New York used to be a place, hell of one. You came from there, or moved there, or got stabbed there. Lotta stuff could only be found in New York.
Everything changes, nothing lasts.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Category: Uncategorized (Page 6 of 1031)
The boats beating against the current is a fine closing line, and so is going on, can’t go on, must go on. And, oh, those deep glens humming with mystery, Beloved.
But I think maybe Johnny wins this one.
(FUN FACT: “Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?” is not iambic pentameter, but it’s close enough for rockyroll.)
Whither come you from?
Answer me, damn you:
Whither?
You were wispy and sparse.
You were weedy and spare.
The top of my head had hair
And then didn’t
But now does again.
Never my face
Or legs
Or arms
Or chest.
Perhaps I have some Cherokee in me.
(I do not have any Cherokee in me.)
But now I am brambled.
My lip quivers under the novel weight.
What of my nasal integrity?
This may call for labial buttressing.
Good God, a pucker scaffold might just do!
The doctor did not mention this possibility.
I’m gonna get my wind back,
And I’m gonna pair it with my New Mustache,
And we’re gonna murder the Clanton Gang.
We’re gonna clean up this town.
In honor of Jimmy Page’s birthday, watch this outrageous set from Denmark and then get someone else to pay for lunch.
- Family group chat. (Two texts marked 9/26/12: “Love you, dad” from Junior. One minute later, Trump responds “I love you, too, Ivanka.” There are no further entries in the chat.)
- MoviePass.
- Scroll through his photos. (1,224 shots of him giving the thumbs up with various fuckwits.)
- That one app no one can identify that won’t open and blinks green every time he enters the Oval Office.
- Throw it at Junior.
- Breitbart.
- Only Fans.
- That emergency alert thing he made the phone companies give him. (NO ONE REMIND HIM HE HAS THIS.)
- Stick it up his jive ass.
Yours is to celebrate James Carroll Booker Day. Go get yo’self a taste o’ heeeehr-wan. (Do not get yo’self a taste of heeehr-wan.)
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: This was the the apex of Garcia’s fuckability. We have the exact date.
OR
Some solid fun would be to get yourself a uniform of some sort, snatch out milk crates from under people’s asses, and scream DAIRY POLICE at ’em.
OR
This photo is the aesthetic equivalent of using a giant wooden spool as a coffee table.
OR
Though a remarkably beardy era, not as beardy as right now.
OR
Christ, they played like demons this show.
OR
The Grateful Dead owned at least 70 speaker cabinets.
OR
If the Travis Bean isn’t secretly your favorite of Garcia’s guitars, then you might be a redneck.
- BIG RIVER It’s a about a lady, but it’s also about a river. Or maybe Bobby’s just cutting out the middle-lady and straight-up river-fucking. That’s the good kind of lyrical ambiguity.
- BIG RAILROAD BLUES They didn’t play it a ton, which–according to a certain subspecies of Deadhead–makes the song inherently groovy. I will not call them liars!
- BIG BEAUREGARD’S BEEF Played only once on 9/24/68 and thankfully not recorded or even remembered all that well by anyone in attendance, BBB was about a fellow named Beau and his gargantuan meat. Blot out the sun, Big Beau’s steak-shaft would. Hog city down there.
- BIG BOSS MAN This should probably be where Big Railroad Blues is, but I don’t have the energy to fix it. Use your imagination.
If you want to unplug from the maelstrom and crank up the happiest jam you can find, it’s okay. Try this one. If it doesn’t work, then there’s always Sam Cooke at the Harlem Club. If that doesn’t work…well, you’re fucked.
We’ll leave our pants at home. Eat various fruits. When it rains, we’ll get wet.
Gotta be better than this.
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