Garcia Knew Where His Towel Was
“Not going to the Super Bowl.”
Well, yeah. You’re dead, man. Did you ever go to the game when you were alive?
“Nah. Seemed like a hassle.”
So, why do you wanna go now?
“Well, Weir gets to go, man.”
“Ah, fuck off.”
Jealousy is a low emotion.
“No, jealousy is a primal emotion, see? Jealousy can be put into good use: I was jealous of other people’s ability to play the guitar, so I practiced, man. Spun my emotional straw into musical gold.”
“I wanna hang out with Shemp.”
“Whatever. The big fella.”
Listen, even if you could, you couldn’t. Bobby’s got a gig.
“What? I don’t get it, man. Super Bowl. There’s a party and a game.”
Oh, no. Things have changed. The Super Bowl has spread out to include most of the week and also Monday, kinda. Hundreds of millions of dollars in parties and ads and famous people.
“And Weir’s playing one of these little shindigs?”
“Then why can’t I go?”
I cannot explain this to you every time there’s an event you miss out on: you died over two decades ago. The rest of the world experiences reality with less simultaneity than you; your public appearance would cause a panic.
“We’ll never know ’til we try, man.”
Let’s not try.