Thoughts On The Dead

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

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Kicks And Kisses For A Monday Morn

July 10, 2018 / / 4 Comments

Who gets kicked?

Brett Kavanaugh It’s Cavanaugh.  With a ‘C.’ And it’s a Woman’s Right to Bodily Autonomy. With a “None of your fucking business, you generic white cocksucker.” Jesus, get something right, asshole.

England Why have you not dragged Boris Johnson from his home and ripped him to bloody shreds in the street? Guy Fawkes did waaaaaay less damage than this butterball bastard, and you hanged him. (FUN FACT: Guy Fawkes wasn’t executed. He fell off the gallows and broke his neck while waiting for the rope. Do you think the muckety-mucks tried to get out of paying the executioner? I bet that they did.)

Whoever the motherfucker who tweeted that bullshit about “Hey, you know what? Trump’s gonna be great for punk rock, maaaaaaaaan.” Fuck you until you split in half, person whose name I can’t remember.

Billy Dee Williams’ parents What’s Billy Dee Williams’ real name? His legal name. His Christian name. What is it? I’ll wait for you to catch up.

…

That’s right: Ma and Pa Williams named their dashing son William Williams. Don’t do that shit to children. Richard Richardson, Kelly Kelly, Phil Phillips…just don’t. Very rarely does someone laden with such a dopey sobriquet end up administrating a mining facility high above Bespin.

That Asshole Soccer Coach Now that everyone’s safe: that dumb fuck should be in jail. Don’t bring Thai children into caves. That’s the second rule of coaching soccer. First rule: make a schedule for whose mom brings the orange slices. Second rule: do not herd your team several kilometers into a cave.

Literally Everyone at the New York Times I want to set up a big slide–like the ones at local carnivals that you ride down on a burlap sack–except at the end of the slide is just a brick wall covered in broken glass and Sriracha sauce, and then ride all the Times employees down it. I would sit on Bret Stephens’ back and down we go–WHEEEEE–and at the end PLONPH! right into the glass and Sriracha. Then I’d roll him over to the side and bounce happily back up the stairs where it’s Maggie Haberman’s turn.

The World Cup It just won’t fucking end.

All These Civility Numbnuts At what point do we take the streets and start setting people on fire in front of their families? When precisely does Mookie throw the garbage can through the window of the pizzeria? Because my asshole is getting sore.

Who gets kissed?

Rachel The transwoman that Lou Reed married in the 70’s. People were low and cruel to her, Lou included. The internet says you died of AIDS, Rachel; the internet says you went back to Philly. Wherever you are, Rachel, I hope Lester Bangs isn’t there.

A Night Late, Maggie Haberman Receives A Phone Call

July 9, 2018 / / 0 Comments

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Hello, Scott.”

“When you need to do it to it, call Pruitt. Hey, Mags. How’s that tush?”

“Inappropriate. I was expecting your call.”

“Should’ve gotten it about ten weeks ago. I can’t believe I held out this long.”

“No one can.”

“They’re gonna be untangling the shit I pulled for years. You know how many racehorses I bought?”

“No.”

“Six. I bought six racehorses with the people’s tax money, and no one stopped me. Now there’s horses and they’ve gotta be fed. I think that’s the government’s job, and I’ve already brought a lawsuit to prove my case.”

“So you’ve chosen to remain terrible upon leaving office?”

“Oh, yeah. I got a whole plan for the post-service life. Did I mention how much of an honor it was serving President Donald J. Trump?”

“You didn’t.”

“Ooh, doggie. A real treat. That’s what my time as his employee was. A real treat. Lemme say this about the Big Guy: I don’t know if he could beat Jesus in a fist-fight, but I think he could hold his own. I think President Trump would make a real good showing for himself in a Jesus-fight.“

“You guys love the praise.”

“Praise him! Anyway, I’m gonna go on Fox News and say some crazy shit for a while. Have me a book ghost written, so I stay in the news. Then I’m gonna go back to Oklahoma and run for something.”

“Are you kidding me? You’ve left Washington in the biggest cloud of disgrace since…since…”

“Literal child molestors?”

“There you go.”

“You’re right, Mags. Other hand, there’s some real dumb fucks in Oklahoma. Hey! Quiet down there! Shut up-a-shito!”

“Who are you talking to, Former Secretary Pruitt?”

“During my stint holding the EPA credit card, I also bought some Korean boy bands.”

“Some?”

“Six. It’s my lucky number.”

“You bought six Korean boy bands?”

“We all buy shit on Amazon when we’re drunk, Mags. But now I got anywhere from 30-50 Koreans in my basement. Their choreography is so tight.”

“Send them back to where they came from.”

“I don’t know what to feed ’em, but I think they’re used to deprivation. That whole K-pop scene is rife with abuse, Mags. You should reassign a couple reporters from the Dershowitz beat to that story.”

“That wasn’t my decision.”

“You know what I’m gonna miss the most?”

“What?”

“The stealing.”

“Sure.”

“And the motorcades. Man, I loved a good ol’ motorcade. I had a couple of the Korean kids strap sirens to their heads and ride their bikes in front of my car, but it wasn’t the same. No one would get out of our way.”

“Let’s go over your job summary, shall we?”

“I did good for the people, but I did better for myself.”

“You attempted to shake down contributors for a job for your wife.”

“She’s a special lady. She needs a special job. Specifically, a job that pays, like, half-a-million and that she doesn’t have to do too much. Plus, you tell me where it says in the Constitution that the EPA Secratary’s wife can’t own a Chick-Fil-A. You show me the line where it says that.”

“You made your staffers do menial, personal tasks like fetching your dry cleaning.”

“That’s in the short run. In the short run, getting my dry cleaning was menial and personal. But in the long run, it was a fundamental building block in the style of karate I teach. The dry cleaning was like waxing the car. You remember that? Wax on, wax off? It was just like that. I considered myself the sensei of the office.”

“You also made staffers erase or change appointments in your calendar, which is against federal law.”

“Allow me to rebut.”

“Go ahead.”

“Shmederal law.”

“You may have been the worst government employee of all time, and I’m including the Son of Sam.”

“Maggie, I accomplished feats in less than two years that take men decades. You know how people were worried I was going to make fracking legal in National Parks? Well, shit, I made it mandatory. And I took those labels off the spackle. You know the ones: Do not eat. I took those right the fuck off.”

“Why?”

“Because eating spackle is what freedom’s about.”

“It’s not.”

“And because the spackle folks save a couple hundred grand by leaving the warning off the package, so they made me a little ol’ donation.”

“That’s the definition of corruption.”

“You can’t spell ‘corruption’ without EPA.”

“You can, actually.”

“Huh. Yeah, I am incompetent across the board. Says terrible things about society that I was allowed to rise this far. Say, you don’t think I could feed the horses to the Koreans, could I?”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Follow-up question.”

“Don’t feed the Koreans to the horses, either.”

“Well, someone’s gotta pay to keep all these animals alive, and it ain’t gonna be me.”

“Very on-brand ending, sir.”

“Ending?”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

Rocking (One Small, But Rather Self-Impressed Section Of) The World

July 8, 2018 / / 4 Comments

http://dai.ly/x67s85h

Big Internet is going to need to be split up soon enough–Ma Bell–had this fight with the Feds in the 70’s–and when the break comes, YouTube needs to be declared a monopoly and all these dinky doodad video sites crushed viciously by the hand of justice. What is a DailyMotion, and why would you involve me with your uncouthery? Have you been banned from YouTube, Guy who posted on DailyMotion? How the fuck does one even do that, Guy? Are you protesting censorship or whatever? Many on the internet enjoy protesting about censorship, Guy, and I’m certain there’s some beef going on over at YouTube. Was that it?

How long is that going to go on?

I just wanted the paragraph to be long enough.

But it was the first paragraph. 

Right. The warm-up paragraph.

Why did you require a certain length?

So it would be easy to click on and everyone should click on it immediately.

Why would anyone need to click on anything?

…

Dude, you’re not gonna believe this: I did not check whether I could embed the dailymotion video. Used to be that I couldn’t embed their videos.

They changed it.

They did. Good work, computer people!

And you’re just going to leave all of this bullshit you wrote before you knew what was happening?

(EDIT: APPARENTLY, THEY DID NOT FIX THE PROBLEM. HERE’S THE LINK AGAIN.]

Yeah. And: at this point, you’re the problem. I declare it so. My next sentence will be about Queen and the video above and Rock Stardom in the 70’s and whatnot, unless you interrupt me. You’re the impediment as of…right now.

…

Well done. This was the ’77 tour: 25 shows in six weeks in November and December. Maine to California, I-95 South and then make a right onto I-10.

NO. Wait. 

What?

Tell me this isn’t going to turn into another Thoughts on Queen. We did that. It’s done with. Don’t look back, young artist.

I promise I’ll keep my remarks germane to the topic of the video, and the video solely. I’ll even do bullet points.

I’m watching you.

Gotcha.

  • Watch the film: it’s under an hour, and sounds and looks spiffy; there’s sound checks in hockey arenas, and the drummer is drinking, and everyone is dating themselves with each gesture and choice; even if you don’t enjoy Queen’s music, there’s a delight in revisiting a time when BBC reporters were allowed to conduct on-camera interviews with an open beer in their hands.
  • He had a tinner o’ ale, he did.
  • One must always remember when regarding Queen: they were an exceedingly British band.
  • A chav, two guys who liked to fiddle in their sheds, and Oscar Wilde.
  • Who hate each other.
  • Go.
  • Watch.
  • They fucking haaaaaate each other, at least they do for the twenty minutes they were interviewed while sitting on mismatched chairs.
  • I can’t get into absolutes, man.
  • Maybe before and after that interview, they were best mates and went down the pub and oppressed the Irish–you know, however the British show affection–but for this slice of time, they were rancorous.
  • How Would the Members of Queen do Against the Rancor from Return of the Jedi?
    • Roger Taylor: immediately eaten.
    • John Deacon: much quicker than he looks. Evades the beast for a good minute, but then he cornered himself and the Rancor ate him.
    • Brian May: constructs a death ray out of bones and the control panel he pries off the wall, but decides against killing the Rancor because it reminded him of a badger. Instead, blasts the holding door off of the cell and shouted “Freedom” at the creature, who ran through and ended up eating dozens of people, Brian amongst them.
    • Freddie Mercury: never fed to the Rancor, as he has seduced the Rancor-keeper, escaped foul Jabba’s Palace, and made it to Mos Eisley.
  • It was 1977, and there was a spectre hanging over Rock and Roll; its name was punk.
  • Punk!
  • It was the Next Big Thing.
  • Move over, you dinosaurs: we are smelly and authentic.
  • I wear clothes, while you wear a costume, Granddad.
  • Enough with your symphonies.
  • We stole our guitars.
  • Punk!
  • In fact, the punkiest punks of all, the Sex Pistols, were recording the tracks to what would become Never Mind the Bollocks in the studio next door to where Queen are recording their News of the World.
  • As legend goes, Sid Vicious harangued Freddie one morning,
  • “Oi ‘ear you’re the one what’s g’nna bring ballet back to th’ masses?”
  • So Freddie spread his neck-flap and spit acid in Sid’s eyes and mouth.
  • He almost went blind.
  • It’s a great Rock and Roll story.
  • Anyway, the big bands all punked it up–kinda, sorta, limply–on one or two songs on the album just as they would adopt reggae on the next several records.
  • Queen tried playing punk songs, but it is next to impossible to do so while your lead singer is wearing a spangled leotard.
  • Undercuts the theme.
  • Rock and Roll touring is the single least efficient way of making money created by man.
  • It would be much easier if the fans came to the band.
  • Unless the band hid.
  • Then, it would be harder.
  • You said you wouldn’t be weird!
  • Don’t exclamate at me, muchacho.
  • Get on with it.
  • We must forgive the British.
  • For all their world-meddling, and colonializing, and disastrously districting, and people-stealing throughout the years, they have a delightful accent that is never wielded more skillfully than by the Rock Doc favorite: the exasperated road manager.
  • “There’s no point in saying ‘We Will Rock You’ at the end of the show. We’ve already rocked them.”
  • That sounds better in a British accent.
  • It is 1977 and the Rock and Roll touring road has been laid, but is not old enough to have grown luxurious: the backstages are bare concrete and plastic folding chairs.
  • John Mayer has an immense tent full of his toys and rugs and couches.
  • John Mayer would not put up with 1977’s bullshit.
  • John Meyer needs to speak to whoever is in charge around here and get Irving Azoff on the phone.
  • Did Queen ever trip?
  • At one point in the film, Freddie says something about acid; did Queen trip?
  • While all of them enjoyed the popular drugs of the moment, none of them were disgusting dopemonsters recklessly shoveling shit into themselves.
  • But they were hippie-adjacent as youths, and thus exposed to the LSD propaganda.
  • I believe Queen tripped.
    • John Deacon sat quietly and played you records; he had a wonderful collection of records. For a while, he wandered in the back garden, but then he came back in. Drank some juice.
    • Brian May wouldn’t shut the fuck up about stars and whatever for ten hours.
    • Roger Taylor maybe got everyone arrested. Roger Taylor is the member of the tripping party that, if unchecked, will get the entire group arrested. He can’t be given any sort of leadership status.
    • Tripping with Freddie Mercury would be like making love to an angel. You know it, I know it, leave it alone. What else could that be like?
  • If you don’t watch this video, then you can’t see Freddie’s robe and that would be a shame.
  • Watch.

You’re Gonna Get Some Pop-Ups

July 7, 2018 / / 1 Comment

Is Billy around?

“Hey, lemme introduce you to my friend–”

Your friends are all pill-poppers and hair-hoppers, Little Potato.

“Oh, is that nickname back?”

Never left. Did you both drink too many Dr. Peppers and now you have to pee?

“We’re just posing for a picture.”

Is someone using an X-ray machine in the next room?

“You’re hung up on–”

Is Toothy Thibodaux, the world’s most insistent terrible fellatrix present?

“You made her up.”

She’s as real as our friendship, buddy.

“You’re a toxic dolt.”

Do you, like, want Kim Jong-Un to call?

“You wouldn’t do that. You have a bunch more pictures of the pop-up store and you know you’d rather make fun of my clothes than have him call.”

…

Dammit, you’re good.

“I can read people. It’s one of those things I just picked up along the highway of stardom.”

Don’t push it. Explain what’s happening here:

“I am being what the kids call ‘loved up on’ by a nebbish of some sort.”

Got a bit of a thousand-yard stare going on.

“It’s how you have to treat randos. They’ll follow you home.”

Randos have followed you home? What did you do?

“I fucked the hot ones. Won’t lie.”

Sure.

“The others I called the cops on. I’m like a white lady when it comes to calling the cops, man. I ask no questions, just dial.”

How manly of you.

“You say that, but y’know what I think is manly? Having the self-confidence to delegate.”

Walk me through what’s happening here:

“This is an important piece by Stone Island, which is doing some incredible work these days in non-traditional materials. For example, do you know why this bag is glowing?”

Reflective tape?

“Yes! Isn’t that wild?”

Eh.

“When I saw it, I had to have several bottles of water brought to me. You’ll never guess what the labels on the water bottles were made from.”

Reflective tape.

“Can you believe it!?”

Nope.

“That’s commitment to an aesthetic.”

It’s something. Make up a story about this rando:

“Early math prodigy, but gave it up to ride every log flume in the world.”

They’re all pretty much the same. Bunch of splashes, then a drop.

“All Grateful Dead shows are pretty much the same.”

But you don’t want to be splashed on.

“You get my point. Obsession isn’t about the objects, it’s about the subject.”

Let’s move on. Is this Bebe Rexha?

“I don’t believe so.”

Would you know Bebe Rexha by sight?

“I would not.”

So it might be Bebe Rexha.

“It might.”

Glad we’ve settled that.

You Will Soon Wide Receive Me

July 6, 2018 / / 1 Comment

Hey, Bobby. Get yourself a free jersey?

“Oh, yeah. I just gotta get it home before Mickey sees it.”

Wouldn’t the University of Oregon give him one, too?

“See, you’re talking logic and I’m talking Mickey.”

True. Surprised you’re not wearing some of the new merch from the pop-up store.

“I’m, uh, not a hypebeast.”

No one ever accused you of such. Why do you even know that term?

“Josh explained it to me. At, like, length. It was a good 45-minute conversation and I had even less idea than usual what was happening. What the hell is a ‘Yeezy?’ Wasn’t she on The Jeffersons?”

That’s Weezy.

“Ah. She loved her some George. I liked how she said his name.”

JAW-udge.

“But, uh, yeah: no streetwear for me. I mean, I wear my clothes when I’m out in the streets.”

When you’re out in the streets?

“Uh-huh. I, uh walk the way I wanna walk.”

Out in the streets?

“Sure, yeah. Pretty girls, they’re all passing by.”

That was fun.

“What did we do?”

Nothing.

An Open Letter To My Left Ear

July 6, 2018 / / 2 Comments

Dear My Left Ear,

Cut the shit, My Left Ear. You are far too old to be getting infected. Babies get ear infections, not grown-ass men and their grown-ass ears. I have not recently suffered colic, My Left Ear, nor have I died from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. I am not teething. My knees are not scabby from falling over as I learn to walk. And yet: you and your bullshit.

Have I not been good to you, My Left Ear? You are fed fine music quite regularly, washed often, and were only pierced moderately. My Q-tipping is shallow and smooth; there is no Rocco Siffredi-style thrusting with the swab, which you had better believe is the only object that goes near the area. And yet: you and your bullshit.

So you will be scoured, My Left Ear. You will be antibiotic’ed from within and without: I got pills and drops, you doomed creep, and we will now play a fun game I like to call Warsaw Ghetto. And I don’t want to hear one tiny little whinge about, “You got a vicodin scrip out of it,” because the whole point of vicodin is taking it when you’re not in pain. Otherwise, it just does its job.

I hope we don’t need to have this conversation again, because if we do: I’m gonna Van Gogh you. I’m through with you and your bullshit, My Left Ear. Get it together, man.

Sincerely,
TotD

 

PS If you speak to My Back anytime soon, tell him I know he’s planning something.

I Got The Trash And You Got The Cash, So Baby We Should Get Along Fine

July 6, 2018 / / 7 Comments

Abraham Lincoln said it, Enthusiasts. You can fool most of the people some of the time, and a couple of the people usually, and all of the people once in a while, and people from Kentucky are generally slow on the uptake, but those looking for the dumbest fucks on the planet should concentrate on fashion. That’s Abe Lincoln saying that, folks, and he was so trustworthy that logs were named for him.

This is the pop-up Dead & Company merch shop that existed for but a brief time today on La Brea in Los Angeles, a retail fruit fly if there ever were one. The credulous and the over-moneyed came from miles. What hypebeast slouches towards Bethlehem? It was everything a rich idiot could want out of life: a chance to stand in line outside in July, and then buy an ugly shirt that costs too much. But not just any ugly shirt, no. An ugly shirt that no one else could buy. An exclusive ugly shirt. A one-of-a-kind ugly shirt. Sui generis and shit, yo.

What’s on the menu?

Who are these pieces for, and can we have their names and addresses so that they may be sterilized? Is this what Millennials are doing with their money instead of buying real estate? What the fuck is a “Dad Hat?”

I don’t mind the Mars Hotel keychain. It should be five bucks, though. Oh, wait: it is.

Pss pss pss.

No.

Pss pss.

You cannot be serious.

PSS PSS!

Don’t yell at me.

The bomber jacket’s reversible. It’s two ugly jackets for the price of one overpriced ugly jacket. Besides, when you think “Grateful Dead,” you think “bomber jacket.” Put on your shiny shell coat, lace up your Doc Martens, tighten up your crew cut, and let’s go choogle.  No, a proper Grateful Dead jacket is one of those big, floppy, woolen coats from Peru or wherever, or maybe a Levi’s denim trucker model with the cover to Blues for Allah painted on the back and a shitload of pins on the front. Or an army jacket. A Vietnam-era slouchy, sloppy, multi-pocketed, olive-drab number–technically an M65 Field Coat originally designed by Alpha Industries–that brims over with utility and functionality that’ll last you a decade’s worth of tours. Semiotically speaking, you cant’t go wrong.

Unless you’re a complete asshole and spend $2500 on this:

 

Beyond the already-limited stock of the Dead & Company pop-up shop, there was also a “bootleg” section spotlighting handmade pieces from one artist. The artist–and, gosh, it was a struggle not to put quotation marks around that word–is named Matt McCormick, and you can see some of his work at his site. Matt spends his days tattooing people–some of whom are famous–and his evenings romanticizing cigarettes. His Spotify playlists are impeccable, he’s more than happy to talk about sobriety with you, and if you got 2500 bucks, he’ll doodle on your clothing.

Excuse me. He’ll art on your clothing. If it were doodling, it would be cheaper.

Matt even arted on the back. Look:

Now you see where the money went, right? You weren’t sold from just the front, but once I turned her around and you saw that there were horsies, you got on the bus. And look at the legibility of that printing, huh? You can read the shit out of those random snatches of someone else’s work, right? (And between you, me, and the horsies: I think “I wonder if you care” isn’t as random as it initially seemed. This jacket may, in fact, be Political. Great art has layers, folks.)

Oh, and:

Nailed it.

There’s a shirt, too. Wanna see it?

Wanna unsee it? WELL, YOU CAN’T, FUCKER. WE’RE ALL IN HELL NOW.

(I don’t know how much they were charging for the shirt, but if an army jacket with some Sharpie doodles on it was going for $2500, then I could imagine five hundred bucks for this useful and attractive garment. Furthermore, I can imagine hunting down anyone who would pay $500 for this bullshit, locking them into a brazen bull, building a fire, and listening to the beautiful music. I got a hell of an imagination.)

Also: is that the McDonald’s Moon Man? Isn’t he a Nazi now?

But that wasn’t everything available from Mr. McCormick at the pop-up shop. You could have also purchased an amateurishly- engraved flask:

This is shit. I tried to think up clever barbs, or some witty derision, but it’s just shit. If your cousin Jumpy made it for you, then you’d treasure it. You and Jumpy did Summer Tour together in ’83 and ’84. Jumpy had an engraving kit, and he’d personalize Zippos for custies on the lot to make some spending money and meet some heady folks. You’d probably still be a virgin if it wasn’t for Jumpy. Taught you how to talk to girls. Taught you how talk your way out of a speeding ticket. After the last show in ’84–Ventura, remember?–Jumpy gave you the flask. You didn’t even drink at the time. Maybe the best summer of your life. Hit Ceder Point on the way back home, rode all the roller coasters because Jumpy was a roller coaster nut. It was two weeks later you walked into his apartment and found him swinging. Didn’t leave a note, but he left you that flask and you think of him every time you take a pull of it. Lately, you wish you could think of him a little less.

But that’s not what this is. This is shit.

Once more for the road:

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