Billy’s my guy: always has been. And tonight, I’ve found my favorite picture of him.
The very first thing I wrote about the Dead–1200 posts ago–was about Billy. He is the true Secret Hero of the Dead: not as recognizable, musically or visually, as Garcia, but maybe more integral to the sound. When Garcia played, you heard Jerry Garcia’s guitar; when Billy played, you heard the Dead.
He could turn on a dime, or turn on you over a dime bag; Billy believed in the purifying fire of violence. One of the reasons the Dead played such long shows CAN BE REVEALED ONLY NOW.
Not this shit again.
…
What?
Um…
You can’t think up another horrible thing to call David Lemieux, can you?
Well, fuck, man: there’s only so many ways to skin a cat.
You’ll get ’em next time, slugger.
…
You were talking about Billy.
I don’t want to anymore. You suck.
You had a picture you wanted to show everybody?
Whatevs.
I’ve never seen Billy be more Billy. Billy’s so Billy in this picture that his dick is punching him. He is the Uber-Billy, the Ur-Billy, the All-Billy. If a Billy met a Billy coming through the rye, they would both be this Billy. How much more Billy could there be? None: none more Billy. How many Billys could a woodchuck–
That’s enough.
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