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

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A Song Of Cold Rain And Snow

I see you there, George R.R. Martin.

“Zounds! My ruse is exposed!”

Stop talking like that.

“I like talking like that. Don’t hassle me, varlet.”

Why are you in 1970? Who gave you access to Time Sheath technology?

“Phil really wanted to know what happens in the next book.”

Dammit. Y’know, I’m starting to think it may have been a poor idea to give the Grateful Dead a time machine.

“Ah, that reminds me of some intrigue within House Winterdingus. The scion, Scabbard Fanix, had recently forced his eldest son, Bung, to eat himself. It was part of an enormous banquet, which I’ll now describe for twenty minutes.”

Stop it.

“There were porked bellies and platters of buttered finch–”

STOP IT.

“Ah, bite me, y’jealous loser.”

Not wrong. This photo is labeled 5/3/70* from Wesleyan University. Did you go there?

“No. Northwestern.”

Uh-huh. So, why did you go to a random show in the middle of Connecticut?

“When Phil gave me the Time Sheath, his instructions were less than precise. I was trying to go to the Battle of Agincourt.”

Sure. Last question.

“Shoot.”

Why aren’t you wearing your usual get-up? Where’s your hat? You love that hat.

“I’m in disguise. Otherwise, I get mobbed by fans.”

Sure. Hey, George?

“My liege?”

Try not to start a Time War.

“I can’t promise anything.”

 

*Just a partial tape.

A Partial Transcript Of AG Barr’s Senate Hearing, 5/1/19

SENATE HEARING ROOM – MORNING

“Y’all gonna settle! Y’all gonna settle yo’selves right down now! I won’t have it, all that ruckus all y’all creatin’ in here. Maybe you can fool around like that at House hearings, but that whole organization done gone to over to the dark side. This is the United States Senate, and we don’t let Satan in. Every morning, my boy brings me in my mirror and I look in it and I say to myself, ‘Lindsay Graham, you gotta be a goalie for Christ. Don’t let the foul one in.’ And, hoo boy, I got my pads on today.”

“How long will the Chairman be raving like a lunatic?”

“Blumenthal, I’ll cut you. You know I’m not the bitch to fuck with. You know I got razors.”

“Just get to the point, Senator.”

“I’m gonna, but jus’ because I wanna. Not because you said so. Okay, so…where was I? Oh! We was gonna have a li’l visit with the Attorney General o’ these here United States, Mr. William Barr. How’s your momma an’ them, Billy?”

“I would categorize their status as ‘fine,’ Senator. Thank you for asking.”

“Thank you, Mr. Attorney General, for your service to this country and for your savoir faire. That’s French. You speak French, Billy?”

“I do not, Senator.”

“It’s a Romance language in e’ry way. My, you fill out that suit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Here’s what I wanna know: is this a witch hunt, or is this here the witchiest hunt?”

“I couldn’t say, Senator.”

“Far as I’m concerned, the Mueller Report came out, and now let’s move on. It’s like that ol’ Avengers movie. Okay, I watched it, and now life continues. But these Democrats are so crazed by losin’ an election two whole years ago that we gotta spend our day doin’ this here busywork. Mr. Barr, would you categorize Robert Mueller as an enemy of America? I would, but I wanna hear your thoughts.”

“I couldn’t say one way or the other, sir.”

“Robert Mueller an’ his crew are gestapos, I do declare. You walk in that office they got over there: nothin’ but gestapos. Boy who gets you your shandy? Thass a gestapo boy. Them ladies? They’s gestapos, too. An’ they out to get Mr. Donald Trump, who is beautiful and pure and right. He glows with the radiance of newborn stars. His powers, when marshaled, are such that wounds may be healed. HE CAN DO THESE THINGS! An’ hoo boy can he whup my butt out on that golf course there. How ’bout you, Billy?”

“The President has beaten me at golf several times.”

“That man’s got a swing like Duke Ellington. He inspires envy within me, and he dresses well.”

“Mm. I would agree.”

“Mr. Barr, is it your informed opinion that the President didn’t do nothin’ wrong?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s a blanket statement?”

“It is.”

“Good enough for me! I call these hearings closed–”

GAVEL NOISE!

“–and suggest we all get ourselves a mojito. They’s only two weeks left in mojito season, y’all.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Chairman. You can’t just gavel the session closed like that.”

“Hush up, Senator Feinstein. I can smell you, woman. You’re rotting.”

“I buried Harvey Milk; I’ll bury you, Linda.”

“Wretched sow. Go ‘head with yo’ questions.”

“Thank you. Mr. Attorney General, good morning.”

“It may or may not be a good morning, Senator Feinstein.”

“Yes, well. On the date of April 4th, you released a memo summarizing the Mueller Report, but–”

“Ma’am, I would object to the term ‘summarizing.'”

“You would?”

“Yes.”

“What would you call it?”

“Illumination of the salient.”

“What now?”

“A fleshy annotation.”

“Ew.”

“A multi-pronged exegesis.”

“Mr. Attorney General, you are not here to argue about the meanings of words.”

“I disagree.”

“On the date of April 4th, you released a memo. Is that correct?”

“It depends on the meaning of ‘release.’ Physically? Freed from my grasp?”

“In the sense of ‘issued to the public.'”

“Ah. My office did send out a memorandum that day.”

“And the contents of that memo were, in fact, challenged by Robert Mueller in a letter dated March 27th.”

“Mm. Have you read the man’s letter?”

“I have, yes.”

“Then you’ll understand why I tossed it aside. The tone was unctuous and harsh.”

“Sir, Mr. Mueller’s letter had no tone.”

“The tone lurked, Senator, in the white spaces between words, and in the unwritten. It provided the gluey stock that held the gumbo of insult together. He may as well have struck me in my face or genitals. Were these the old days, you’d have to duel a man who wrote you a letter like that.”

“No, sir.”

“And then he called me on the telephone and referred to me as a ‘tallywhacker.'”

“That didn’t happen.”

GAVEL NOISE!

“Time’s up, jewbag!”

“You look like grown-up Chucky.”

GAVEL NOISE!

“I don’t know what a Chucky is! Anyway, we gonna keep on a-rollin’ with my good friend, a wonderful man, a powerful beard-possessor, and one of the leading intellectual lights of the Republican Party, Ted ‘Theodore’ Cruz from the great state of Texas.”

“Oh, I see what you did.”

“I referred to you as Ted ‘Theodore’ Cruz like in the film Bill & Ted.”

“That’s wild. Just wild. Thank you, Senator. You bring a lightness and a levity to these proceedings that some in the chambers wish to extinguish with divisiveness and hatred. As you know, I’ve brought to the floor a bill to officially declare all Democrats as draculas. Like, if you’re a Democrat, well: boom, now you’re a dracula. And you gotta tell the people at the DMV within 30 days or you lose your right to vote. It’s a solid piece of Constitutional legislation.”

“That’s just super.”

“Mr. Attorney General, would you agree that all Democrats are draculas?”

“I wouldn’t disagree.”

“Capable of turning into bats?”

“I’ve not witnessed the transformation myself, but we can’t take it off the table. Serious possibility.”

“Delightful. If President Trump were to turn into an animal, which animal would it be?”

“Oh, this is a fun game.”

“The Senate is the fun chamber. Everyone knows this. We have a Candy Desk.”

“The President would turn into a lion, I suppose. Maybe a bear, but I would go with lion.”

“Lion was the first thing that came to me, too.”

“Majestic, ferocious, strong.”

GAVEL NOISE!

“You two is jus’ like two doodlebugs inna juniper bush. You stop it ‘fore you get me all worked up an’ I gotta go home an’ watch Lifetime movies. I degrade myself while watching these motion pictures.”

“Mr. Chairman, it is my turn to speak.”

“You shut your mouth, Senator Harris. You make me wish I had a time machine. See who’s all mouthy then.”

“I’m just gonna speak. Mr. Attorney General, did you read the entire Mueller Report?”

“Who told you I didn’t read it?”

“Answer the question, sir.”

“Define ‘read.'”

“No. Stop that. Sir, did you read the entire report?”

“Did I read the entire ridiculously long report? Is that what you mean? With no graphs or charts whatsoever, nothing to break up the boredom. I dipped in and out. Read a couple pages, played around on my phone, flipped forward a little, read some more. I got the gist.”

“Sir–”

“At heart, I’m a gist-man, anyway.”

“Sir–”

“That’s kind of a slogan around the Trump Administration: Just gimme the gist! That’s the way the big guy likes it.”

“You did not read the whole report. You then issued a summary of the report, which you did not read, that contained assertions that the authors of the report strongly disagreed with.”

“In a certain light.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Pardon?”

“Are. You. Shitting. Me. You are the Attorney General of the United States and you are actively–some would say brazenly–acting as the President’s mob lawyer. You’ve lied to Congress on at least one occasion. You’re covering up obstruction of justice. That all of this has gotten this far, and this stupid, is making my head explode and I need to know, Mr. Attorney General: Are you shitting me?”

“I cannot provide an answer to that question.”

GAVEL NOISE!

“Finally! Girly, this whole time you been yappin’, I been thinkin’ ’bout that time machine. We go back 200 years, you an’ me. We have ourselves some fun. It would be exciting!”

“Shut up, Cruella.”

“The Chairman recognizes the Distinguished Gentleman from one o’ the Dakotas. They’s the same thing. Ain’t like North an’ South Carolina. They’s got diff’rent weather an’ diff’rent barbecue, but the Dakotas is jus’ the same. Jus’ a big ol’ cold nothin’ up there. Never been. Don’t plan on it. I’m sorry to say that, Sassy, but that’s what I feel.”

“Sasse, sir.”

“I know. But I like callin’ you Sassy.”

“Uh-huh. Mr. Attorney General, I’m gonna be tough on you here.”

“I shudder at the demise of my prospects.”

“Russia.”

“Yes.”

“They like messing around.”

“They do.”

“They do the mess-around. You know that song?”

“I do not.”

“Ray Charles. Classic. Anyhoo: Russia. You on top of that?”

“We are, Senator.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“No lie. Attacking the problem from all angles.”

“Swear?”

“Hand to God.”

“I’m satisfied. I’m satisfied. Let’s consider that battle won. I thank the witness and yield my time back.”

“Oh, my, isn’t that sweet o’ you? You raised right, Sassy. Yo’ momma raised you right, boy. I salute her. I salute all American mommas, Sassy. The American momma is th’ hardest-workin’ momma in the world, but she’s also th’ hardest-lovin’ momma in the world. Can’t get no better than a momma!”

“Mr. Chairman, it’s my turn.”

“Senator Hirono, I resume my ongoing argument that Hawaii ain’t no state. It jus’ ain’t.”

“Your belief notwithstanding, Senator Graham.”

“Military base, hotels, couple farms. That’s it. Ain’t no damn state, an’ I don’t care what some pineapple salesman says ’bout the matter. Why didn’t we get a vote? I put a vote to the floor: Hawaii ain’t no state no more!”

“You can’t do that. I will take the floor now, Mr. Chairman.”

“Never shoulda let you people out them camps.”

“Ignoring that. Mr. Attorney General, you have proven me correct. When you were up for confirmation, I voted against you because I believed you would, like any invertebrate attached to a solid object, take the shape of your master. You have enveloped Donald Trump in the office of the Attorney General, ignoring all facts and dismissing any accusations as ‘fake news.’ You have disgraced the Department of Justice, once known as an independent body dedicated to principle and the law, but now just another snarling dog for this lunatic fuckwit to loose upon his pursuers.”

“OH, NO! I will not have it! Senator Sodoku–”

“Hirono.”

“–you ain’t gonna be spewin’ no oaths up in here! I will not allow such a thing!”

“I will keep it clean. Mr Attorney General, how have you not resigned?”

“Because I’m doing a great job.”

“You have perjured yourself to Congress at least once in the past month. That’s the opposite of a great job. No matter what your job is.”

“My job is keeping President Trump happy.”

“No, it’s not!”

MULTIPLE TWITTER ALERT NOTIFICATIONS NOISE

“Mr. Barr, the President of the United States just tweeted out Go have a samurai sword fight with her, AG Barr! VERY RUDE WOMAN! NO COLLUSION! Are you still not resigning?”

“I’ve chosen my path.”

GAVEL NOISE

“Ev’ryone gonna shut up now and drink mojitos with me. Put all this foolishness aside for some civilizing talk an’ such. Tell my boy t’ start muddlin’!”

Most Of The Cats That You Pet In The Green Room Speak Of True Love

Phil, put that thing down.

“Bite me, dickweed.”

Seriously, man. Put it down.

“And I told you–”

SHLARRRRFHMMMPH

“The cat just threw up a reality made of tentacles.”

Yeah, it’s a flerken.

“It ate Grahame.”

Yeah. It’s a flerken.

“Is this some stupid comic book bullshit?”

It is, yes.

“Those movies are for dumb people and children. And dumb children. Lots of people will tell you that there’s no such thing as a dumb child, but there’s tons of ’em. Grahame couldn’t figure out how to work a door until he was 8. He would just screech at the knob until someone came and helped him.”

You hate to see that.

“Sure. But look at him now.”

He got eaten by an interdimensional portal in the form of a cat.

“He’ll be back. I know how this universe works.”

You’re not wrong.

OR

Can everyone else see the googly-eye face to Phil’s left? Because I saw it, and now I can’t unsee it.

Blows Against The Empire

Everyone overlooks the one aspect  of alien technology in which they’ve made the most astonishing advances. The faster-than-light travel is impressive, but the amount of information they’re able to glean from an anus is incredible. The only data poking about in someone’s poop-chute that we can get are temperature and relative humidity (very high). Lately, we’ve figured out how to take a peek up there with an itty-bitty camera on the end of a plumber’s snake, but there is only so much to learn from the images.

Those gray bastards, though? SHPLUCK right in your asshole and they know everything about you. Wow.

I wish you’d delete this.

EVERYONE DOES. But, fuck ’em. And buttfuck ’em.

At least recommend a show to make up for your dastardly nature.

I am a dastard.

Yes.

10/18/78 from Winterland! The From Egypt, With Love run was far better than the three shows beneath the Pyramids the previous month, and that’s no surprise: neither of the drummers had a broken arm, and all the junkies could get their junk, and it was a home game. This is a ’78-ish show, skitterish and frazzled and seamful; little bit too fast. Keith is awake for the vast majority of the performance, which is not ’78-ish, but on this wonderfully clear Charlie Miller SBD you can hear various Grateful Deads yelling at each other, sometimes during the songs, and that is very ’78-ish.

Also: Lee Oskar jam.

Lee fucking Oskar jam.

If You Get Confused

After Crazy Fingers, which Garcia sang correctly precisely three times, the most-pooched tune in the Big Man’s repertoire was Franklin’s; no other song can compete, and it is only the hilariously predictable mumblings and fumblings of CF that keep it from that number one slot. The magic of Franklin’s is that Garcia would lose his grip on both lines and verses. It was an As Above, So Below situation, lyrically speaking.

Maybe the part about the four winds comes first, and maybe the Let the music play line does. Which verse comes when? Who knows? Certainly not Garcia. He would sing ’em as they came to him, and not argue about petty bullshit. The man was too busy trying desperately to get through a couplet without stumbling and bumbling.

Sometimes–and the 80’s versions of the ditty feature this more than those of the ’70’s–Garcia’ll whack his head on the first word of a verse and never recover. I find that fun.

ANYWAY, 11/22/72 from the Austin Municipal Auditorium is from 1972, and therefore has no Franklin’s, but you should listen regardless. Brokedown and a Casey Jones, braj. Motherfuckers wanna play like they’re too good for Casey Jones, like they’re above Casey Jones, but fuck those motherfuckers.

Philia

“Hey, Billy?”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“If you could measure love, would you do it with a scale or a ruler?”

“What kind of love we talking about here? Agape? Storge? Eros? You definitely measure eros with a ruler. Eros is the boner-love. You measure boners with rulers, I know that.”

“No question.”

“An argument  could be made that boners are weightless.”

“A good one. Weight has to do with gravity, and boners say ‘No, thank you’ to gravity.”

“Right. I mean, it’s still got mass.”

“Sure.”

“But no weight.”

“Far out, man.”

Saw My Baby Down By The Green Room

Hey, Bobby. Nice baby.

“Oh, yeah. Right shape, proper size.”

Is that your baby?

“Pretty sure it’s not. I’ve had them.”

Sure.

“Well, you know: I didn’t have them. My wife–”

Natasha Monster.

“–did all the actual ‘having.'”

What did you do while that was going on?

“No idea. See, Natasha had chosen the natural childbirth.”

Okay.

“But I was high as a kite. Waste not, want not: that goes for epidurals. Might have snuck out to Sweetwater for a cocktail or two while she wasn’t looking.”

It’s a lot longer of a process than teevee would have you believe.

“Hours, man. But, uh, I’m pretty sure that all happened years ago. So I got no clue who this is. But, you know, he won’t stop screaming and he just shit his pants, so I got a hunch who it is.”

It’s not Billy.

“I retract my hunch.”

Last Will And Toilet

Being a fan is necessarily humiliating. The two parties cannot be of equal status; this is by definition. A fan is not a customer, though the two positions are often co-held, as a customer is in a reciprocating relationship with the artist, athlete, entertainer, whatever: You got the goods, and I got the currency. Let’s swap. Such is not the case with fandom. From the subjects come cheers, claims of love, and more blowjobs than there are stars in the sky; in return, the object says Thank you very much after the slow numbers and checks into hotels under assumed names so fuckers like you can’t find him.

Recall that “fan” comes from “fanatopsis,” which is an Ancient Egyptian word meaning “a guy who gets over-excited and throws himself under Pharaoh’s chariot wheels.”

When Garcia was alive, he owned a home in Sonoma. He shat there, specifically but not exclusively in the toilet. After Garcia died, he longer needed the house (or toilet) and it was purchased by a fellow named Henry Koltys.

This may or may not be him:

(Mr. Koltys has also created KidsLast, which calls children of divorce in the middle of the night and tells them it’s their fault Mommy and Daddy don’t love each other anymore. Personally, I don’t see how that helps anyone, but free speech is free speech, right?)

Anyway, Henry tore the old shack down so he could erect a house more befitting a man with his haircut, and–being a capitalist–chose the action which was both most predictable and most depressing: he sold Garcia’s shitter to an online gambling site. This was Golden Palace, whom the more depraved of you will remember from paying palookas and Butterbean to paint its name on their chests during boxing matches, and bought one of William Shatner’s kidney stones.

(It should be noted, however, that the company was doing all this stupid bullshit in the aughts before the Crash of ’08, and everyone was spending money like an asshole back then. Golden Palace was just trashy about it.)

SO the online gambling site buys the dead rock star’s crapper from the lawyer. These are the lumps you take for a market economy. In the Soviet Union, you couldn’t buy a toilet at all, let alone a famous one, and if you left the seat up, you were sent to the gulag. In terms of the freedom to engage in the defecatory appliance trade, we’re leading the world.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the Capital Theater. (Don’t be naive: Shapiro would totally install Garcia’s commode in the Capital Theater, and it would be in a VIP bathroom that he would charge extra to use.) While waiting on the curb for pickup, the toilet disappeared. A helpful angel, perhaps? A tweaker? Scabiolus, the angel-tweaker? Or, you know, the garbage men?

Or maybe it was a Deadhead, one with a sense of dignity, and who didn’t have a bad back. Maybe a guy, could be a gal, someone with a station wagon or a van who figured it was fair enough to display the man’s guitars, or even that bad luck briefcase of his, but Christ leave a poor fellow’s toilet out of it, huh?

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