“You remember me: Bobbi Fleckman!”
Thoughts On The Dead
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Page 964 of 1031
“Garcia! Billy’s–”
“In the rigging. I know, Bob.”
The only way this could be more ’70s is if there were a misunderstanding between Garcia and the landlord and then Laos was secretly bombed.
You know you’ve been listening to too much Dead when…
- Last Tuesday, you were in the supermarket buying pudding and for no reason at all, you went up to this tiny raisin of a woman and screamed, “Tiger jam! What WHAT?!” real loud at her and then you grabbed her head and rubbed it in your crotch until the manager came and now you can’t shop there anymore and you’re pretty sure the cops are looking for you.
- That dream about Mrs. Donna Jean stops giving you a boner.
- That dream about Billy starts giving you a boner.
- You’ve said, “We don’t have to listen to the Dead: we can listen to Jerry Band,” and meant it.
- Your hard drive contains more than one photo of Bobby with Sammy Hagar.
- There are at least 23 metrics available to you to place an unlabelled show or picture: keyboardist, drummer, which ridiculously over-built guitars were they wielding, do said guitars sound like guitars or are they making bloopy noises, facial hair, was Mrs. Donna Jean giving birth, is Healy being a dick to Bobby, etc.
- You’ve described your morning routine as coffee>pooping>oatmeal>pooping reprise.
The first day of October, in that champion year of 1977. Portland, Oregon, which is tied with Portland, Maine, and That Town That Smells Like A Clown’s Asshole, Iowa, for the title of America’s least creative town names.
The next night, and its Casey Jones opener that bursts with an almost-fascistic energy (the song COMMANDS that you boogie and it has also fused government and industry into one monolithic entity fronted by a cult of personality), is better known, but the night before is spectacular.
The setlist is remarkably ’77. It’s as ’77 as you can get without folding the year into a Riemann Manifold and turning the Universe into a small kitten or an enormous kitten or any sort of kitten.
This show is in the details. Check out the Eyes>Dancin transition as Mickey defines “most cowbell.”
Garcia didn’t know what a dab was, and he didn’t care to know: he rolled doobies one-handed after cleaning his pot on a copy of Roxy Music’s Country Life.
Garcia didn’t vape.
Throughout any of the many books, articles, canticles, listicles, broadsides, pamphlets, free verse, blank verse, adverts, novellas, tracts, and epic poems written about the Dead, one thing is clear: Carolyn Adams loved Garcia mean and true.
So, how could she not hide the razors?
Billy did this thing to a woman once that he called a “family dong in the great highway” and it cost a lot of money to fix her, physically and emotionally.
On one hand: coolest baby costume ever.
On the other: there’s gonna be a wreck.
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