One of the major themes of whatever the hell this is, is that the Dead existed not in our past, but in a completely different America than the one we’re tweeting in.

Remember Jim Jones? If you’re getting a majority of the jokes that don’t concern Billy and his relationship vis-a-vis dicks, then you’re familiar with him and his planned community in Guyana.  (People don’t know that: Jonestown was just a real estate investment gone a little wobbly.)

700 PEOPLE DIED, DUDE.

And you memorialize them by throwing ‘dude’ around? You must be REEEEEAL serious about this.

Just continue belaboring your metaphor.

Thank you. What people forget about Jones and his People’s Temple was that he (and it) were contemporaries (and neighbors, kinda) of the Dead. They’re mentioned in a bunch of the books as the people who NOBODY fucked with. Sometimes, through the prism of 710 and Olompali and Winterland, San Francisco in the ’60’s and ’70’s could seem happy and peaceful: it wasn’t. The Bay Area back then was like The Warriors, except simultaneously less gay and more–way, way more–gay. Things were tense. People who banded together with names like Black Panthers and Hell’s Angels were actual political forces. They had voices.

It was a rough town, but no one went anywhere near the People’s Temple. Bill Graham had a standing order to give any of those weird fuckers whatever they wanted: just get ’em off the property and stay off their radar.

Even in a city full of tough guys, no one wanted Jim Jones’ full attention. This went on for years, understand. Everyone knew: all the children in the neighborhood knew which building not to play ball in front of, or piss on. They didn’t hide–they couldn’t, there were hundreds of them. Eventually the heat got too bad, but they got away with being utter lunatics right out in public for a long time.

That was the past, you say. Things have evolved.

Fine.

The grateful Dead’s songs contain messages that, when listened to backwards, inside-out, upside-down, slideways, widddershins, and even sober, implore one to [redacted] a government building. Just [redacted] the living fuck out of it and it’s gonna sound like this: [RRRRRRRRRRREDACTEDDDDDD!]

I’m going to get some C4 from my [redacted] John Hackney, who lives at 121 Park, apartment [redacted}.

What the fuck are you doing?

I hid the apartment number!

So?

It’s an enormous building, man.

Isn’t this the point where Boldface Omnipotent Narrator comes in?

Is that what you think of him as? I always though ‘Ego’. You know, the–

Yeah, I went to school.

–Freudian…you don’t have to be a dick.

Enough. You, get to the point; you, everyone knows the Freud thing. explaining it reveals your dickishness. 

Before it went off the rails, my point was that even mentioning ‘C4’ and ‘government building’ in the same sentence tripped an algorithm somewhere.

This is a fact; we all acknowledge this. The fact that it seems to be okay with us is another topic.

I just put myself on a list: the algorithm doesn’t quite get satire yet, so they set the net wide, and so I just put myself on a list at–quite precisely–the speed of light.

One time, when the Dead were in an airport, they got their weed through INTERNATIONAL FUCKING CUSTOMS by standing in a line and passing the stash behind their backs, and let’s face it: this wasn’t a team of skilled pickpockets here. The only way to get away with this sort of silly bullshit is if absolutely no one gives a fuck. No one, not the cops, the guards, the people passing the stash,

That’s not true, is it? Folks back then, especially police types, were the same as they are now. Cops have always given a fuck: it’s almost their defining quality. The only way to get away with this sort of thing is to live in a world that isn’t carpeted with intelligent cameras and patrolled by militarized guards.

That’s how you get away with that sort of thing.

Also, here is what happens if you say to Garcia, “Hey, Garcia, show me what you like to do to pretty girls’ butts!”

jerry thumbs