Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: jerry garcia (page 1 of 120)

Highway, Star

Goddammit, all you hippies put on your seatbelts.

OR

Is that Benjy?

OR

Garcia’s hair could keep his head warm down to about ten below freezing.

OR

Seriously: why is Garcia sitting bitch?

OR

Can anyone eyeball the car? Is the model name on the glove compartment there?

EDIT: It is a 1966 Pontiac Catalina. 

Ah, You Come Up With A Title; I’m A Bit Distracted

It’s not that Robert Altman.

OR

Phil?

“What?”

Why you standing back there?

“Chili farts.”

Okay.

A Bus(c)h And A Mountain (And Trixie And Some Guitars And An Actual Mountain)*

“Could you guys gesture at the guitars?”

“What?”

“Huh?”

“Why?”

“Just try it once.”

“I dunno.”

“You sure?”

“Eh.”

“GESTURE AT THE FUCKING GUITARS!”

“Thank you.”

OR

Matt Busch, you are too skinny. Eat some potato chips and wash them down with melted butter.

OR

“Hey, Garcia, here’s your new guitar.”

“Put some bullshit behind the bridge.”

“Um, what kind of–”

“PUT SOME BULLSHIT BEHIND THE BRIDGE!”

“Okay.”

“And bring me some potato chips and melted butter.”

 

*Worst title ever? It’s up there. (Or down there, whichever.)

Tomb

He did not get a pyramid. He could have; pyramids are legal and obtainable, but they are a special order. The funeral director doesn’t have any in stock.

He was not buried at sea, nor in sky. He was not shrouded, dumped, eaten, shit out.

There is no tombstone. No inscription telling passersby of his deeds and affiliations. There is no grave, so teens have nowhere to take acid and fuck and pilgrims have nowhere to pilgrimage.

O, wouldn’t that site be a sight?

They cremated him. The oven is attached to multiple furnaces, as the process requires temperatures of 1,800 degrees. Time depends on body mass. What is left is not the fine powder that characters in movies always wind up throwing into each others’ faces, but a chunky, off-white pile that might be mistaken for cat litter.

Half went in the choppy sea off the coast of Marin County. The other half went in the Ganges, which is holy to Hindus. He was not Hindu.

San Francisco Bay empties into the Pacific; the Ganges into the Bay of Bengal and then past Indonesia and Australia until it, too, reaches the Pacific.

Carve Your Name

The new hottest place to Instagram yourself taking a dab is Garcia Plaque. It’s in front of his childhood home at 121 Amazon Avenue, which is near the Mission. House is still there, too. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and 1,400 square feet: it can be yours for a million.

He might have been born there. 90% of births in 1942 took place on kitchen tables, with the placenta being donated to the war effort. This is where he lost the finger. This was the house he came back to after watching his father drown. He and his brother, Tiff, got sent to 87 Harrington Street after that to live with their grandparents while their mother ran a bar full-time. There’s a plaque there, too.

OR

Why is Garcia not smoking? I call bullshit on this.

Maybe he’s got a cigarette in the other one.

BULLSHIT.

Hey, at least they got the nub in there.

This is political correctness run amok.

It is not.

AMOK.

Stop saying that word.

OKAY.

And stop yelling.

Sure.

Dances Onstage While I Sing For You

Who’s that lady?

“Some lady, man.”

The professionalism of your security staff is nonpareil.

“Oh, I’m sure they patted her down thoroughly.”

True. This Lindley Meadows?

“I told you I didn’t know her name, man.”

Lindley Meadows. The park.

“Yeah, huh, good question.”

Lemme ask you something.

“Sure.”

Is the entire band tripping balls?

“Well, Donna isn’t.”

Is the entire band on acid?

“Seems that way.”

Is someone having a baby as you’re soloing?

“Think so.”

It’s Lindley Meadows.

“Learn something new every day.”

A Formal And Last Statement On The Days Between

TotD will not be acknowledging the so-called “Days Between.” They are an arbitrary and money-minded conceit dreamed up by some record company asshole to sell tee-shirts and CD’s and tickets to tribute concerts; the “Days Between” are as organic as National Pancake Day on Twitter and as depressing as the rest of Twitter.

Let them mourn into their megaphones, and cry behind their cash registers. We are too busy, Enthusiasts, and have forgotten about the time.

Don’t Look Back

Hey, Jer Bear.

“Don’t call me that.”

Birthday today.

“Feels like only twelve months since the last one.”

You blow out the candles?

“Long time ago.”

You get what you wanted?

“Fleetingly.”

What’s being dead like?

“Ever been to Delaware?”

Yeah.

“Like that.”

Okay.

I Hope Heaven’s Got A Smoking Section

Happy birthday, Garcia.

Jerry Garcia: Interdimensional Demon

“In between the sparkle and the shadow are the teeth, are the teeth.”

Lil Garcia?

“Sort of. If I come to your house, will you invite me in?’

No.

“I have a ticket for a train ride. Let’s ride the train.”

Nooooo.

“I’m also behind you.”

AHHHHHHHH!

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