Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Hey, Baby Garcia. Whatcha doing?
“Cowboy.”
That’s Bobby’s shtick.
“There’s enough cowboy to go around.”
Well said.
…
“One summer, man. Guy spends one summer on a ranch and he’s Lonesome Bob for the rest of his life, man.”
What can you do?
“He’s a friend.”
What happened to the bottom of your shirt?
“Tussle with a fancy puma.”
Who won?
“Fashion.”
Tell me of your dreams.
“A staircase with a too-low overhang, and then I run too slowly, so I drop to all fours like an animal, grabbing at the grass in front of me to gain traction and build speed. Sometimes dirty stuff.”
Can a man pull off pigtails?
“No, but a rock star can get away with them.”
How soon is now?
“To a hummingbird or a boulder?”
Boulder-sized hummingbird.
“Not possible.”
Hummingbird-sized boulder.
“That’s just a rock.”
Who wrote the book of love?
“The girl with a window for a face. She carved her own pencil out of a crying jag, and gave the world boners.”
Like in The Natural.
“Just like that, yeah.”
…
Wait, are those aviators on the top of your head?
“Yes.”
I love you.
“You have a thing about aviator shades.”
I do.
“I think you might just want to fuck the sunglasses.”
I might.
“Gross. And if you’re hitting on me, I’m married with a baby.”
Are they with you?
“Right over there.”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, dipshit.
“DON’T TELL ME HOW TO RAISE MY CHILDREN! MY FATHER, CAPTAIN FUCK, DID THIS TO ME AND MY BROTHER!”
Dude.
“WE TURNED OUT FINE EXCEPT FOR MY BROTHER WHO DIED AS A BABY FROM BEING DROPPED!”
I don’t know what I did to deserve this.
…
…
…
Ya gotta turn–
“Get out.”
–the water on. I’m leaving.
Jerry Garcia was not a human/pig hybrid. At no point during his 55 years on this earth was he a semi-porcine chimera whose existence was an affront to God. His nose, while certainly not a cute little button, was definitely not snout-esque; Garcia would have been utter shit at truffle-hunting.
Also, his guitars had frets.
I want one.
“Um, Jer?”
“Yeah, Bob?”
“What’s, uh…what’s going on behind you?”
…
“Reality has epilepsy, best I can tell.”
“Like Caesar.”
“Sure. And George Peppard.”
“George Peppard? Huh. Had no idea.”
“Yeah. Caesar, George Peppard, and reality: spontaneously spastic, the lot of ’em.”
“Great big world, Jer.”
“That it is, Bob.”
…
“I like Josh a whole bunch, but you know you’ll always be my Garcia.”
“I know, Bob.”
Fine, I’ll be the one to say it: can we not do the Days Between any more? They’re fucking maudlin and I ran out of jokes three days ago. Let’s just do his birthday, huh? Or–and if this turns out to be the plan we go with, then I demand payment and credit–why don’t we do the Days Between every four years like the Olympics? We don’t have to hold them in Rio, either: we can just do it on the innertubes and at Phil’s restaurant like we do now. The backyard at TXR would be great for the Opening Ceremonies.
And I am aware that there are several commercial interests that would prefer to keep Death Week going, but we don’t have to listen to them if we don’t want to.
I love Garcia. We all love Garcia This is not in question But the Days Between are like a Sadness Hanukkah, or a Morose Kwanzaa. It would be one thing if Garcia’s death came first and we could build to his birth, but that’s not how it happened, so instead the first week of August is a Countdown to Heart Failure, the Ninth looming in the middle distance like the damned Babadook.
The Days Between are depressing and I think I’m done with them.
Garcia died 21 years ago today, but artists from Brazil are still drawing pictures of him, so he’s not quite all dead just yet. One day he will be, no actual date for this coming death, just an Irish goodbye and ne’er thee well; for now, though, bits and bobs of him still breathe.
If not breathe, smoke.
(Also: this is tagged as “terrible dead art” just for purposes of categorization; I love this.)
And on the eighth Day Between, Enthusiasts everywhere celebrate Garcia’s love of gesturing. Pointing, the finger, reading an imaginary book: he could do it all. You know that thing where you put your thumb and pinky to the side of your head to indicate a phone call? Garcia did that really well.
Also: look how excited that rando is. Happy little fucker.
Those were the Days, my friend. The Days Between, my friend. Let us all dance in Berlin while night falls; let us have great hair and sing songs and rouge up our nipples while night falls over Europe. Those were the Days, my friend, the Days Betw–
Excuse me.
I’m singing. How dare you.
You know that song isn’t from Cabaret, right?
Really?
Go check.
…
It seems like it should be in Cabaret, though.
Granted, but still wrong.
Then how we will observe the seventh Day Between, which is dedicated to Garcia’s bitchin’ footwear?
Well, FoTotD and PWDNMUIUS (Person Who Did Not Murder Us In Our Sleep) Martin sent in that picture of Garcia’s Nikes, which might be bitchin’ were they not accompanied by black socks and the elastic garters of blue sweatpants.
Yeah, that’s a mess.
Forget the Persian: there should have been an intervention for that behavior.
Can we not bring up the Persian during the Days Between?
If it weren’t for the Persian, there wouldn’t be a Days Between.
Aw.
© 2026 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments