A little something for a Sunday night. You could always watch TV, or whatever substitutes for it nowadays, but it’s the Dog Days; we must pay Sirius his due for our frivolity and there is Nothing On. The NFL has begun its yearly forced march through the pre-season, where the only fun is watching other teams’ stars get irrevocably broken for no reason whatsoever. Knees and hamstrings are like non-toilet trained children: when they wanna, go, they go.  I always did have an odd respect for people, place, and things that didn’t even play at being reasonable. Infants, lunatics, transmissions: your plans mean nothing to them.

Maybe that’s part of the appeal with the Dead? Not only did they not take requests, they didn’t take requests lightly. Like, even Garcia, reputedly the most gracious out of the lot, had pointed barbs out whenever the peanut gallery started acting up. The Grateful Dead heckled the audience back. This is rare in the show business industry.

Tonight’s a classic: The Fillmore East, from 2/11/70.  So much Phil: there are 35 or 40 people on the stage–3 keyboardists and 5-and-a-half drummers and Allman brothers and Fleetwoods and Macs and Jay-Z comes out during the Spanish Jam to drop a verse about how well things are going for him and it’s STILL ALL ABOUT MOTHERFUCKING PHILBERT J. LESH, MY BAKED BRO-TATO.

It’s pointless and distracting and masturbatory rock nerd bullshit to go through the entire roster of who was there, of the woof and weft of what happened that night, so leave at it this:

That night lasted until well into the next morning.

For some there, that night lasted for the rest of their lives.