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

Category: Uncategorized (Page 141 of 1031)

Stuck Inside A Giant Teeth Sandwich With Those Memphis Blues Again

“Well?”

“Bill, I gotta tell you: I thought you were overselling the dongs. But, uh, you were not. You were not at all.”

“Each dong its own little universe. Possibly conscious, too. Several NBA players, both former and current, have told me in confidence that their dongs could think and feel and even communicate.”

“How do they communicate?”

“Pointing, mostly.”

“Ah.”

“Bill, question.”

“I can’t wait to hear it, I can’t wait to think about it, and you better believe I can’t wait to completely ignore it and talk about whatever the hell I want.”

“Who’s the big fellow?”

“First of all, my choogly chum: thank you for not calling him Branford.”

“Sure, yeah. The kids have been on me about that.”

“And, second: that is 6-time NBA champion Scottie Pippen.”

“Ben Vereen looks incredible.”

“You’re thinking about Pippin.

“I was offered the part of the Leading Player at least five times throughout the 80’s. Eventually, I just told Hal Kant to stop telling me when they’d call.”

“We live within a tangle of realities, Bob. What you’re describing is truth somewhere. And in that iteration of the universe, I attended your premiere and kept my hands up for the entire performance. And blew out a knee. But the guy you’re standing next to is one of the all-time greats. Tremendous ballplayer. In a lot of ways, Scottie is the NBA version of you.”

“How so?”

“He had a Garcia.”

“Ah.”

Beaming Woman

“Bob, my legendary friend, take my freakishly large hand and let me lead you to the sanctum sanctorum.”

“Sizzler?”

“Not yet, Bob. We’ll stop at Sizzler on the way home, I promise.”

“I’m holding you to it.”

“I speak of a holy place, perhaps even quasi-mystical. A space of plans and dreams and the worst-looking feet you’ve ever seen in your life. Did you ever see The Red Shoes?”

“All over the place.”

“Not actual red shoes. The movie.”

“Ah. Was that the one with Peter Boyle?”

“Forget The Red Shoes, Bob. Grasp my prodigious paw and I will take you to a land of pure imagination.”

“Y’know, Bill, I’ve been in a dressing room once or twice.”

“Not like this, my esteemed prophet. The smells alone will have your nose reapplying for grad school. The camaraderie! The esprit de corps! The joie de vive!”

“Are those French for ‘dong?'”

“No, they’re in addition to the dong. Sweet Molly McCracken’s teats, we are gonna see some dong.”

“All right.”

Bouncing Wobblers*

THUMP

“Sir.”

THUMP

“Sir?”

THUMP

“Sir!?”

“Call me Bobby.”

“Uh-huh. Can you stop bouncing your testicles against my head?”

“Well, you should know that it’s not just the testicles. I’m working with the whole potato salad here.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“That’s okay. They do.”

“They?”

“The readers.”

“What the fuck are you–”

THUMP

“–talking about? Y’know what? I’m just gonna move.”

“Good call.”

 

*ALTERNATIVE TITLE: Rich Man’s Dong On My Poor Head

Basketball Watchers

“Bob, I cannot describe the joy that fills my enormous, broken body that you’ve joined me here at courtside to watch the most exciting sport ever invented by man, woman, or over-educated dog. I quote the philosopher Kurtis Blow when I say ‘I love basketball.'”

“Well, you know: I’m a fan.”

“Do you know where that word comes from? ‘Fan?’ In the olden days, before the advent of conditioned air, the spectators would bring palm fronds or other large foliage to wave at the players in hopes of cooling them down. Of course, since it was the old days, the fronds were also used for the purposes of racism.”

“Sure. Anything’s racist if you hit a minority with it.”

“Listen to the crowd, Bob! The excitement! The anticipation! We find ourselves as members of a proud lineage that stretches back to the Flavian Amphitheater or the Circus Maximus.”

“I was always a Ringling’s man myself.”

“And after the game, we’ll head down into the locker rooms and check out some dong. You’ve never seen dongs like these, Bob.”

“I’ve seen Phil’s.”

“It’s nothing like that. You’re comparing a golf ball to the Death Star. These are world-class athletes with world-class dongs. That’s why the shorts are so baggy nowadays.”

“Ah.”

The Fullest Muppet Possible Given The Genetics

No one gives your ’77 beard enough credit.

“Yeah, she’s pretty manly.”

I don’t know if that sentence makes sense.

“Well, obviously my beard is female.”

Why?

“It’s, uh, sitting on my face. Not to get too Billy about the whole thing, but only ladies are allowed to saddle up.”

Sure.

“But, you know, the characteristics displayed are masculine. Robustness, stolidity, forward-thinking.”

If you say so. Why do you have Dee Dee Ramone’s haircut?

“I asked for it specifically. Gotta keep up with the punkers.”

Okay. Tell Phil I say hi.

“He’s not fond of you.”

I’m aware.

Several Thoughts About A Show I Didn’t Watch One Second Of

Farewell to you, all you fair muddy fuckers.
Farewell to you, all you ladies with boobs.

And to House Broomentush, defending the Kingdom of the North But Not Too North; If You Pass A Lake, You’ve Gone Too Far North. Swing your sword, Lord Dermabond, and kill the guy who played Aquaman. Fangtoe the Magnificent has arrived, and you can learn his language, Doohickey, on several officially-sponsored apps.

………..

Has Prince Thickwad’s arc been complete? Did it live up to your imagined standards? If not, you should burn down the writers’ homes. Make sure their children are inside. This is your right as a teevee viewer. You are owed.

…………..

Who here didn’t get raped? Ladies? Ladies, I need you to pay attention. Raise your hands if the show forgot to rape you. We’ll get to it for the web-exclusive bonus scenes.

…………..

Hearken unto me, my cadre! Take my banner up, Darys the Unwiped! Lead my legions against the Westside Boojums, Carbunc the Fungible! Where are those giant fuckin’ dogs? Giant fuckin’ dogs for everyone!

…………….

Perhaps the true game of thrones were the thrones we made along the way? Or Battleship. Maybe that’s the game they’re talking about.

…………….

If I were the producer of the show, and saw that a million pukefaces had a little petition concerning how bad they thought the show was, I would’ve lost it and replaced the last episode with an hour of Mookie Wilson demonstrating proper sliding technique.

…………….

Why the fuck wasn’t Mookie Wilson on Game of Thrones? There’s not a House that wouldn’t have benefited from that man’s hustle and attitude.

……………..

I am now starting a petition to digitally insert Mookie Wilson into old episodes of GoT.

You exhausted your interest in the topic, huh?

I never any interest. Been free-balling for the past 300 words.

Only 300? Seems much longer.

That’s only because it wasn’t funny or well-written.

Yeah, that’s it.

Amazing What Twelve Bucks Will Get You

Apparently, there was more than one roll of film shot at the hooker motel that day, and thank the Jesus for it: the black-and-white shots don’t reveal the depths of the Bush League that marquee sinks to.

“Boss, we’re out of red W’s.”

“Just use the blue one and stop bothering me.”

OR

Phil, is that a falconer’s glove?

“Yeah.”

Where’s the bird?

“Otis got to it.”

Sounds right.

OR

College shirts: 1

College degrees: 0

(There aren’t even six high school graduates in this shot. Phil, Brent, and Garcia got their diplomas from various Bay Area highs, but I think Bobby and the drummers are without credentials.)

OR

“Ma’am, can you identify the man who stuck his finger up your butt in Radio Shack?”

“Number one.”

“You sure?”

“You don’t forget something like that.”

OR

The marquee. Christ, the shoddiness.

I’m Just Here For Yayo

Let’s keep it going with the cokeyshambles, Enthusiasts. The cream of the crop you’ve sent in so far is this astoundingly loopy performance from The Only Cool Eagle.

In a waste of talent that can only be called “Joe Walshian,” everybody’s pal Joe is backed up by Marcus Miller, Hiram Bullock, and Omar Hakim  on this 1988 episode of Night Music starring David Sanborn’s perm. Joe has lost the ability to speak, remember lyrics, find the one, and dress himself due to a limiting factor that all fuckups discover, eventually: YES, the cocaine and booze will balance one another out, BUT not if you snort an ounce and drink a bottle.

Next up!

And I’m not calling you fuckers Rock Nerds or anything, but two of you suggested Dr. Hook. That’s a tell.

Send in more filmed coke binges! I demand it!

Used To Be The Heart Of Town

We have, Enthusiasts, both answers and questions in front of us.

Most admirers of the Grateful Dead are familiar with this photo shoot, but the specifics have eluded. Where was it taken? When was it taken? How long was it before Billy slugged someone? Was Mickey ever more fuckable? (The responses in order: I’m getting to it; I’m getting to it; less than five minutes; no.)

This picture was taken 4/16/79 at Litchfield’s Bermuda Palms, a motel at 737 East Francisco Boulevard in San Rafael, right near the 101 (which can be seen all the way to the right of the shot). A guy named Whitey Litchfield built the joint in the ’40’s; it was upscale, baby. Teevees in every room playing anti-Japanese propaganda, and a guy in the lobby who would draw a line up the back of women’s legs so it looked like they were wearing nylons. That’s real class.

The motel was part of a complex that included a convention hall, restaurant, cocktail lounge, and even a ballroom originally named the Flamingo. (When you think San Francisco, you think of the huge flocks of flamingos.) Count Basie’s big band played there, and so did Lionel Hampton’s. Lili St. Cyr took her clothes off there, and she only did that in the swankiest clubs. Following the usual trajectory, the ballroom was given over to hippies in the 60’s; they changed the name to (variously) Pepperland and the Euphoria, and all the usual Bay Area suspects choogled on the stage so the kids could get real loose with it.

Entropy checked in. By ’88, the fronds were off the Bermuda Palms and it was a shooting gallery; whores screeched at one another in the parking lot; the ice machines were tragedies. Whitey plastered this on the marquee–the same one that WELCOME GRATEFUL DEAD is on–before abandoning the property.

I have sinned. Please forgive me. I have created a haven for humans. Don’t judge me too harshly.

Lord knows he meant no wrong.

But whither the Dead? Whither? WHITHER?

Stop that.

Sorry. Longtime residents of Marin County (or Enthusiasts with too much time and too much access to Google Maps) will recognize that East Francisco Boulevard in San Rafael right near the 101 is in the vicinity of Club Front, the Dead’s office/rehearsal space. In fact, it’s more than in the vicinity:

So–according to reliable sources–the band was herded around the corner, and then successfully wrangled for however long it takes to shoot a roll of film. Why were they all together, you ask?

Because of this.

Keith and Mrs. Donna Jean’s last show was 2/17/79, and I do not believe that there was a rehearsal with Brent before their departure. (Bad form, first of all, and there is no evidence at all of such a gathering.) While 4/16 may not have been the full band’s first time playing with Brent, it is the first tape we have, and we know that the Dead recorded all of their (infrequent) rehearsals. Was this Brent’s first integration within the Grateful Dead machine? Perhaps.

What we do know–absolutely, positively, without-a-doubt know–is that the pictures taken in front of Litchfield’s were the first commissioned shots taken of the new Dead lineup. Some bands would choose a more professional setting–and by “some,” I mean “literally every single other band that ever existed”–to introduce their new member, but not the Grateful Dead.

No, they went for this:

I have sinned. Please forgive me. I have created a haven for humans. Don’t judge me too harshly.

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