Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 2 of 1022)


Goddammit, Phil–

“Fuck off, wretch.”

–are you using the Time Sheath to avoid quarantine again?

“Missed my mustache.”

It’s a beaut.

“Tough shaving it off. Sucker fought back. Remember my beard?”

Glorious thatch.

“Oh, yeah. Took a team of three professionals to get it off my face.”

You got some tenacious follicles.

“Once they get a grip, man.”

What are you and Cutler talking about?

“No idea. Between you and me, I’ve never understood a single word out of the man’s mouth. But, you know, he worked for the Stones.”

Sure. Don’t give 1970 coronavirus, please.

“Get off my back. I just needed a minute without that fucking mask.”

I get it.

Two Thoughts, Neither Of Which Contributes Much To The Discourse

I was in third period Spanish. Senora Hufnagle was leading us through the irregular verbs. Hacir and whatnot. The Vice-Principal, who was an albino named Gonch, stuck his head in the room. Senora Hufnagle went to him, listened, came back to us.

“Children, the Challenger has eaten Jack Ruby.”

We all said, “What?”

She said, “En Espanol, por favor.”

So we said, “¿Que?”

Senora Hufnagle went out to the hall and waved down Vice-Principal Gonch. She came back and said, “My mistake. The World Trade Center did something to the Bay Of Pigs.”

And then we realized that Senora Hufnagle was experiencing time all at once, which was a regular occurrence in my high school, and so we stopped paying attention to her and started hassling Junior Fortas, the III. “Your name’s all over the place, man,” we’d say to him.


I look like Death. Not the concept of death, Death the character from Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey.

But less healthy.

Thoughts On The Residents*

Rick Nielsen Big fan.

Robin Zander Confuses them with The Replacements and throws tantrums when corrected.

Tom Petersson “Wow, what an uncool question. So uncool of you to ask me about that.**”

Bun E. Carlos “Listen, I dunno if that shit is pussy shit or fag shit, but I’d fuck up the motherfucker who put that shit on my record player. Goddamned unnatural.***”



*Guest post by Cheap Trick

**In my head, Tom Petersson is a Mean Girl.

***Bun E. Carlos is Billy, and you know that, and you’ve always known that.

Thoughts On The New Jimi Hendrix Live From Maui Release

  • Oh, cool, he’s soloing.
  • Didn’t expect that.
  • Curveballer, that Jimi.
  • He’s just gonna solo for two sets, huh?
  • Jimi Hendrix is like Dune: I like the ripoffs better than the source.
  • No, wait.
  • He stopped soloing.
  • He’s talking.
  • Well, “talking.”
  • Jimi’s high as fuck and shouldn’t be allowed to introduce the tunes.
  • Mitch Mitchell’s still in the band, huh?
  • That’s a choice.
  • Oh, c’mon.
  • Kiss my ass, “Live” in Maui.
  • And, uh, yeah.
  • Jimi probably didn’t have much to do with the tapes post-1970.
  • I’m trying.
  • God, I’m trying.
  • NOPE, I still fucking hate Jimi Hendrix.
  • Hippie bullshit.
  • I’m gonna listen to The Residents sing about Elvis and Nazis.
  • NOPE, I don’t like this art school nonsense, either.
  • I’m gonna listen to the Grateful Fuckin’ Dead.


Grab Your Coat, Let’s Get Out Of Here

Eliminate all the foreigners right off. No offense to ’em. Not their fault, but they ain’t From Here.

Leave off those scruffy beatniks from the Bay. Everybody called ’em hippies, but everybody’s wrong so damn often. And that mean Jew who wasn’t from Manhattan, and that other mean Jew who also wasn’t from New York City. That jazzy lady from the Laurel Canyon.

I’ll take Warren from Hollywood. Self-destructive, self-mythologizing, and vain. Minor chord on a sunny afternoon, shooting up the billboards on the Strip. At war with the record company and the Corvette dealership. Arguing with the other hairy men about who was Hunter’s favorite. Setting his morphine on the table next to the salt and pepper. Name-dropping and neighbor-fucking. Closing the album with a song about a gorilla, who was the only desperado Warren ever wrote about that got away with it in the end. Warren wrote songs where people got what they deserved; Warren wrote a lot of songs about himself.

You take 4th Street. Zuma Beach, paved parking lots, corners with $26 in your hand. Gimme the Pioneer Chicken Stand and a salty margarita. Gimme the Envoy, the Mutineer, the Worrier King. Gimme Mr. Bad Example. Gimme the Excitable Boy.

His hair, you see…well, you know about his hair.

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