An open letter to Phil (and a very select few of the other Olds),
You’ve made it this far against serious odds: you have used roughly 108% of your natural allotment of organs. You are doing wonderful things with time that I think you know is a gift. You’ve mellowed and age suits you. You’re still cool because you always were, sometimes in spite of yourself (I’m looking at you, the ’80’s).
And while I congratulate you on (mostly) your decisions to not follow any trends and remain the cranky, weird fucker we know and love, perhaps a man of your vintage should not pose with outdated technology. I’m half-expecting that there’s a wall-mounted phone with a 30-foot, irretrievably tangled cord in your kitchen. Pad next to it with a pen on a string. “Check children,” the pad reads.
But mostly, undated-but-assuredly-recent photo of Phil that I am for some reason writing a letter to, good work on the hair. Excellent choice in genes. My grandfather, at a ridiculously old age and ravaged by around forty diseases that seemed to be letting him live just so they could battle for supremacy, still had a great head of hair and it was, like, all the man would talk about. It was like a guy with a big dick knowing where all the men’s bathrooms with troughs in town were: we get it, you rolled the hard eight, take it down a notch.
Which leads me to speculate about Grateful Dead dong size. None of the standard literature covers anyone hiding a mammoth on their person, not even Scully’s nonsense, and if there had been any guys with giant schlongs, then he would have put that in, because he would have heard, and Scully put everything he ever heard and a lot of shit he just completely made up in that book. The Dead were, above all (and beneath it, too) a bunch of guys (and Mrs. Donna Jean, who does not really figure into this conversation, except perhaps she does), and bunches of guys have roles that exist outside of the individual groups, tropes, types, whatever you want to call it.
There’s the Leader, or the Clown, or the Wild Card; these are the core members of any group, but there are also tangential members that can go and go. There’s the Maybe Rapist. The one who turns Gay When He’s Drunk. And there’s the Guy With The Big Dick. Everybody else in that group knows about the dong, the mighty meaty dong, and–
FUCK, this just got weird.
–it’s treated like a mascot. Huh?
Have a little moment there, buddy?
Might have gotten away from me.
Was I talking to Phil?
You were not, no. You were more directing nonsense at a picture of him taken at an unknown date, in an unknown location, and for an unknown reason.
Should I go back to doing that or just take a breather?
Smoke ’em if you got ’em, champ.