”
The true depths, the abyssal reaches, that the Dead’s bush leagueosity permeate to are revealed when you realize that they couldn’t even all face in the same direction most of the time.
Go read Groucho: The Life and Times of Julius Henry Marx. It’s a much sadder story than you’d think.
And then go watch Duck Soup. It’s much funnier than you remember.
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Is that a humidor?
“On top of the monitor?”
Yes.
“Nope. Ashes.”
Human ashes?
“Yup.”
Whose?
“Don’t worry about it.”
Is that secure? That angle is rather…
“Precarious?”
Exactly.
“It’ll be fine.”
Will it?
“Should be.”
Your words don’t fill me with confidence.
“I duct taped it.”
Oh, well, then it’s fine.
“I know.”
I was being sarcastic.
“I know. Don’t care.”
This is either the 23rd or 24th of March, 1968. Traffic was playing at the Fillmore and Winterland that weekend, and they set up their gear for a free show in front of the local hippie-run FM station; Garcia dropped by to jam. (I DARE you to find a sentence more 1960’s than the one I just wrote. I dare you, motherfucker.) Garcia brought Mickey, and Mickey brought his stupid hat.
Anyway, you can go read the story on Hooterollin’ Around. I know it posted it yesterday, but fuck it: I was just that entertained by this well-researched and deeply strange post. Besides the free gigs in front of radio stations, and the famous flatbed truck show during the Haight Street Fair, and the Disneyland gig (!), there was this:
In a better, purer world, the Dead served as Chuck Berry’s backup band those nights. Well, they did for the first night.
A Partial and Loose Timeline of the Weekend the Grateful Dead was Chuck Berry’s Band:
It’s not that Robert Altman.
OR
Phil?
“What?”
Why you standing back there?
“Chili farts.”
Okay.
If there were a Dead shirt-off between Mickey and Bill Walton, who you got?
OR
No one from the Kings’ organization asked them to do this.
OR
If you gave me ten chances, I couldn’t find Sacramento on a map. I know it’s not in Los Angeles, but that’s about it. Is Sacramento in Oakland? California’s a weird place, and sometimes cities are contained within other cities.
What are you guys laughing about?
“Bliss.”
“Drums.”
Sure.
OR
You know that TotD does not look kindly upon gatekeeping, but if you didn’t recognize Mickey’s jacket, then you’re not a Deadhead.
OR
Shortly after this picture was taken, a Jewish chick and a black dude set all the film on fire, killing a bunch of Nazis and ending World War II early.
Hey, Mickey. Rando?
“No. Poet.”
Much worse.
“What’s wrong with poetry?’
Nothing. It’s poets I can’t abide. I don’t like writing in complete paragraphs, but I do.
“Sometimes.”
Sure. What do you like about her poetry?
“The rhythm of it.”
I’m shocked.
“And she’s a life coach too!”
What does that mean?
“I don’t know!”
Sure.
“The Dead never really did the life coach thing. We preferred fake Indians and rogue chemists.”
The important thing is that you got good advice.
“That is the important thing. We never got it, but still: important.”
There gonna be a D&C winter tour?
“Christ, I hope so.”
Spent all the money from summer tour already?
“Oh, yeah.”
What on?
“Life coaching.”
There it is.
Esteemed Commentator Tor Haxson brings to the table an important question, and because I am currently avoiding writing several vital e-mails, I shall attempt to answer this most ponderous of mysteries.
Which Grateful Dead would you want as a parent?
See, I told you it was an important question.
We must start out by noting that none of the Grateful Dead’s children have rampaged through a Burger King, nor been indicted on racketeering charges. Not a one of them has ever been arrested for pissing on a stewardess while yelling “DO YOU KNOW WHO MY FATHER IS!?” They’re all presentable. Any honest reading of the situation must led to the conclusion that the Dead were, at least, decent parents.
But who would be preferred? All members of the band have their pros and cons. To have Phil as a parent means that you would be tall, and have a beard. If that’s how you’d prefer to look, then you should choose Phil. If, on the other hand, you would rather be a hot chick, then Bobby is your best bet. If you’d like a wholesome, hard-working, American name such as Stacy or Justin, then you need to go with Billy; for a hippy-dippy, godless, communist name like Taro or Raya, then Mickey is your man.
Mickey is also an excellent choice because he’s so easy to buy presents for.
“You got me a drum! How did you know what I wanted?”
“Just guessed, Pop.”
Are you going anywhere with this?
Honestly? No.
So why did you write this?
If I stop writing, I’ll die.
Even it’s complete shit?
History will decide its worth.
Go put your head in the stove.
It’s electric.
Put a gun in your mouth in your head in the stove.
Suicide by syntactical recursion. I like it.
Do it.
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