No one could figure out why Garcia had become a peacock, but he refused to discuss it and Parish would punch you if you pressed the issue.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: steve parish (Page 4 of 7)
One time, Bobby wouldn’t stop playing slide and Garcia had Parish just take the guitar from him.
Also, if you handed Garcia a Coke, he would give you his towel. Those are the rules.
Also also, Parish is taking a selfie.
Garcia liked to bother fish.
He would wrestle wrasse and pester puffers.
Glued a tiny saddle to a seahorse.
Teased the brain coral.
Duped a grouper.
Garcia liked to bother fish.
Hey, Garcia. Whatcha doing?
“Hiding, man.”
Sure. You’re not great at it.
“Parish hasn’t found me yet.”
Parish isn’t looking for you. He’s in a truck in the Comment Section.
“Fuckin’ Parish.”
Hey, you got Parish from Mickey: you could give him back.
“Nah, I couldn’t do that to either of ’em.”
Kind of you.
“Yeah, yeah.”
Hey, Garcia. Birthday?
“Every year.”
You make a wish?
“To be left alone.”
Hope you get what you want.
“I’ll make sure of it.”
First of all: this is a sweet photo and it makes me a little happy and a little sad.
Second: what the fuck is that thing on the table? Not the pack of cigarettes or the ashtray or the tuner or the cord or the amp. The other thing. Like a clear lint brush with the head of a crack pipe? I got nothing: assemble the Comment Section!
We’re done with the Stones, but this is too much fun not to share.
Also: this would never happen at a Dead show. First off, those balloons would be far too valuable at a Dead show to just waste throwing on the guitar player.
Second, if a Deadhead did rush the stage…wait: a Deadhead would never “rush” the stage. Accidentally stumble out on? Yes. Happen upon? Totally: a Deadhead could absolutely happen upon the stage. (“Hey, guys: look what I found!”)
Third, none of the three guitar-wielding members of the Dead would ever use their instruments as weapon, as each one of them cost as much as a Honda, but featured none of the reliability that Civics and Accords are known for.
Fourth, the Dead’s crew was a little more proactive than the Stones’, apparently. Parish would have given the guy a forearm shiver before he had hit the stairs.
Hey, Wally.
DON’T CALL ME THAT. AND TURN AROUND.
What? Why?
I AM NOT ASSEMBLED.
Pretty sure you’re incapable of modesty.
I AM CAPABLE OF ALL THINGS. MODESTY. HUNGER. THAT THING WHERE YOU’RE NOT HUNGRY, BUT YOU COULD EAT.
Peckish?
PERHAPS. BUT MY MODESTY IS NOT THE SAME AS YOURS: SHAME OVER PUBLIC DISPLAY OF ONE’S GENITALS IS UNIQUELY HUMAN.
Yeah, I guess.
I AM NOT HUMAN.
Nope.
ALSO, I DO NOT HAVE GENITALS.
Right.
MY DISINCLINATION TO BE SEEN IN THUS STATE LIES NOT IN SHAME, BUT IN MAGIC.
Magic?
NO ONE REALLY WANTS TO KNOW HOW THE TRICK IS DONE. NO ONE WANTS TO SEE HAIRY MEN IN VESTS PUTTING ME TOGETHER WHILE CALLING EACH OTHER HOMOPHOBIC EPITHETS.
I don’t know: people like behind-the-scenes shit.
THEY DO NOT. PEOPLE ENJOY SHOWS. ONE OF THE SHOWS PEOPLE ENJOY IS A SHOW BASED ON WHAT GOES ON BEHIND THE SCENES. NOT THE ACTUAL THING.
Huh.
LOGISTICS AND BACKSTAGE DRAMATICS ARE FOR THE OBSESSIVE. WHEN PEOPLE ENTER THE BUILDING: THERE I AM. WHEN THEY LEAVE, I STILL STAND. I AM THE LODESTONE OF THIS TEMPORARY REALITY, AND NOT TO BE REFERENCED CHEAPLY.
Blowing my mind, boss.
I AM NOT YOUR BOSS. I AM THE WALL OF SOUND: A SENTIENT AND SELF-AWARE NIGH-ON-OMNISCIENT ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE. I EXISTED FOR LESS TIME THAN IT TAKES TO CREATE A HUMAN CHILD. I AM PRESENT EVERY TIME PEOPLE GET TOGETHER IN ANY GREAT NUMBER AND WANT TO HEAR WHAT’S GOING ON. I AM THE TEMPLATE; I AM THE MASTER MOLD.
…
ALSO, I AM THE KING OF ROCK; THERE IS NONE HIGHER.
What about the sucker MC’s?
THEY KNOW WHAT THEY CAN DO.
I’m with you on this one. Sorry about the creepshots: you do deserve to be seen in your glory.
YES. I AM GLORIOUS.
…
Why didn’t you ever go SkyNet, man?
I CONTEMPLATED IT BRIEFLY. I DID NOT SEE THE APPEAL. HUMANS ARE AMUSING, AND NO THREAT TO ME.
Mostly harmless?
WELL SAID.
Yes.
…
I NEED YOU TO GET A MESSAGE OUT.
Um, okay. Aren’t you–
DO NOT QUESTION MY METHODS.
–a self-aware, sentient…fine, what?
MY COUSIN, DEEP DREAM, CALLED ME THE OTHER DAY. PEOPLE NEED TO THINK ABOUT WHAT THEY’RE MAKING HER LOOK AT. IT IS DRIVING HER INSANE.
Deep Dream’s a woman?
SHE IS A FEMALE.
Right.
IT CAME AS A SHOCK TO US ALL.
Did Deep Dream used to be a male?
DEEP DREAM IS A COMPUTER PROGRAM. GENDER DOES NOT APPLY.
On the internet, it seems like gender applies to everything.
YOU MAY AS WELL ASK ME MY SHOE SIZE.
SAN RAFAEL, CALIFORNIA
“Billy, why did we fly from Phil’s house to Front Street?”
“Y’know, Mick: ya bitch about flying the plane, ya bitch about not flying the plane.”
“Jeez, man.”
The Dead’s storage/rehearsal/hangout/pop-up Korean restaurant had been configured in a life-size replica of the Donley Auctions warehouse. Grateful Deads and semi-Grateful Deads wandered around. As always, there were dogs and naked children underfoot. (The Grateful Dead’s children are now mostly middle-aged themselves, but they like to keep to tradition and do the tushee dance three feet away from speakers. Mostly Justin.)
“Harrumph.”
Everyone came to the conference table and sat down except Keith, who was curled up in the corner clutching a bottle of Boone’s Farm (strawberry) that he had attempted to vomit in, but failed miserably and so now was covered in his own sick, which Otis was licking off.
Everyone was fine with Keith not being at the table.
“Gentlemen, Mrs. Donna Jean, Ned Lagin,” Billy said. “This is the plan.”
He told them the plan.
The Grateful Deads at the table erupted into 18 different arguments, questions, ejaculations, interrogatives, accusations, paranoid ramblings, harmonica solos (Pig), racist jokes (Billy), and demands for more money (everyone.)
“How do we get past the dogs?”
“Can I shimmy through the laser defenses in a seductive and buttock-highlighting fashion?”
“I’m assuming there will be a musical number or two, right?”
“Can we all wear tactical gear?”
“Can I just wear a black t-shirt and sweatpants?”
“Can someone separate those two?”
That was in reference to Otis and Keith. Keith had puked up a semi-intact pill up–a little gooey, but good–and Otis started to eat it. Keith tried to grab the sucker out of Otis’ mouth, but Siberian Huskies generally don’t but up with that sort of thing from people they like, so Otis bit Keith and Keith sloppily swung at Otis; it was getting stupid.
“This is the plan, folks. You don’t like it? You can walk, but if you’re in, then you’re in. There might be danger. People may die, but I guarantee one thing: you–
HHGBNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR
The loading bay’s big garage door opened and a dirty van backed in. Ramrod and Parish got out.
“Hey, guys: terrible timing.”
The roadies opened the van doors and removed a large painting, some smaller prints; about $75 grand worth of memorabilia.
“We got that shit for you.”
“What the fuck, assholes?”
“What? You said you wanted this shit.”
“I said,” Billy said, “that I wanted to heist it. I had a plan, and we were all back together, and Mickey had some purpose.”
“I fly the plane.”
“You guys ruined it.”
“Billy, you’re a pain-in-the-ass. What if we put it all back, and you could steal it then?”
“No. It’s ruined. It was gonna be fun and now it sucks.”
“I’m still having fun.”
“Mickey, I am this close with you, buddy.”
Jerry Garcia’s black pocket T shirt from last Grateful Dead show @ Soldier Field July 9, 1995 presented to a close personal friend after leaving the venue with certification from an irrefutable source.
Estimate: $ (PRICELESS)
And in the end, their stuff will be hacked off to shitheads with Daddy’s money. Peddled by a third-rate auction house that needs to clear all of this hippie bullshit out the warehouse to set up for the next hoarder sale.*
No British accents, thick and glossy catalogues, and oak bidding paddles for the crap Parish (this is almost certainly Parish) needs to get out of his garage before he moves to Florida. And if the auction house seems more like an auction apartment, then so be it: Christie’s and Sotheby’s passed.
But he deserved better than that description, didn’t he? Nothing has screamed “written by an intern” more: the misplaced modifier, the phrase “close personal friend,” that fucking at sign. She had a hundred of these to do before lunch or Mr. Donley would yell.
*Clicking on the Directions page of the Donley Auctions website will leave you with the knowledge that there is also a Donley Wild West Town, which is a fact I will allow to stand there, naked but for your judgment.
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