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.
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?
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–