Especially Billy

Let’s all just agree to leave the surviving members of the Dead out of any conversation involving Oculus Rift.

 

Forget The Dead You Left

The ony thing less interesting than someone else’s dreams is someone else’s weather, so lemme tell you about both. It’s spattering and spitting outside the doors of Fillmore South, and likely to keep doing it all day. Florida is the only place in the world (and for the purposes of these bloggings, the whole world encompasses the contiguous states of America) where it actually gets more humid when it rains. The anole lizards, usually skinny and frantic, swell up like Nerf footballs soaked in Viagra and loll about  to be trod upon by careless adults and compassion-less children.

The gators love it: more rain means bigger lakes means more water’s edge. The water’s edge is the gator’s buffet line.

Maybe that’s why there are so many lunatics down here. Between the dinosaurs lurking in the ponds and the reptiles on your doorstep and the palmetto bugs–giant malformed cockroaches with the power of flight–doing kamikaze runs into your windshield, mammals instinctively know they’re not supposed to be here. When the white man first showed up here, the Seminole and Miccosukee never fought face-to-face, just led them deeper into the swamps and let Florida take their heads. Just like the Russians with Napoleon and Hitler, but with fewer clothes or 1000-page novels.

And the dream has come back. I’ve invited a few friends over and things have gotten out of hand. People begin to show up and won’t leave: I toss ’em out, give ’em the old heave-ho, walk ’em Spanish out the door–no luck. Danny DeVito showed up in last night’s episode; so did Bobbi Starr, whom you should not google at work.

So when commenter DJ5000 (who, sadly, has been discontinued to make way for the DJ6000 model) sent me this, it made my early morning:

If you had a rough night–and that’s redundant: they’re all rough, ain’t they, Enthusiasts–and the carpet’s moving under you and all you’ve got to live for is what you left behind, then grab a powder keg, strike a match, blow that silver mine, and start anew. You get another chance every morning.

Who’s A Good Garcia? Who is?

If you didn’t take Garcia to the groomer’s twice a month, his coat would start to tangle.

Baby, I Hope You Don’t Get Burned

In my little ranting rave about Hannibal and its spectacularness–

Absolutely not a word.

–I indulged in a bit of filigree about the night’s length and terror and ruthless tenacity: this darkness may have to give, but only according to its schedule. We silly primates may have split the atom, digitized the Library of Alexandria, and punched smallpox in it endoplasmic reticulum, but we don’t have a vote on when dawn shows up; never will. That mean old sun is like Phil’s boners: it keeps its own counsel, rises once a day, and shouldn’t be looked at directly. Also, the sun just opened a restaurant in Northern California as a front to steal internal organs from undocumented busboys. 

Way too early for this level of libel.

But for all the Sun’s awe-inspiring belligerence, it can be explained, dissected, solved for X. Just a big ball of fusion slamming M’s together at the speed of C (and C again), producing E. Add a bit of Brownian motion through the convective zone and you’re done, pencils down.

So, if–and we’re speaking hypothetically as always–you’re standing next to me watching the sucker rise over the Atlantic, do not say, “It’s a miracle,” because I will go Neil DeGrasse Tyson on your poorly-educated ass.

Mads About You

Do you trust me, Enthusiasts? Have I demonstrated a taste commensurate with your own? We cool, yo?

Then watch Hannibal.

But leave the lights on. Because life is short, but nights are long.

People Like Us, We Gotta Work

Hey, Bobby. Where ya going?

“To be a rock star.”

Bitchin’.

PLUS: Immediately after this photo was taken, Billy hopped in the bulldozer and drove it through an IHOP.

Ice Cold

You may be cool. You may be cool as Hoth at Christmas-time.

But you’ll never be this cool.

You Just Tall, That’s Just About All

Mickey had been claiming he was 5’10” for three decades and one day while they were walking to the Farmer’s Market to pick up blueberries and foxes, Bobby called him on his bullshit and–luckily–a guy with a ladder and a professional camera happened to be there.

Two For The Road

Batman and Robin; Walter and Jesse; Skipper and Gilligan; Butch and Sundance.

A man needs someone to ride shotgun in this fierce world.

Sunday Morning Coming Around

First off, while Garcia truly couldn’t dress himself, I’m quite certain that he neither owned nor wore a thong with his face on it. (It can be purchased on Etsy, however.)

Second: fuck this. Fuck this in the neck with a steak knife. The Dead were men (and Mrs. Donna Jean, who–for the record–was no shrinking violet when it came to throwing punches, fucking people she wasn’t supposed to, or using her BMW to play bumper cars in the parking lot when she got drunk and irritated.)

People are not to be worshipped, especially these ones; their humanity was overwhelming, and not in a charitable, restore-my-faith-with-a-Buzzfeed-video kind of way: it was messy. Their humanity got all over innocent bystanders, harmonica players, hotel bar patrons, and high-school-aged foxes. They were junkies and drunken reprobates. One of them was Billy, for fuck’s sake.

The only thing that happens when you put a man on a pedestal is you get a better look at his ass.

Third: August 12th, 1995, came and went. No Garcia. Of course, that might have been because he was cremated.