“Lemme get a cheeseburger, well-done, and a double-order of fries. You guys do milkshakes?”
“Jerry, I’m your publicist.”
“Good for you. How we doing with that burger?”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 33 of 139)
This is a picture, Word I Capitalize Pretentiously, of the Grateful Dead. They are engaged in numerous foibles, some of a sartorial nature; I will point them out.
Now I say something.
Running joke, running joke, America.
Here’s another shot from the Oops concert, which had its anniversary yesterday.
I’ve been thinking about this since last night: someone needs to explain the thought process behind the borrowed guitars. Phil brought his! Did Garcia and Bobby stop at a music shop and pick out some axes? Did Jim Carroll (writer of The Basketball Diaries and the initial reason the Dead had heard of the Melk Weg) vouch for the instruments?
Did they just not want to carry their guitars? Was that the deal with the roadies, that they wouldn’t even pick up a guitar case? Because PHIL HAD HIS and if Phil could carry his guitar, then the other two could. Were they afraid their expensive, irreplaceable instruments would be stolen? Because that also makes no sense: how could something be safer in another country (West Germany, where they left all their equipment) than strapped to your shoulder?
The Grateful Dead makes no goddamned sense at all.
Game time, Enthusiasts! There are seven small differences between these two photos: can you spot them?
Also: the day Bobby bought those trousers was the happiest day of Creepy Ernie’s professional and sexual life.
“Did they give you a Nobel, Francis?”
“No, Jerry, they didn’t; that’s an enormous oversight on the part of the Swedes, who have always been furiously anti-Italian. They think they own the Alps. Not true: Italian mountains. But, yes, I do deserve a Nobel, or perhaps many. Several categories would be acceptable.”
“You’re a confident man.”
“Not confident, no: just no false humility. I am the greatest American film director in the world.”
…
“What, man?”
“You got any more coke?”
“Always.”
Parish had been a drummer for the Grateful Dead for five minutes when he threw a tantrum, punched the rest of the band, and flew home.
OR
“It feels nice on your back, Jer.”
“Don’t rub my back, Weir.”
…
“Your front?”
“Parish! Oh, you’re right there.”
OR
Either Mrs. Donna Jean is shaking her maracas, or Phil has the daintiest hands I’ve seen on a man since politics politics politics.
OR
In a karate fight with improvised weapons that took place in a drum store, cabasa vs. maracasa is an even match up: cabasa is good for a hammer-type blow, while you can wield the maracas like sai. Obviously, a guiro is of no use whatsoever in karate fighting. Optimally, you would stand at a distance and frisbee ride cymbals at your opponent’s neck as hard as you could.
OR
This shot’s from 6/4/78 at the University of California at Santa Barbara. (Go Banana Slugs!)
Billy’s punching himself in the dick; he got bored, I guess.
OR
In my heart of hearts, I wish that were a Planet Hollywood jacket on Garcia, but it probably isn’t.
OR
“Jerrrrrrrrry. Where. Is. My. Nobel. I wan’ one. Gimme.”
“I don’t think you’re getting any sort of prize, Pete.”
“Wan’ it!”
“Okay, man.”
“Hey. Jer. You wan’ come look a’ stuff on my ‘puter?”
“Absolutely not.”
OR
This is the photograph that would scuttle any Presidential run by Billy:
“Can you explain the gesture, Mr. Kreutzmann?”
“Ahh, c’mon. It was locker room stuff! My finger was a dick! And I was banging Bobby’s pussy-fingers with it. Everybody does it! Also, this photo has been doctored by the Jews.”
OR
Pete Townshend is so drunk he can’t make a peace sign.
The garage is, mythopoetically, where bands come from; guitarists are born in bedrooms.
“Seriously, Jer! The Nobel fuckin’ Prize!”
“No accounting for the taste of a Swede.”
“Right?”
…
“Jer, what the fuck’s your bass player wearing?”
“I don’t wanna talk it, man.”
“I wouldn’t, either.”
Mrs. Donna Jean Godchaux,
How, oh how, does your hair grow?
“A hundred strokes of brush and then,
Another hundred strokes again.
Flaxseed oil, shampoos of beer,
(I only cut it once a year.)
I simonize and wash and dry,
And when the moon’s full in the sky,
I sacrifice a virgin fair,
For Sassoon! (He’s the God of Hair.)
The salty blood of my selection
Stains the mouth of my reflection.
Demon? Monster? All beware?
Kiss my ass: I’ve got great hair.”
…
…
…
That got weird.
“You asked, sugar.”
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