Too tame for the jungle, too wild for the zoo
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 98 of 139)
When you were a big-time rock star in the 70’s, it was nothing but the finest rickety folding chairs and things-propped-on-stage-cases.
“Okay, guys: time to pack up the van! Pig, you got your organ? Garcia, you got every amplifier on the West Coast?
When approaching a wild Garcia, one must take notice of any threat displays. If it begins displaying its teeth like so, then one must throw a pint of ice cream in one direction and run in the other. If one has not thought ahead to bring a pint of ice cream, one is shit out of luck.
Hey, Phil. Your hair looks awesome-sauce.
“Yeah, I combed it with your mom’s thighs.”
Aw, you cray-cray.
Fuckin’ YAAAAAAAY, man!
Again, I think this was photoshopped in some way.
The giant deconstructed blazer, the headband, the Takamine: Dylan could not have been more 80’s had he arrived to the gig in a DeLorean.
Marty had been running Vision of Lace II, east Burbank’s premier sex shop, for eight years now and had never seen such a poor seller as the Garcia Hand Dildo. Quite honestly, he couldn’t even remember why he ordered any in the first place.
- No, Mr. Owsley, you cannot “soup up” the audio tour. Stop calling it the Walk of Sound.
- Parish, you’ve got to help me: I’ve accidentally invited TWO DATES to the fundraising ball!
- Gentlemen, I’m not going to point fingers and play the blame game and name names, but using the museum to stage a fake blood drive is going to stop immediately, Phil.
- There won’t be any dinosaurs, Bobby. It’s an art museum.
- Everyone needs to put on their trousers right damn now.
- Billy, that’s not performance art.
- There have been some great reviews for Keith’s sculpture of himself. Oh, that’s actually him? He’s been lying there motionless for, like, nine days. Perhaps we should call a docent.
- No, I don’t know what a docent is, either, but it’s the museum and something’s gone awry, so you call the docent. There is a chain of command here, Grateful Dead!
- But it doesn’t matter because you have dosed all of them.
- Yes, yes: doses, docent. Quite clever.
- Billy, stop doing performance art.
- No, Bobby: the eyes of that painting are not following you around the–oh, Mickey’s cut eyeholes in the art and is standing behind the canvas looking at people. Good call, Bobby.
- Come out from there, Mickey. Why are you naked?
- Garcia’ll be fine: I put him in the sculpture park. It’s just steel and gravel out there.
- I’ve told you this already, Mr. Mydland: museums don’t have mascots. Take off the costume.
- Why is Bill Graham haranguing schoolchildren in Yiddish?
- We don’t allow camping because it is a museum of art; there cannot be filthy teenagers taking doodies directly outside.
- I’m sorry, I don’t see a “Ned Lagin” on the Will Call list, possibly because there is no Will Call list, probably because it’s a museum. Why are the whole hairy lot so fuzzy on the concept of “museum?”
- Phil, you’re doing a great job running the food court, but I think charging $200 to eat sandwiches while you jam with your sons is a bit excessive.
- Vince, for the third time: your new character, down-home surrealist Salvador Golly is just not a hit. Please stop doing the routine. Also, buddy: pants.
- We’re just going to require that there be no more naked Grateful Deads in the museum, please. It’s not an unreasonable request.
- Attention museum patrons: we are going to need to evacuate the building immediately, please. All attempts to prevent Billy from doing performance art have failed. I repeat: Billy is doing performance art.
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