First off, while Garcia truly couldn’t dress himself, I’m quite certain that he neither owned nor wore a thong with his face on it. (It can be purchased on Etsy, however.)
Second: fuck this. Fuck this in the neck with a steak knife. The Dead were men (and Mrs. Donna Jean, who–for the record–was no shrinking violet when it came to throwing punches, fucking people she wasn’t supposed to, or using her BMW to play bumper cars in the parking lot when she got drunk and irritated.)
People are not to be worshipped, especially these ones; their humanity was overwhelming, and not in a charitable, restore-my-faith-with-a-Buzzfeed-video kind of way: it was messy. Their humanity got all over innocent bystanders, harmonica players, hotel bar patrons, and high-school-aged foxes. They were junkies and drunken reprobates. One of them was Billy, for fuck’s sake.
The only thing that happens when you put a man on a pedestal is you get a better look at his ass.
Third: August 12th, 1995, came and went. No Garcia. Of course, that might have been because he was cremated.