“Why, thank you for noticing.”
“No, man. Don’t comment on other men’s bodies. It’s suspicious.”
What are the chairs for?
“Marina Abramovic is coming by in a bit. We’re gonna stare at each other.”
“Art for art’s sake, man.”
Three seconds to find Parish!
Yes, Enthusiasts: it turns out that the true Steve Parish was within you all along.
These posts are getting stupider and stupider.
So’s the country.
“Who’s this jamoke?”
“This? He’s, uh, Top of the Pops. Tom of the Dell. Something in that neighborhood. He writes about us.”
“Seems squirrely. Want me to bop him?”
“No, no. He’s okay.”
“I got my knife. I could saw through his achilles tendon real easy.”
“Overkill. Parish, he’s fine.”
“I got my eye on him.”
“Why do you think I’m so relaxed?”
“What, uh, exactly is going on with you and that blonde guitarist who’s young enough to be your granddaughter?”
“In the sense that Plato was Greek, and so I meant we only do anal.”
“Why are you doing Superman chest?”
“I like to. Makes me look powerful. I may have gotten old, but I can still kick your ass.”
“I know, Parish.”
“Not talking about the general ‘you,’ either. I meant you. If anything happens to Wolf, I’ll put you in hospice.”
“You would skip the hospital and go straight to the hospice. The violence would be overwhelming in both speed and breadth. I would be everywhere, and all at once.”
“Y’know, I do a bit of MMA training.”
“John, kid, I like you a lot. You’re family now, man. You’re helping to keep Garcia’s music alive, and I love that. But it would be like a polar bear raping a kitten.”
“And take all that shit off your right wrist, and shift your belt buckle around to the side.”
“Hold up now, buddy–
BOPPIN’ JOSH ON THE HEAD NOISE!
“Did you just Little Bunny Foo Foo me?”
“Be careful with the guitar.”
“I’m beginning to hate this deal.”
“Pray I don’t Little Bunny Foo Foo you any further.”
“Here’s what you gotta understand about that strap: that’s professional-grade canvas.”
Which means what?
Sure. Did the giant speaker need to be placed directly above Garcia?
“I would argue your adverb. That speaker is mostly above Garcia. It would clip him, at best.”
“The man’s got quicker reflexes than you’d think.”
It’s like the Sword of Damocles.
“Nah. It’s fine.”
What if there’s wind?
“There shouldn’t be any wind.”
That statement could be taken two ways.
“Choose one. Free country, man.”
“Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma! Tu pure, oh Principessa!”
That sounds terrible.
“I’m not warmed up, man.”
And you can’t sing.
“Hey, neither could Lesh, but people still wanted to hear it.”
Don’t sing opera. Did you steal that shirt from Sinbad?
“That guy’s great, man.”
We’re talking about the same guy, right? The comedian?
“Yeah. Big colored fellow.”
Black. We just say black now, Parish.
“Oh, I don’t know about ‘black.’ Sinbad’s kinda of cafe au lait-colored.”
Stop saying colored. Why do you know Sinbad?
“After Garcia died, I stayed out on the road for a while. Sinbad needed a tour manager and the pay was right. Lot less to take care of than the Dead. The whole package is him and a case full of fanciful vests.”
Sinbad started wearing vests in the 90’s and never kicked the habit.
“Man loves his vests.”
“Oh, hey, man.”
I need you to answer a question and no fucking around.
“Is it about Garcia?”
“Cuz I got a ton of Garcia stories.”
I am aware. I listen to the Sirius show.
“I also got a bunch of stories about getting into fights with cops. You used to be allowed to do that without spending the rest of your life in jail.”
It was a looser era.
“You said it, brother.”
My question is also not about that, though.
“Well, fire away, man.”
What exactly is going on with you and Young Katie Skene?
“Gentleman never tells.”
Yeah, but you’re not a gentleman. You were on the Grateful Dead’s road crew.
“Yeah, still, I’m not saying anything.”
Oh, don’t make me talk to her.
“Up to you.”
Some of you don’t click on the blue words, which is rude and anti-Semitic of you, but still I must teach. For I am the Teacher. O, hearken unto my swingtacular sausage and meatballs. Clam sauce time, children!
It’s not right and it’s not good.
Those are excellent reasons to stop doing something.
Illuminate the picture, please.
Parish is, like I linked to previously, selling vaguely-Garcia-related bullshit he found under his couch on Ebay. This is a cable that once connected Garcia’s wooble pedal to his spazmoidizer; it was at no point ever plugged into his guitar because Garcia’s guitars were so preciously hand-crafted that they required custom cables. (And none of ’em ever sounded better than his Strat.)
In case you doubt the item’s provenance, Parish provides a picture to assuage your fears.
That’s just as good as a certificate of authenticity. (ALSO: Holy shit, Garcia’s big. Oh, Lord, he soloing.)
Upon slightly more poking, one can also find a jacket given to Garcia, stolen by Trixie, and now sold by Parish.
In these fractious times, the one thing Americans can all agree on: white denim was a mistake.
This has been your Daily Grateful Dead Content. Content! It’s your life now.
Hey, Trixie Garcia-Girl.
I couldn’t call you Garcia. That’s what I call your dad. It would be weird.
“No, my last name is just Garcia. First of all, my mom’s name wasn’t actually ‘Mountain Girl,’ and second of all, you’re an idiot.”
Gotcha. Your hair looks cool.
“If you’re gonna be weird, I’ll sic Parish’s Parish on you.”
Seriously, what’s going on with those two?
“I don’t know and I’m not asking.”
You think she’s trying to get into the will? Get a piece of the vast Parish fortune?
“Fortune? The man’s an ex-roadie. Like, 80% of his holdings are in stories. He’s selling wrenches on Ebay.”
Sell the face right off your head.
“You got it.”
One last question.
“Make it quick.”
Sure. You think you should have finished the cocaine on the table before you took the picture?.
Is that a “yes?”