What have I become?
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: phil lesh (Page 76 of 105)
Phil continued posing with things and animals for hours after the photographer had left; quickly, he ran out of things and the dog got annoyed and the cat scratched a big hole in his sweater.
After three hours, Phil was usually asked to leave the Guitar Center.
In this picture, we see Phil witnessing a murder and deciding whether or not to stick around and talk to the cops while Bobby models the latest in white jean fashion from Mr. Dong’s of Palo Alto. Want people to look at your crotch against their will? Shop at Mr. Dong’s!
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.
The newest release in the consistently brilliant Dave’s Picks series will be announced any day now, and once a lip-reader decodes David LeLouselatrec’s video which–according to sacred Canadian tradition–will be shot in a wind tunnel or directly underneath a wooden roller coaster, the grousing and sniping (and other bird-related verbs) can begin.
The usual suspects will loose their usual complaints. Spring ’83 was the best tour they ever did, someone will post. Vinnie, vidi, vicircus (Vince came, he saw, he made overpowering calliope noises) others will declaim. BENGHAZI MOM JEANS SECRET MUSLIM, a poster who wandered onto the wrong website will add.
It always amazed me the whinging humans–especially hobbyists of all stripes–can get up to and especially here. I can think of few long-running products that you could grab an individual item from randomly with such a guarantee of excellence. Bobbing for Dave’s Picks is like shooting a pistol while blindfolded at a Trump family gathering: no matter what you hit on, you’re going to be happy and the world’s going be better for it.
TotD has shared with you some of Dave’s Nix (shows that will never be released,) but did you know about the other series that have been proposed and turned down?
- Dave’s Flicks This follow-up to the View from the Vault series was actually ready to go but cancelled due to the Great Recession. Thanks, Obama!
- Dave’s Bics Subscribers receive four lightly-used disposable razors each year.
- Dave’s Micks Mickey comes to your house and explains in great detail the history of one of his drums, then rolls his car off a cliff on the way home, cancelling the Summer tour.
- Dave’s Chicks This limited-edition series was to consist of Dave reading the SI swimsuit issue with you.
- Dave’s Hans Blix This was just copies of the UN’s reports regarding the Iraq War with cartoon doodles of Garcia drawn in the margins.
- Dave’s Ticks Subscribers would be able to strip down and have an intern from Rhino Records visually inspect them for ticks every time they went outside.
- Dave’s Dicks This is a fairly obvious set-up for a Billy joke and let’s take it as read.
- Dave’s Licks Bobby comes to your house and puts his tongue on your food.
- Dave’s Frix In addition to a remastered show, subscribers receive a coupon for a half-off rabbit fricassee at Phil’s restaurant which Phil will not honor.
“IT’S NOT PINK! THE SALESMAN CLEARLY STATED THAT IT WAS SALMON!”
“It is Phil. Phillip J. Lesh of the Grateful Dead and proprietor of a popular eatery!”
“Um, yeah. The door’s mostly window, Phil. We can see you. Also, this is the popular eatery. And I’m your wife.”
In my little ranting rave about Hannibal and its spectacularness–
Absolutely not a word.
–I indulged in a bit of filigree about the night’s length and terror and ruthless tenacity: this darkness may have to give, but only according to its schedule. We silly primates may have split the atom, digitized the Library of Alexandria, and punched smallpox in it endoplasmic reticulum, but we don’t have a vote on when dawn shows up; never will. That mean old sun is like Phil’s boners: it keeps its own counsel, rises once a day, and shouldn’t be looked at directly. Also, the sun just opened a restaurant in Northern California as a front to steal internal organs from undocumented busboys.
Way too early for this level of libel.
But for all the Sun’s awe-inspiring belligerence, it can be explained, dissected, solved for X. Just a big ball of fusion slamming M’s together at the speed of C (and C again), producing E. Add a bit of Brownian motion through the convective zone and you’re done, pencils down.
So, if–and we’re speaking hypothetically as always–you’re standing next to me watching the sucker rise over the Atlantic, do not say, “It’s a miracle,” because I will go Neil DeGrasse Tyson on your poorly-educated ass.
Phil was proud of his book, and he should have been, but when Jill walked in on him dry-humping the galleys, there was a family meeting and he wasn’t allowed to go to the library unsupervised anymore.
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