Batman and Robin; Walter and Jesse; Skipper and Gilligan; Butch and Sundance.
A man needs someone to ride shotgun in this fierce world.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 102 of 139)
First off, while Garcia truly couldn’t dress himself, I’m quite certain that he neither owned nor wore a thong with his face on it. (It can be purchased on Etsy, however.)
Second: fuck this. Fuck this in the neck with a steak knife. The Dead were men (and Mrs. Donna Jean, who–for the record–was no shrinking violet when it came to throwing punches, fucking people she wasn’t supposed to, or using her BMW to play bumper cars in the parking lot when she got drunk and irritated.)
People are not to be worshipped, especially these ones; their humanity was overwhelming, and not in a charitable, restore-my-faith-with-a-Buzzfeed-video kind of way: it was messy. Their humanity got all over innocent bystanders, harmonica players, hotel bar patrons, and high-school-aged foxes. They were junkies and drunken reprobates. One of them was Billy, for fuck’s sake.
The only thing that happens when you put a man on a pedestal is you get a better look at his ass.
Third: August 12th, 1995, came and went. No Garcia. Of course, that might have been because he was cremated.
Had me fightin’ for air,
Sayin, “Yeah, Bobby Weir!”
He told me to jam,
But I was already there…
That’s enough.
Garcia picked Mercer over Duke.
Two reasons: 1: He’s fucking Garcia, that’s why; and 2: He can’t spell Coach Kyzhyzchiwsytcjszikkzoi.
How bad can a day turn out when you wake up with Terrapin Station bouncing around your skull? Here’s a stellar version of Garcia and Hunter’s prayer to the Morning Star from the Winterland ’77 box set to start your Spring off right:
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nYNeNuZRfuY&w=420&h=315]
Kick today’s ass like it owed you money and cat-called your mom, fellow Enthusiasts.
The doctors all said that you couldn’t catch scoliosis, but Garcia never listened to doctors.
Did you know that Bobby looked like the love-child of Richard Feynman and a Neanderthal? Huh? Did ya?
Also: Phil is looking into your soul and judging it.
Garcia thought all pizzas were personal pizzas.
For a brief moment in the 80’s, Phil was the fat guy.
And, yes: Bobby is picking his nose. Well spotted.
Every morning, I wake up thinking that no matter what fresh hell this day might bring, at least I know the limits of how full muppet Garcia could get. Fullness is finite: you can assign a number to it, figure out its relationship to humidity and drug consumption, write a formula for it and bother 16-year olds with that information. There was only so much muppet available
And then this. Garcia has shot past full muppet: his muppet overfloweth and folds in on itself, like a hypercube, or a super rectangle, or an exceptionally charitable triangle–
Going somewhere with this?
…
The word “muppet” still makes me giggle.
We’re done here.
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