Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
On the Third Day of Jerry, we remember Garcia’s benevolence towards randos. He could have had Parish body slam so many more than he did, and for this we recall his kindness. Yes, Garcia was a friend towards all randos he could not avoid, and when he was not in a pissy mood, or late, or hungry, or he just didn’t like the rando’s face.
Also: is this some sort of band? It looks like a terrible British ska band, which is to say any British ska band.
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“Are you crying?”
NO!
“Y’know, my best friend Rosie Greer taught us that it was okay to cry.”
That he did. You look very nice.
“It’s a one-time kinda thing, but yeah.”
Fix your collar.
“Huh? Oh. Ah. Thanks. I am truly not used to garments with collars.”
You’re not.
Hey, buddy.
“Don’t you ‘Hey, buddy’ me. What. The. FUCK was that all about?”
The guy beating you to death in front of all the children?
“Yeah. That.”
I got nothing.
“Was it because I’m an immigrant?”
Probably not, although I’m pretty sure this guy would be voting for Trump if he were still allowed to vote.
“I came here for work. The poncho mines had all closed and none of the llama farms were hiring.”
Where are you from again?
“Chile.”
I don’t think either of the things you mentioned are associated with Chile.
“I left home so young.”
Oh.
“And I’m a bird.”
Yeah.
“Look at my head. My beak is larger than my brain. Not smart.”
No.
“I mean, not so dumb that I murdered a flamingo who danced for children, but pretty dumb.”
Yeah, again: sorry.
“Forgive me if I don’t accept your apology immediately.”
Sure.
…
You met Harambe yet?
“Ugh. That guy. Internet fame has completely gone to his head.”
Sad to hear.
“He keeps bothering me to do his podcast.”
Everybody’s got one of those.
This song might be the opposite of Skateaway by Dire Straits, but I believe it is just as perfect; its glory takes a different path to fruition, though: whereas Skateaway’s lyrics are one of the most succinct and poetic short stories in all of rock, and delivered with a dry appreciation by Mark Knopfler, this song’s lyric appears to be the phrase “Egg nog in the sky” repeated many times. Also, as opposed to Roy Bittan playing piano, the entire thing was made in a MacBook Pro.
I don’t know it it’s rock and roll, but I like it.
Hey, Garcia. Happy birthday, buddy.
“Yeah, okay, but it was a couple days ago.”
Oh, you haven’t heard? Your birthday is now nine days long.
“Really? My poor mother.”
Women were tougher back then.
“I dunno. I met some pretty tough women in my day, too. Married a bunch of ’em.”
You did.
“Nine days?”
Yeah.
…
“Oh, right. The ninth, right.”
It’s a compliment. People like celebrating you.
“People like celebrating.”
True. Hey, Garcia: what’s it like?
“Dying?”
Yeah.
“Slept through it.”
Right. One more question.
“Shoot.”
What’s with the hair? You like Gene Simmons when KISS did The Elder.
“Ah, fuck off with your obscure bullshit, man.”
Gotcha.
*It’s actually worse than the bullshit I came up with because the bullshit I came up with didn’t actually happen, whereas all of this did.
**Obviously, that is a joke. Even in my most resigned thoughts about the future, I cannot imagine that foul word making it into the campaign, but I sincerely cannot believe we haven’t gotten an “accidental” bitch yet. You know it’s coming, right? He’s not gonna say it–or, shit, maybe he will because nothing makes sense any more–it’ll probably be one of his crazier supporters: I’m thinking Jeff Sessions is the right asshole for the job. But you mark my damnable words, Enthusiasts: somewhere on the horizon of the calendar, galloping steadily towards us, is the day when the first major-party lady candidate for the presidency of the United States gets called a bitch by the other candidate. This a done deal. It will happen. Just a question of when.
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…
Lemme guess. You have–
I got a problem with this bullshit.
—a problem with…yeah, that’s what I thought.
It’s not speakers and headphones. That’s dumb. It’s an either/or.
The sentiment is lovely.
And it doesn’t fucking rhyme. “Deep” does NOT FUCKING RHYME with “feet.” Stephen Sondheim’s ghost is spinning in his grave.
Sondheim’s not dead.
He is to me.
Can we stop having this conversation?
As long as everyone knows my opinion on this important matter.
They do now.
And the meter sucks.
Oh, shut up.
On the second night of the Days Between, we honor Garcia and his music, and also his potato salad.
Also: “random naked child” might be as good a shorthand for the Dead as the Wall or those Fucking Bears ever were.
Tell me your best summer camp memory.
“I was color war general. White Lightning ’92, motherfucker.”
You win?
“Blowout. From the counselors down to Bunk One, we had nothing but spazzes. By lunch of the first day, it was over.”
Ah, sorry.
“We won Rope-Burning, though. Plus my girls fucking dominated Sing.”
You think the Gentiles know what we’re talking about?
“Fuck ’em.”
Let’s date. I know we share the same political opinions.
“Sad about Bernie.”
But you have to be realistic.
“Supreme Court.”
Wow. We’re like New Jersey: perfect together. Are we dating? Also: how much money do you have? A lot? Please say a lot, and also don’t be lying when you say it.
“Aw.”
You have a boyfriend.
“No.”
No?
“SHE GOT A GIRLFRIEND, YO.”
“THIS BITCH BOTHERING YOU, BITCH?”
“No, baby.”
Who are you?
“LADY PIMPELSTILTSKIN, YO.”
Okay, we can’t do this bit any more. It’s just too dumb.
“CAPTAIN FUCK SAID YOU WAS A BITCH, BITCH!”
Tell him I say “hi.”
“Which one of you is the astronaut?”
“That was the other night, sugar. This is my band. Y’all are sittin’ in with us tonight.”
“Ah. What does the kid play?”
“He ain’t in the band, Bob.”
“We got a kid in the band now, but he’s a little older. Taller, at least. Have you met him?”
“Josh?”
“Is that his name?”
“I have met him several times now. How much of this summer you remember, hon?”
“There were fireworks on the Fourth of July.”
“You and I both know that was a guess, Bob.”
“Was it hot?”
“You’re not inspirin’ confidence, sugar.”
…
“Phil’s black now.”
“It’s comin’ back to you.”
“We battled Godzilla.”
“That some sort of half-memory/half-translated hallucination about Fenway Park and the Green Monster?”
“Good chance it is, yeah.”
“Then: yes, Bob. We battled Godzilla.”
“We win?”
“Even better.”
“We made friends with him?”
“It was a good summer, sugar.”
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