The Dead burbles up nowadays, a weird uncle that comes round for the holidays ten days late unannounced. Not for us, the ones still here. We’re like that Japanese soldier who held his island until the ’70s. People mock that guy, use him as a shortcut for pointless insanity and the futility of war: that’s twaddle, and those who think it, easy cynics. Because what happened is: that motherfucker held that island. No fucking round-eyes gaijin number-10 motherfucker DARED to step foot on that island. He fulfilled the mission. For thirty years, that guy had a goal.

What did you do with your day? Did you hold an island by yourself?

No, the Dead burbles into view for the rest of the world. The ones who’ve maybe listened to Skeletons in the Closet a couple of times ten or twenty years ago and didn’t care much for it And no wonder: it was an odd little record and the there was no flow to the songs’ order, which used to matter an unbelievable amount, for the younger Enthusiasts out there.  There was, if I recall, a rather good edit of the Live/Dead Lovelight, which might seem blasphemous, but was helpful as a teen in hair-metal-soaked Jersey in proving that the Dead weren’t pussies.  The five most rockin’ out with your cock out minutes of that Lovelight are enough for not only the dorks in marching band, but also the guys smoking in their cars with the Metallica denims.

Breaking Bad ended last night or 8 months ago: I have been trying to avoid it. It seems like a brilliant show and all the people whose opinions i respect like it, but Cancer Dad and Crystal Meth are not how I’m spending an hour of my TV fun.  Those two things, specifically. If it was that new neausmare (that’s a nightmare so scary that you wake yourself up by puking) drug called Krokodil and, like, a cousin with rabies, then I would watch that show. Admittedly, that would be a short series. ACTUALLY: that would be the greatest reality show EVER. Which would win? The rabid dogs, cats, and vermin of our dying cities against hordes of Krokodil addicts, terrified and jonesing, throwing hunks of their rotted flesh to satisfy the animals.

The finale was name “Felina”, after the possessor of the two lovin’ arms that our dumb, doomed protagonist dies for in El Paso ,and that, combined with the soundtrack from Sunshine Daydream hitting #19 on the Billboard Listing of Things, has put the Dead (maybe, kinda, sorta?) a little bit higher in the general consciousness lately.  Which is a good thing, and a thing we need more of.

Speaking of the Marty Robbins classic, how the hell do you forget the words to El Paso, Bobby? (No fair bringing up that Nokia Theater incident. Quite honestly, I think the shorts{?} he was wearing were far more tragic than the lyrical flub(s).)  8/13//79 in Denver, a town full of degenerates and reprobates. Please invite me to Denver.

Is the Shakedown opener wonderful? Yes, it is. Does Garcia start Candyman in the neatest little sneak attack way? Yup. Does every mammoth, pristine, super-addictive FLAC file need to start with four minutes of Tuning? Apparently so, according to the information at hand.

Anyway: hold your island.