Thoughts On The Dead

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

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Under Pressure

Contest time, Enthusiasts! Who did it best?

The original, written by Toots himself, and recorded in 1969?

Or what about Robert Palmer’s 1975 version, backed up by Little Feat?

The Only Band That Mattered from 1979? Spoiler: they turned it into a Clash song.

How about Izzy Stradlin & the Juju Hounds off their incredibly underrated 1992 album?

Maybe you think The Specials’ 1999 rendition was special?


The Temperature In Manbij Is 105 And Rising

Get to the chopper, Round-Eyes. The Kurds are going away.

I Have Seen Where Tom Wolfe Has Slept By The Silver Stream

I decided I would use such a situation in my book. It was here that I began to run into not Roth’s Lament but Muggeridge’s Law. While Malcolm Muggeridge was editor of Punch, it was announced that Khrushchev and Bulganin were coming to England. Muggeridge hit upon the idea of a mock itinerary, a lineup of the most ludicrous places the two paunchy, pear-shaped little Soviet leaders could possibly be paraded through during the solemn business of a state visit. Shortly before press time, half the feature had to be scrapped. It coincided exactly with the official itinerary, just released, prompting Muggeridge to observe: We live in an age in which it is no longer possible to be funny. There is nothing you can imagine, no matter how ludicrous, that will not promptly be enacted before your very eyes, probably by someone well known.

Tom Wolfe, ladies and gentlemen. The topic: semi-fictionality.

It’s An LA Story, And Then An IA Story

NO! I forbid this! I will not allow Thoughts on the Iron Maiden!

I just like this song, braj.

It’s subtle.

The soaring vocals! The submarine that isn’t clearly a model floating in a bathtub! The out-of-place occult references! The bangs!


Leapin’ lizards, the man’s bangs!

ENOUGH! This is ridiculous. Enthusiasts come here for Grateful Dead-related content, and there’s been none for weeks. You’ve just been regurgitating whatever you just watched on YouTube and threatening to expound at length on Hair Metal again.

Thoughts on the Guns is coming, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

At least recommend a show for the nice people.

Fine, but it’s gonna be an ’84.


7/4/84 from the Five Seasons Center in Cedar Rapids, IA, is a hoot of a kick of a nutslapper of a performance. Stranger opener? Yup, you betcha. Sterling yet flawed in the usual mid-80’s way H>S>F? Indeedy-do. One of the six Cumberlands of Power? By golly, sure. Date-appropriate Jack Straw? What band are we talking about? Of course they forgot to play it.

Or you could watch it if you’d like:

The Five Seasons Center is not associated with the Four Seasons hotel chain, nor does it refer to an assortment of spices; the name is the result of Cedar Rapids, IA, being somewhat less than the Mount Olympus of the advertising world. When New York City wanted a logo, it went to Madison Avenue and got the iconically-fonted I ♥ NY; for almost 50 years, the graphic has been slapped on as much bullshit as the Stealie. Texas needed a catchy slogan to keep folks from throwing taco wrappers and spent shotgun shells out the windows of their Cadillacs and pickup trucks, and so they went to an Austin firm that came up with this:

But the best Cedar Rapids could do was “The City of Five Seasons.” What is the fifth season, you ask? It’s Iowa, and it gets colder than Mussolini’s prostate in Iowa; perhaps the fifth season is some sort of super-winter. This could be corn-related, you think. Everything else in Iowa is corn-related, so maybe this is, too.  What about love? Is the fifth season like the fifth element? Enthusiasts, you would be wrong (and weird) to make any of these guesses. It’s so much stupider.

The fifth season, we are led to believe, is “the time to enjoy the other four seasons.” Which you’ll notice is just straight-up announcing that Cedar Rapids is boring. Hi, we’re Cedar Rapids, and the most exciting thing that happens here is that the ambient temperature rises and falls in a cyclical 12-month pattern. That’s what “five seasons” means.

These are the people we let choose Presidential nominees.

Fourth Time’s The Charm

Hey, Garcia. Whatcha doing?

“Getting married.”

I gathered. Is that wood paneling? Where are you, a VFW hall?

“Whatever, man. Don’t piss on my big day.”

Is this the one who dumped your remains in the Ganges?


You knew how to pick ’em.

It’s A Shitty Story


It’s A British Story

I asked you to trust me enough to watch the last video I posted, but not this time. You need to look within your heart and ask yourself, “Do I have so little to do that I can watch a three-hour documentary about Iron Maiden?”

You need to get a hobby.

This isn’t even the first Maiden documentary I’ve sat through.

Do you like Iron Maiden?

They’re okay.

Hobby. Please find one.

It’s An American Story

Watch this. I think I’ve earned 17 minutes worth of your trust. Watch this.

Yoakum, Yoked

“I could yoink you one if you’d like.”

“That’s okay, Bob.”

“Or I could get Mickey to.”

“I have enough shirts.”

“I used to, but my sister-in-law–”

“Lillian Monster.”

“–thought she smelled pork chops in my closet and threw out everything. Had to get Mickey to yoink me a whole new wardrobe.”

“Is there any way I can get you to stop saying the word ‘yoink?'”

“Well, you won’t hear it in Kpop.”

“What now?”

“The word ‘yoink’ is completely unpronounceable in Korean. They have the concept, but not the phonemes. It’s a matter of, uh, tongue placement.”


“How’s your shoulder feeling, Dwayne?”

“Bob, I’m gonna walk over there for just a moment.”





“–you understand what Bob’s saying?”

“I do not. My brain naturally blocks out hippie nonsense. You want me to beat him to death with the tambourine?”

“Don’t do that.”

“How about spoken word poetry?”

“I want that even less than the tambourine thing.”

“How much you bench, Dwayne?”

“I’m going home.”

This Is The Best Song Ever Written With “Harvest Moon” In The Title

I said it, and I stand by it.

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