Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: jerry garcia (Page 101 of 139)

I'll See You In My Dreams

April 6, 2014 / / 0 Comments

Garcia and I shared a smoke last night. Fucker stole my lighter, but I forgave him

he was in good spirits, decent health, clean-ish clothes; it was the early 90’s, perhaps. The continuity of dreams makes less sense than the continuity of these bloggings: I was telling him all about what was to come in his life, and in the life of his band, his country.

The touring’s getting to be a bit much, he said, so I told him about all the additional revenue streams that had been invented: the VIP backstage jams, and the residencies, and the subscription live-streams. There was a ton of money to be made at the big festivals each summer: Bonnaroo and Coachella and the rest.

Those nonsense words you just said, he asked, those are real things?

I assured him they were not just real things, but multi-million dollar corporations dedicated to sucking every last cent out of teenagers for the chance to be in the same dusty/muddy field as the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Well, I don’t know who that group is, but I’m positive that they’re awful, Garcia said.

Good instincts, I told him.

He lit another smoke, mumbled a thank you for extinguishing the couch cushion he had set ablaze, stole another lighter. I forgave him.

But you guys can finally make some real good records, I said. There’s this thing called ProTools and some other stuff: well, a ton of other stuff. You can fix things up and spit-shine everything ’til it’s perfect.

Really? he was enthusiastic, and I played him some of those before-and-after audio clips from the internet of pop stars singing.

He was quiet for a long moment, and then said, What was the point of all that practicing, huh?

I didn’t have an answer for that.

If you want, you could be a judge on a singing show.

Like The Gong Show?

No, I said. Not like…well, now that you mention it, yeah, kinda.

He asked me for another smoke and when I turned back to give it to him, there were two lighters on the table and he had stolen away. I forgave him.

 

Flaming Fox

April 5, 2014 / / 0 Comments

Another manufactured brouhaha has arisen due to the (now-former) CEO of Mozilla being a bigot and other people–also bigots–being mad that he wasn’t allowed to be a bigot in peace and without suffering any consequences for said bigotry. Some words and phrases shall be misused; TotD helps you sort the gay wheat from the gay chaff.

Tolerance is realizing that Billy is going to punch dicks and accepting him for the dickpuncher he is. It doesn’t mean offering up your dick like a virgin to the lava gods during volcano season. It doesn’t mean not warning your favorite cousin, sotto voce, to move four feet to the left. Just means you have to live with Billy and his proclivities.

Freedom of Speech is a fuzzy-brained catch-all term that doesn’t exist, legally or morally. Were you talking about the First Amendment? Because that’s what’s germane here, except that it’s not. The First Amendment prevents the government from stopping citizens from saying things, except when they can and it doesn’t apply to private companies and certainly has nothing at all to do with interactions between citizens on ethical grounds. Congress can’t stop Vince from doing Samba in the Rain, but the crowd going to the bathroom during the song is not a freedom of speech issue: that’s just good taste.

Bullying is about power: the group in charge does it to the group not in charge. Gays–and their supporters–have never been in charge, save for the fashion industry, the city of West Hollywood, and any boat Garcia was on. (Garcia thought that “if you’re on the water, it doesn’t count” and got a bit boisterous about, to be honest.)

The h0mosexual agenda involves securing liberties and rights and tax breaks, then blowing some dudes. It was also what the crew called Mickey’s mustache behind his back.

That's One Way To Do It

April 3, 2014 / / 0 Comments

There are as many ways to quit smoking as there are stars in the night sky, or punched dicks in Billy’s dreams. I’ve tried many of them: books, hypnosis, gum, nicotine patches, nicotine panties (those were purchased from a distinctly disreputable pharmacy which has since closed down; the product didn’t work, but did make my tush look spectacular), and substitution.

The last one worked for a few months in college: every time I wanted a cigarette, I would smoke a doobie. This plan didn’t even make it to the brainstorming stage for this cessation attempt. partially because I no longer store garbage bags full of “Boston Brown” in my apartment for pot wholesalers; it would be a bit more expensive. (This is a true story, unless the statute of limitations is not up, in which case it is a lie.)

So it’s mostly will-power and saddened resignation this time around, plus a dip into B.F. Skinner territory. When a craving rears its head, I don’t shunt it off or deny it, no: I play out the tape while drawing back the rubber band around my wrist. FWAP against the paper-thin skin and sensitive veins of my lower forearm. It’s all red and blotchy and on the precipice os scarring after a few days; it looks like I’m self-harming, mostly because I am harming myself. Someone at the food court noticed yesterday and Child Services came to the house and took me away from myself.

The Dead all smoked. Everyone back then smoked, and everywhere: movie theaters, hospitals, airships full of hydrogen (go look up the smoking lounge on the Hindenburg: I’ll wait.) There was no such thing as a non-smoking section. Not only would proud fathers pass out cigars to celebrate the birth of their children, but they would also use said children’s’ fontanelles as ashtrays.

As they got older, of course, the Boys (and Mrs. Donna Jean) had to stop smoking cigarettes. Comes a time for all of us.

Phil found it the easiest, as due to his birth on Felicidae IV, home planet of the Imperium of the Cat-People, he lacked the physiology to become addicted to nicotine. He did find it nearly impossible to stop scratching up the couch, but after Jill got the spray bottle, things worked themselves out.

Bobby realized one summer that there was simply no place for a pack in his short-shorts and the decision of whether to indulge his addiction to cigarettes or showing off his gams to stadiums full of people was no decision at all to him.

Billy found something other to do with his hands.

Garcia never really quit, but he did find the most permanent way to stop.

 

Vast Wasted Land

March 28, 2014 / / 0 Comments

My television broke a few months ago. I had already cancelled my cable service after realizing some harsh truths. First: Comcast is evil. Not in a hyperbolic internet kind of way, but actually evil: if you close your eyes and say “Comcast” into a mirror three times, a Satanic service technician will appear behind you. Of course, he won’t appear behind you until the Monday after next sometime between noon and seven, but still: evil.

Second, the ratio of worthwhile programming to soul-deadening offal is worse than the ratio of good to bad Vince shows. The supply of creativity has remained fairly constant over the years: there’s the same amount of entertaining fare now as when your channel changer stopped at 13 and everyone had a secret way of insuring good reception, from extra-large rabbit ears to tin foil to inserting the antennae up the rectum of your friend with all the piercings.

90% of every medium is shit, but TV seems to have taken that as a dare, filing the airwaves with racist buttermongers, blotchy-skinned fat people running pawn shops, and Anthony Bourdain smoking at you while sneeringly wearing a Dead Boys t-shirt despite being 50 years old and telling you how much better food is when prepared in a country where no one has ever washed their hands.

So when the TV gave up the ghost (which reminds me: Nostradamus made a prediction about an empire falling when a critical mass was achieved of shows about liars and idiots hunting spirits, chasing ‘squatch, and talking to the departed in a grating Long Island accent) I did the righteous thing and called a local charity to come pick it up. I might have neglected to mention that it didn’t work any longer and I was using their free donation service as a garbage pick-up, but in my defense, they didn’t ask. Plus. the place is entirely staffed my recovering junkies and alcoholics; exercise is good for them.

Nice rationalization.

I’m human: it’s kind of our prime directive.

It’s just me and the computer now. Got the Netflix and the Youtube and someone (not me, your honor) keeps sneaking into my house to torrent Archer and Hannibal and Top Gear seconds after they air.

Last night, though, I checked out the newest offering from Charlie Miller’s visual counterpart, Voodoonola, whom I can only assume is from Michigan. April 27th at the Capital Theater in beautiful, downtown Passaic, NJ, from the fabled Spring ’77 tour.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y9Ft4O-qlSk&w=420&h=315]

It’s a multi-camera shoot and there’s just tons of nifty shit in here. Some highlights:

  • Garcia is fantastically entertaining. His eyebrows are more expressive than Rowan Atkinson’s rubbery mug and he’s having a great time. He’s trim and bopping around the stage, making eye contact with everyone and just generally looking like he wants to be there.
  • Billy is a revelation, slamming into his kit and loosing more beats than humanly possible. Check him out on Mississippi Half-Step, but be prepared to massage your aching face after the smile fades away hours later.
  • Mrs. Donna Jean’s hair is positively Rapunzel-esque. Keith would have climbed up it later that night had he not been completely immobile, wearing a ludicrous scarf, and sporting my Great-Aunt Helen’s sunglasses.
  • And for all my fellow Enthusiasts raised thinking paradise could only be illuminated by the dashboard light, the set break feature the legendary and much-missed dulcet tones of Scott Muni.

So watch it. Or turn on your TV and check out the latest wacky misunderstanding on Two Broke Girls. (That was a bad example: that show has two undeniable reasons to tune in.)

…

Just say it.

KAT DENNINGS’ GIANT BOOBIES!

There ya go, slugger.

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