Thoughts On The Dead

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

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A Partial Transcript Of Trump and Putin’s Press Conference, Helsinki 7/16/18

July 18, 2018 / / 4 Comments

FINNISH PRESIDENTIAL PALACE – MORNING

“Putin vant to thank Donald Trump American President for his wise counsel. For his strong leadership. Also for bringing case of Filet-O-Fish. McDonald’s in Russia nyet can get right. Is different fish. Is trash fish. Does nyet make a happy meal. Donald bring American version. So kind of him.”

“Kind.”

“Today, is nyet more Cold War. Is only vorld that grows hotter and hotter. Russia and US must stop all the global warming or vhatever. And end all sanctions. Scientist tell Putin that removing sanctions make global varming go avay.”

“Lab coat?”

“Da, lab coat.”

“You heard him, folks. Guy’s in a lab coat, that’s a serious guy. How long was it, Mr. President?’

“Vas down to ankles.”

“You getting this? There are so many people in my country who say ‘Russia is bad, Russia meddled’ but there was no collusion and wouldn’t we want to be friends? I mean, where is the smart money going to nowadays? Where’s the creative money going to nowadays? It’s not Silicon Valley or New York. It’s Leningrad!”

“Is nyet called that any more.”

“Everyone’s trying to get in there. Donald Jr. went over last month. When he got back, he said, ‘Daddy, these Russians have lab coats like you wouldn’t believe. What does it mean?’ And I told him, ‘Hey, you’re dealing with real players, Donnie.’ And that, really, that’s something that you have to give–that anyone would give–President Putin credit for.”

“Da. I am in charge of lab coats. I had whole speech, but is nyet important. Mr. President, vhy don’t you take qvestions from press?”

“President Putin, many of these journalists are fake news. What do you do with fake news in Russia?”

…

“Trump take qvestion now.”

“Oh, sure, great, okay, you? Where are you from?”

“Reuters, sir.”

“Are you fake news?”

“I don’t believe so, sir.”

“What do you think, Vlad? Fake news?”

“I have nyet opinion on this man.”

“Mr. President, when you and President Putin met this morning, did you discuss the charges that an organized plot to disrupt the 2016 election originated in Moscow, and that your campaign may have been part of that plot?”

“What happened was the FBI, which is mostly very corrupt and sometimes very wrong, was looking for a server. This is the one from Hillary’s basement. FBI agents couldn’t find it, and so they’re looking around: huh, could be the Israelis. Maybe the Chinese.”

“Uh-huh. Did you ask President Putin about it specifically and what will you say publicly while standing next to him?”

“I’ll say publicly that the Democrats lost an election they were supposed to win. Why? Trump. I go to Wisconsin, I go to Ohio, but where’s Hillary? I heard AIDS. Many people told me AIDS. But I win. Even up against an Electoral College that is very, very unfair to Republicans. I accomplished what many, many people thought couldn’t be accomplished and now there are haters and losers. Mueller is a hater. Sessions is a loser. Vlad, do you have haters and losers?”

“Da. Is losers everyvhere. And Russia is full of haters. Vhen I go, country revert to cossack fiefdoms in a decade. Putin take qvestion from Moscow reporter. Speak Russian.

“Mister President, I hear stories of pee-pee tapes. You’ll excuse me, but I can’t think of the Russian for pee-pee tapes, so I’ll just say it in English. Anyway, what’s the deal?”

“With the pee-pee tapes? Don’t look at him, don’t look at him.”

“I’m not! Don’t make me laugh. Or say pee-pee tapes again.”

“President Putin!”

“Yes, different reporter from Moscow?”

“I was looking at him. He’s losing his mind. Why does he not have a translator? “

“Because he’s him. All questions about him are answered by him. Him. He is the reason for…all of this. He is…wandered off, hasn’t he?”

“It appears that way.”

CONFUSED OLDER MAN HOLLERING FROM AN ADJACENT ROOM NOISE

“Was this where we were doing the breakfast? Because I’m a full breakfast man, and I see nothing at all happening in here. This is maybe the worst the Unites States has ever been treated, and Sweden or Finland or Norway–wherever the hell I am–is getting the shit tariffed out of them. No eggs at all? Maybe I go home and–”

CONFUSED OLDER MAN BEING LED BACK INTO A CONFERENCE ROOM NOISE

“–oh, hey, Vlad. Where’s Jim Acosta?”

“Right here, sir.”

“You are fake news.”

“You always like to point that out, sir.”

“President Putin?”

“Da?”

“This man is fake news.”

“If you say.”

“Mr. President, your FBI, CIA, military, and every other governmental agency with skin in the game say that Russia deliberately, aggressively, and in some cases successfully interfered with our election. President Putin says he didn’t. My question is this: who do you believe?”

“My intelligence agencies are great, great people except for the ones who have infiltrated those agencies and are a disgrace, and also probably traitors, but none of them gave me the denial that Vladimir gave me today. It was exceptionally strong, and I was very, very impressed by it. I mean, this is a guy: why would he lie? Right? Why would he lie, so he looked right in my eyes, which I appreciated. And, you know, he said ‘Nyet.’ Now, you don’t get to be a billionaire who gets elected president without being able to read people. I can zoom in on a person, tell if they’re lying or not, bing bang bong. And Vlad, I saw truth in his eyes,”

“Sir, are you siding with President Putin against your entire intelligence community?”

“They’re not so great.”

“Wow.”

“Da. Vow.”

“These are the same people who started ISIS, which I have killed maybe 98% of all of ISIS. It could be 99%, but some people say 98. The CIA and Obama basically started ISIS, everyone knows this, and President Putin wants to fight ISIS with us. You can see the difference.”

“So, again: you’re picking Putin over the American government?”

“You just don’t understand how strong the denial was, Jim, probably because you are fake news. President Putin, could you help me here?”

“Da. Vhy not?”

“Watch. Here’s what it was like. ‘President Putin, did you meddle?’ You see how I’m asking him very strongly? And the president says…”

“Nyet.”

“Just like that. See his face?”

ROOMFUL OF JOURNALISTS LOOKING AT PUTIN’S FACE NOISE

“He said ‘nyet,’ so who am I to argue? President Putin, why don’t you take a question?”

“Da. You.”

“Mister President, how much longer do you think your luck will hold out?”

“No idea, but I am enjoying the ride.

Wang Dang, Doodle

July 17, 2018 / / 3 Comments

Tell me this isn’t a Dave’s Pick cover for a ’68 release. Maybe early ’69. That little notch in the band’s history after they learned how to play but before they learned how to write songs. There were, like, 17 of ’em onstage and their soundman was the Most Famous Drug Dealer in America? And everybody’s instruments were made from wood and metal, and they had the same amplifiers that all the other bands did, and several band members did not need to shave all of their faces yet.

That little notch.

Although, you could just as easily find an image for another Dead era within David Lozeau’s portfolio. He’s having a sale today, and I’m not even getting a kickback for telling you that like I do when you buy books from Amazon I recommend. My reasons are noble and pure: the Grateful Dead (Or What’s Left Of ‘Em) should hire this guy. All the different Dead factions, too: Dead & Company should have him draw posters, and Rhino should have him draw record covers, and Phil should toss him off a bus in Milwaukee.

Remember all the Dead & Company posters? Remember how someone was so perturbed by them he resorted to elaborate dialogues with himself on the internet to try to explain away both bush and league? A good deal of them were skeleton-based and, as I alluded to, dreadful. But look at this:

Did they play San Diego? Because: boom, there’s your San Diego poster.

TotD, you’ll say, that artwork atop this text is certainly pleasing and theme-appropriate, but I think you overstate the terror that were the actual posters.

Oh, I’ll answer. Do I?

DID I, MOTHERFUCKER? I scream as drag you into a drainage canal and let the gators handle you. FUCKING DID I? But my screaming attracts attention, and locals save you. I flee, back into the swamp. Back into the only mother I’ve ever had. That’s why they call me Swampy.

Swampy? The character is from the swamp, and his name is Swampy? That’s lazier than usual.

I only did it so I could comment on it.

Deep.

Oh, yeah.

Aren’t you doing a commercial?

Kinda! Go to David Lozeau’s site and look at his art! Why? Because of shit like this:

That’s a whole movie right there. If you can’t tell yourself the whole story from that painting, you’ve no imagination at all. (It’s all in her right hand. There’s a lot of character reveal in that hand position.) It is also, as I mentioned, a Dave’s Pick cover waiting to happen. Just print the date and venue’s name on the bottom and ship ’em out.

I now present Reasons Why David Lemieux Should Hire David Lozeau for the Dave’s Picks Series:

Your irritating names So similar, and so unmemorably-vowelled that I need to look it up every. fucking. time. I only have three vowels in my names, Davids, and they are nowhere near one another. Are you people hoarding vowels for the winter?

Someone’s gotta draw the skeletons Let’s be honest with each other, Enthusiasts: there will be no further additions to the Dead’s iconography. The lookbook is set. Stealie, lightning bolt, those fucking bears, turtles, flying eyeball. And skeletons. The Grateful Dead’s merch is made out of skeletons, like that church in the Czech Republic. So: someone’s gotta draw the skeletons. Why not hire someone who is already skilled at the task?

Maybe he could draw those fucking bears as skeletons? Maybe I’d like them then. I don’t think so, but my mind is open to art’s possibilities.

Because he didn’t pick 9/11/83 for the new Dave’s Pick Which is bullshit. And personal, I believe, even though I never once broached the subject with David Lemieux. 9/11/83 from the second of two nights at Santa Fe Downs is a far superior show to the Boise gig from earlier in the month selected for the Pick. The second set is seamless and perfect, except for Wang Dang Doodle, which is so imperfect that it becomes glorious: an amp is exploding or the monitors have begun skittering away, one of those technical gremlins that the Dead carried with them around the country, and Bobby has to keep restarting the song; the band’s crankiness comes through their amps and the usually dire Wang Dang Doodle becomes a highlight.

Ultimately, it comes down to this: I have listened to 9/11/83* far more than I have 9/2, so therefore the former is the superior musical performance. If Mr. Lemieux can’t see that, then I have low hopes for the future.

Because of shit like this:

THAT IS GRATEFUL DEADY AS SHIT. That might be Grateful Deadier than certain former band members. (TC. Obviously, it’s TC.) Hire this man right now, David Lemieux. Go out to the lake, wait for it to get windy, and record a video about the Dead’s newest artist-in-residence.

Does David Lemieux have this kind of authority to be hiring artists?

I have no idea.

So why are you ordering him around as though he did?

Y’know what? He’s up there in the Hundred-Acre Wood harvesting his berries and peeping at bears, and his president is handsome and sane, and Come From Away just won Best Musical at the Tonys, and I could just bite through my hand in rageful jealousy.

At least it’s a logical reason.

Facts not feelings, brah.

 

*Both 9/11/83 and David Lozeau’s art brought to my attention by the ever-hip Mr. Completely. He’s just a useful human being to know.

Viewer Mail

July 16, 2018 / / 10 Comments

Enthusiasts, I have been challenged. Gauntlets and whatnot! In a previous post, I dashed off a caption under a video; I so often do. Sometimes, I just wanna share a neat-o bit of teevee with you, but the post would look weird with no words: I needed to write something. In this case, the video was another example of my fatal weakness for BBC shows about the history of England presented by British comedic actors. If one of the Young Ones had bicycled around Northern Ireland for eight episodes in 2008, then I would watch that, too.

Or a documentary about the Royal Family. Oh, Jiminee horsefucking Christ, have I watched documentaries about the Royal Family. I like the ones that go into the kitchens during a state dinner, or with the troops into their barracks between shifts standing there in famous hats, but I also like the ones that are just about being fancy. English people walk up to the Royals and say, “Helloooooo,’ and the Royals say “Helloooooo,” and everything’s lovely.

This soothes my soul, as I am a loathsome beast: an Anglophile. HOWEVER, I asserted, there were worse nations to obsess over. Everyone (and, of course, I’m only talking about Americans when I say “everyone”) has a favorite country, and though England is indeed a shameful one to invest a fascination, it’s nowhere near the worst one. A valued commentator named cekman76 calls me out and demands I name these countries; I shrink not in the face of challenge.

(Again: I do not claim that it is not highly embarrassing to have England as one’s favorite nation. First of all, it’s just such a cliché. The second reason would be England’s behavior since the very instance of its inception. I speak of the worldwide dickery. For most of the previous millennium, England spent its time doing two things: discovering how far they could go; then, fucking with the natives once they got there. England also fucked with the natives closer to themselves. Ireland is right next door, and holy shit did England fuck with the natives in Ireland. Just historically a monstrosity of a society, but their novels and record albums and situation comedies are top-notch.)

Here we go. More Embarrassing Favorite Countries:

JAPAN All that manga shit is creepy. I tried to think of a way to say it all pretty and writerly, but I failed: all that manga shit is creepy. All of it–the anime and the hentai and the whatnotasaki–straight-up gives me the shkeeves. Everyone who loves Japan too much is orgasmically dysfunctional: either they can’t cum, or they can’t stop cumming, or they can only cum in an elevator that smells like dog food. There’s research about that all over the innertubes, but you can Google it yourself. I won’t do your work for you.

GERMANY I will never stop watching your ass, Germanophile. You are on my list and I will never stop watching you and all it will take is the tiniest of slips before I transfer you from one list to a different list. Y’know what, Germanophile? I’m just gonna assume. I’m going to a guilty-until-proven-innocent strategy on you.

COSTA RICA Zip-lines are for simpletons.

FRANCE 90% of Francophiles are just wine drunks who speak a second language. The other ten percent are secretly French themselves.

NORWAY If you’re obsessed with Norway, you’re clearly a Black Metal fan, and I do not get you, broham. That music is unpleasant. You should listen to mellower jams, and enough with the fjords.

PORTUGAL Who’s really into Portugal? Honestly, if I met someone and they were like, “I’m really into Portugal,” and I said, “What, the soccer team or something?” and they said, “No, everything. The whole culture. Their artistic sensibilities. Being seaworthy,” and I said, “Are you of Portuguese descent?” and you were like, “I have no connection. None whatsoever. It’s just a primal urge within me,” then I would be impressed with you for being original.

CHAD You’re just trying too hard now. If you’re, say, a white guy from Plattsburgh? Settle down with the Chad-worship.

RUSSIA Duh.

KOREA Dammit, we still make Boy Bands in this country. That’s all domestic production. That’s American jobs, man. How many Joey Fatones will starve to death because the kids were too busy listening to BTS?

PERU You just want to eat guinea pigs, you bastard.

Mayer Ex Machina

July 16, 2018 / / 3 Comments

Oh, Andy Cohen from teevee’s Bravo.

“Went shopping.”

I see. You bought a life-size garden gnome.

“Him? No, this is–”

In a Chinese restaurant in Boulder, there’s a naked waiter.

“Oh, yeah, his outfit. His name is–”

Does he or does he not speak exclusively in riddles?

“You don’t care.”

I don’t. I know he’s John’s friend, and that’s all I need to know. You really kitted yourself out, buddy.

“Flying the colors, brother! Dead show! Colorado! What could be wrong?”

Everything’s on fire, Andy.

“I meant here. Right where I am. Where the incredibly rich man is standing in the sunshine. It’s pretty sweet here.”

Andrew Joseph Cohen, as a gay Jew you have a moral responsibility to be panicked.

“Incredibly rich gay Jew.”

Nah. Gay and Jew beat rich. When they start coming for us? The millionaires will be mass graved with the paupers.

“Not if I’m not here.”

What now?

“Can you keep a secret?”

Oh, absolutely.

“New Zealand.”

No!

“Yup. Been putting the exit strategy in place since the morning after Election Day. Went down there, spent a ton of fucking money on lawyers, bought some land, opened a business. They make you pump a shitload of cash into their economy before they’ll even sit down with you. And then when the government officials do sit down with you, they do that haka thing at you first.”

Dude, I love the haka.

“So did I, but the novelty wears off real quick. I got haka’d three or four times a day. At that point, it’s just foreigners yelling at you.”

Sure. What kind of business did you open?

“Taco place.”

What do you know about tacos?

“I like eating them and not one single one of those hobbits knows how to make one. So I opened up my own place. Flew in some guys from Los Angeles and had ’em train up the cooks.”

You’re sparing no expense.

“I plan on spending the end of the world in comfort, and with tacos. That’s not cheap.”

I guess not.

“You two freakie-deakies clear out of the way! Jackie Gleason’s coming through! And the President’s with me.”

“There, uh, is the irreverent humor you have become so famous for, Jackie. One would expect the President to be mentioned first, but you turned it around. Thus, uh, creating humor. As I said, humor.”

“Sir, I’m gonna run ’em over.”

“I’ll pardon you if you do, Gleason.”

LEGENDARY ASSHOLES IN A GOLF CART ATTEMPTING TO RUN OVER HIPPIES NOISE 

“Ahhhh!”

“To the moon, druggies!”

“Yes, good, Gleason. The cart will take more damage. Keep going.”

THRUMP

PLONFH

BOOMITYBUMPBUMPBUMP

…

GOLF CART BEING PUT INTO REVERSE NOISE

…

BOOMITYBUMPBUMPBUMP

“Ha! You got the little fucker coming and going, Gleason! Have you ever considered an ambassadorship?”

“I’ll go anywhere in the world as long as I can stay in Miami Beach.”

“Ha! My God, Gleason. I feel alive.”

“HEY! HEY, ASSHOLE! THE GUY IN CHARGE!”

Yes, Andy Cohen?

“What the fuck, man?”

Is it about your can of Bud Light?

“It’s not about–”

Because you’re on Shakedown Street in Colorado, Andy Cohen. I have to believe there were better beers available. And I am totally not one of those beer guys.

“It’s not about the beer, it’s about–”

KAFLAMP

Like, it would be hard not to accidentally buy a better beer than a Bud Light while on Shakedown Street in Colorado. How about a Coors Banquet!? Go old school!

“Can you just–”

It’s almost like the Bud Light is a statement. Are you making a statement, Andy Cohen?

“HEY!”

Yes?

“Why are Nixon and Jackie Gleason mowing down Deadheads in a golf cart!?”

Are they still doing that?

BUHBANGADANG

“Yes.”

FLUMPFLUMPSMERSCH

“Yes, they are.”

That’s awful.

“Why is it happening and can you stop it?”

The first question would take hours to answer, so do you want me to answer the second question first?

“Yes.”

No.

“Why not?”

I can’t overrule the President. And I wouldn’t want to: look how giddy he is.

“Hot damn, Gleason! This is better than executing that Jew couple. My blood is hot!”

“After this, sir, you and me are gonna get some broads.”

“No, no. Just souls. I am a mouth, Gleason. Feed me souls.”

DONCHRANMUMUMUM

“Ah, yes. I grow stronger.”

“HEY!”

Yes, Andy Cohen?

“I hate you and I never want to be part of your little skitches again.”

I get that a lot.

“Fix this.”

No.

“Then I’ll call a real man who will.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Look out, look out, the Andyman. Hey, buddy.”

“You really don’t have to say that every time I call.”

“It’s our thing.”

“We’ll discuss it later. Can you come out to the parking lot, please?”

“I’d be mobbed. Ooh, wait: I could put on a disguise. I went into the lot in a bear costume once for my teevee show, which a lot of people are saying deserves a critical reassessment. Could I cross-dress? Wait. If I cross-dress, will I get yelled at like Scarlett Johansson?”

“John.”

“I suppose the entire range of ethnic costumes is out, too.”

“John.”

“I could do Chewbacca. I actually have a Chewbacca costume with me. Visvim did them as part of their Fall 2016 line. It’s such an important piece. And, you know, it’s a Chewbacca costume. But it’s also a ‘Chewbacca costume.’ Y’know? Like, it’s a comment on itself. It’s a piece that asks questions, y’know? ‘What is fashion? How is fashion? When is fashion?’ That sort of thing.”

“John.”

“Anyway: I have a Chewbacca costume.”

“JOHN, NIXON AND JACKIE GLEASON ARE RUNNING OVER DEADHEADS IN THE PARKING LOT!”

“Are you in danger!?”

“So much!”

“ANDY COOOOOOOHEN!”

“The motor’s getting gummed up, Mr, President. It’s all the guts.”

“We’ll commandeer an automobile. The killing isn’t over yet.”

GUITARIST SUPERHERO LANDING NOISE

“Gleason, it’s Bobby Darin. Murder him.”

“C’mere, punk.”

GUITARIST PERFORMING SUPER-KARATE ON A DISGRACED PRESIDENT AND A LEGENDARY FUNNYMAN NOISE

“Sorry, boys, but we just cant have this in the Dead & Company parking lot. You’ll have to go.”

GUITARIST BLASTING A DISGRACED PRESIDENT AND A LEGENDARY FUNNYMAN INTO AN ADJACENT REALITY WITH, LET’S SAY, EYE-BEAMS NOISE

“You’re all welcome. I’m available for interviews. Oh, hey, Andy. You wanna do our special handshake?”

“NO! What the fuck was that?”

“It was a disgraced pres–”

“I know that! Why did it happen?”

“Why does anything happen? I’ve given up on that question in here, man.”

…

“So, uh, do you have superpowers now?”

“Apparently.”

“You can fly?”

“I did.”

“Can you do it again?”

GUITARIST TRYING AND FAILING TO FLY NOISE

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting to be able to. Arbitrarily granting and removing superpowers is what passes for comedy around here.”

“It’s not funny. It’s just lazy.”

“Could be that, too. Lot of ways to look at reality.”

“You’ve gone native in here, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been in the storylines a lot, and I’ve just grown to accept that I’m going to have adventures and death is temporary.”

“What about all the Deadheads Gleason and Nixon ran over?”

“Oh, no, they’re dead. Their families will mourn.”

“I don’t like being part of this world.”

“Your shirt looks nice.”

“Thank you.”

But, Wait: There’s More

July 15, 2018 / / 6 Comments

Of course.

Of course it’s worse than originally imagined.

Of course the league we’re playing in is exponentially bushier than first impressions led one to believe.

We discussed this gentleman yesterday, Enthusiasts, but our bullshit cup doth floweth all over the fucking place, and so now we’re beating back against the current, borne endlessly into stupidity and high school-level literary allusions. Dave Chapell’s Mexican non-union counterpart up there calls himself Nerdsworth because the word “nerd” has lost as much meaning as the term “rock star.” Here’s a hint, though: if someone pays you to go to a concert and take pictures of yourself, you’re not a nerd. What Nerdy means is that he is familiar, overly so perhaps, with today’s pop culture.

(Quick definitions. A nerd’s obsession(s) make them money. A geek’s obsession(s) costs them money. Gary Gygax was a nerd; everyone who plays D&D is a geek. A spaz is still a spaz.)

Anyway, Nerdy’s real name–this will shock you–is not actually Nerdsworth. His birth certificate says Amra Ricketts (which sounds like a Little Aleppo name) and before he was an Influencer, he was a YouTube Personality. If he were a Alt-Right Fuckface, he would hit the “Worst Jobs of 2018” trifecta, but alas. Amra was on something called the Smosh channel, and he talked about video games. He stopped appearing in early January of this year and…

YOU

WILL

NEVER

GUESS

WHY

Okay, you probably guessed why.

Okay, probably guessed why, although “accused of sexual shenanigans” is the odds play recently if you’re forced to answer the question, “Hey, did you hear about ___?”

It should be noted that there have been no criminal charges filed, and there are no updates on the allegations; it’s possible that the accuser is making up lies to get famous, as the kind of fame that comes when a woman accuses a popular gamer of sexual shenanigans is certainly the kind of fame every woman wants. It should also be noted that it took a random Twitter user, like, ten seconds to do due diligence on this guy. Thirdly, it should be noted that the cartoon woman’s physique is improbable.

So, congratulations, whichever Dead & Company associate did this! This one is the 7-10 split of fuck-ups. Is this it? Will there be any more surprises from the publicity department this summer? I hope it doesn’t turn out that the white guy in the jorts ate somebody. Because, honestly? That’s where it looks like Instagate is heading. Good work all around, folks.

Instagate?

I have christened the scandal.

It’s not terrible.

I rule. Anyway, I hope Amra’s doing okay and hasn’t let this embitter him.

Uh-oh. Maybe Nerdsworth’s gonna be an Alt-Right Fuckface after all.

He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Percussionist

July 15, 2018 / / 3 Comments

“Billy?”

“Yeah, New Brent?”

“I think Mickey fell asleep on me.”

“He’s been doing that lately. Bad case of CIN.”

“CIN?”

“Courvousier-Induced Narcolepsy. I keep telling him to switch to a lighter liqueur.”

“How long is he gonna be out for?”

“Anyone’s guess. Sometimes, it’s seconds. Other times, he’s done for the evening. Never know with Mickey. Or with Courvousier. Lotta variables at play here.”

“Can you get a roadie or something? He’s heavy.”

“Wait til he starts pissing himself.”

“What?”

DRUMMER WALKING AWAY NOISE

“Billy?”

…

“Bobby?”

…

“Oteil? Anyone?”

The Cool Kids

July 14, 2018 / / 21 Comments

I need you to remember that the present is embarrassing. Today, right now, the moment in which you’re currently existing: shameful and shitty and entirely without grace notes. It is a faithless, silly age, and we’ve given all the megaphones to the dumb. The dumber you are, in fact, the louder your voice. It’s tawdry, is all. 2018 feels like washing your dick in the sink after a five dollar handjob: you were meant for something better, and you hope no one sees you.

Look at this bullshit. I mean, really look at it. Take out your eyeballs and rub them on your monitor. Then stuff ’em up your asshole; I guarantee you’d rather look at what’s up there than this bullshit. Did you look? Did you look at the bullshit?*

This little twerp, you see, is what’s called an Influencer. They exist on Instagram, but sometimes they spread their wings over on YouTube. This one likes to give fashion tips.

What a punchable name.

(Also: here’s everything you need to know about men’s shorts. ONE: There’s an apostrophe in “men’s.” TWO: Men shouldn’t fucking wear shorts.)

Anyway, Parker wasn’t at the Dead & Company show of his own volition. No Deadhead would wear a bandana like that. Parker was hired by some sort of publicity firm to go to the show and…well, that’s where the plan breaks down. Ticket sales were weak for the Dodger Stadium, but by the time these posts went up, the concert was taking place. Were Angelenos supposed to hop in their cars and race down to Chavez Ravine? Because that wouldn’t work; there was traffic. There’s always traffic around Dodger Stadium. When they built the place, they also built the traffic.

Were they selling merch?

See right there after Maybe they’ll clear the sample for me? Where it says #ad? Someone paid this asshole to drive down to Dodger Stadium, take some pictures in a tee-shirt, gave him some copy to throw up in the caption, and then patted himself on the back. “Yes! That’s some solid online marketing,” the sad little bastard said to himself after closing the deal. The rest of the office was impressed.

“You landed Nerdsworth?”

“Yup!”

“Wow. That’s huge.”

“I’m shaking! Look at my hand.”

And so on.

But I don’t even think they’re selling mech. Look at this bullshit:

If they were selling the merch, then you’d be able to see the shirt. When you sign up for one of these deals, the clients are rather particular about little things like “showing the product.” Dead & Company actually hired these assholes to advertise their Dodger Stadium show–again–as it was happening. It’s nice that the league remains so bush even after so many of the players have changed.

(I’m sure this guy’s a Deadhead, though. All real ‘heads call the band “acid rock legends” whenever they get a chance.)

There’s more bullshit to look at!

LAST NIGHT. DEAD & COMPANY PAID TO ADVERTISE AN EVENT THAT HAD ALREADY TAKEN PLACE. It’s just fucking humiliating being associated with these people at this point.

Oh, and:

“Bob, you got Nerdsworth, right?”

“He is locked down. Sent him the names of a couple Dead songs to work into the caption. We’re a ‘go’ on Nerdsworth.”

“And Parker York Smith is in.”

“Hardest working man in Influencing. You think we need one more?”

“We need one more.”

“Let’s see…we got a white guy and a black guy, so–”

“Asian hottie!”

“–we should call…you took the words right out of my mouth.”

And so on.

#sponsored

  • I’m not even going to begin to get into “I wish I lived in the 60’s.” I wish you lived in the 60’s, too, Parker. And that you had a low draft number.

Nancy With The Laughing Eyes

July 14, 2018 / / 4 Comments

Cooked for him, cleaned for him, sewed his bow ties back together when the bobby-soxers tore ’em to shreds, all that old-school Italian wife shit: Nancy did that for her Frank. There’s wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for her Frankie, and he was particular. Liked his steak this way, and his eggplant that way. Like his mother used to do. Frank’s mom did a number on him. She was, as we used to say in New Jersey, a real piece of work. Nancy didn’t mind. Anything for her Frankie.

They met in ’35, and got married in ’39. He was a singing waiter at the time, so she needed to work, too. She didn’t care. Frank was gonna be a star–anyone who couldn’t see that was some sort of asshole–and she’d support the family until then. When he got hired by the Big Band leader Harry James, she hopped on the bus and traveled the country with the troupe. No one else could make Frank’s supper right, you see. He liked things a certain way.

And, O, then comes the money.

And, hey, here comes the fame.

And Frank dives in dick-first.

Nancy…well, you know about Nancy. She was pretty for a Jersey girl. But they’re in Hollywood now, and no way Nancy Barbato from Hoboken could compete with Juliet Prowse or Lana Turner. Or Ava. How could Nancy Barbato compete with Ava Gardner? All she ever did was give Frank three kids and a home and all of her heart every single second. The studios sent some aestheticians over to glam her up. Fixed her teeth. Shaved down her thick nose. There was eyebrow work, to be sure.

But the heart wants what the heart wants–that’s something men say when they’re listening to their dicks–and Frank’s heart was with Ava. Nancy wouldn’t give him the divorce for two years, and it wasn’t to be cruel or petty. She loved him, and didn’t want to let him go.

But she did, and then he never left. Frank went through three more wives, but holidays were always at Big Nancy’s place. (After their daughter, Nancy, was born, she became Big Nancy.) Birthdays, too, and when things went wrong with Frank’s life–generally because Frank had punched someone or driven a golf cart through a casino while screaming racial epithets–he always showed back up on the doorstep of the Holmby Hills mansion she got in the divorce. For all their carousing, Dean Martin wasn’t Frank’s best friend. He didn’t have one. He had Big Nancy.

Frank died in 1998, which means this is the part where I write “Ha, ha, she outlived the sonofabitch by 20 years,” but that isn’t how this story goes. She missed him every day of those two decades, and if they’re reunited in the afterlife, she’ll make him his eggplant the way he likes it. Anything for her Frankie.

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