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

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Stop Dragon Eyeball Around

“Jenkins! Come in here!”

“Sir, for the seventh time now, I am not discussing whether or not you have–”

“Big Dick Energy.”

“–big dick energy. I will not submit to the conversation.”

“Big Dick Energy, Jenkins. Capitalize it. It’s important.”

“That’s not how English works, sir.”

“Damn your descriptivism! Damn it with shameful zest, Jenkins!”

“I shall, sir. As long as I’m here, we need to discuss the poster for Shoreline.”

“Poster! Never! Not again! What we’ll do instead is sell golden eagle chicks, and the Deadheads will raise the birds to know war and to love the hunt, and then when we come back to Shoreline next year, everyone will bring their eagles back and all the eagles will fight each other to the death during Black Muddy River. Isn’t that better than posters?”

“No, sir. That’s far worse.”

“Fine. Jenkins, let’s bear-bait.”

“That’s terrible, sir.”

“Moose-bait.”

“Terrible and racist against Canadians.”

“Rat-catching.”

“Where the terrier gets chucked in the ring with a sackful of rats, and everyone bets on how many it gets in a given time?”

“Yes.”

“No. Good God, no, sir. No animal involvement of any sort, especially direct abuse thereof.”

“A cute dog. We get a cute dog and it just sits there.”

“Sir, your idea is to substitute posters with ‘a cute dog and it just sits there?'”

“Am I in your office, or are you in my office?”

“The second one, sir.”

“Procure a dog.”

“Sir, which set of medications are you on? The good set the doctor gave you, or the other set you find yourself?”

“I’ve combined them.”

“Of course. Sir, we need to make a poster.”

“Poster! Jenkins, why don’t we use our powers for good? Instead of art, we’ll use the space to print up an infographic lesson about the Battle of Sevastopol. Or the History of the Neck. It was discovered by the Greeks, you know.”

“The neck?”

“Oh, yes. A guy figured it out with a stick and a shadow. Amazing minds, the Greeks. Boff each other like crazy. Amazing boffers, the Greeks.”

“The fans have grown accustomed to artwork, sir.”

“The fans have grown accustomed to it not being the Night Of The Hammer, too.”

“Please stop talking about that, sir.”

“Hammer to the face! Hammer to the face! Hey, there, brother: have a good show. And have a hammer to the face!”

“That is not a scenario to joke about, sir.”

“I would wear hammers in twin bandoliers, like John Popper’s harmonicas. In case a hammer got stuck in someone’s face, you see. You must assume you’re going to lose several hammers in people’s skulls. You could get the claw stuck in an eye-socket. Whatever. You need more than one hammer to pull off a Night Of The Hammers is my point.”

“The task we’re performing should not be this arduous, sir. We’re making all of our own work. There can be no deviation from the concept of ‘selling posters.’ We may not redefine either term.”

“I still say we accept trade. We’d have a Bartertown-type situation within hours. And we’d have all the posters, Jenkins. We’d be gods. Come sit on my shoulders and run Bartertown with me.”

“Let’s circle back to that after we discuss the content of the poster.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“A dragon. No. An eyeball. Wait.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“A bunch of Dead bullshit.”

“Look, I already wrote that down.”

NOTEBOOK SHOWING NOISE

“We’re such a team, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Join me in worship at the Fatal Altar. Speed along the world until the Night Of The Hammers come!”

“You gotta stop with that. Man to man on this one. Knock it off.”

“Only if you take me to the place with the disco fries. And you have to pay, and when I get disco fries on my face, you have to wipe them off.”

“Deal.”

“And your brother’s social security number.”

“No deal.”

“Just the fries.”

“Let’s go, sir.”

This Shit Is

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Showing the crowd my potato salad.”

Jeans do that.

“I much prefer this fabric to be less plentiful.”

Do it, man. Dig out the old jean shorts for Dodger Stadium. It’d be legendary. Like Elton John coming out as Donald Duck.

“I thought he came out as gay?”

No, he was in a Donald Duck costume.

“When he came out? You’d think he want a bit more, you know, gravitas for the moment.”

No, when he played Dodger Stadium, he famously came out onto the stage in a Donald Duck costume.

“Ah. Gotta admit, though: that’s a pretty good way of coming out. You get yourself a great story with that move.”

True. Back to the topic: you should reboot the jean shorts.

“Well, they would have to be a sequel. The originals disappeared.”

Your daughter’s wearing them on Instagram.

“I don’t trust that social medium.”

Instagram is post-literate.

“It’s full of perverts and morons.”

That, too. What are you doing?

“Performing.”

Why?

“It’s the only thing I know how to do. I forgot to learn how to golf.”

That’s a good thing.

Meeting The Big Guy

Dude.

“Quit it.”

Dude. Bobby. Dude.

“I know where you’re going with this, and just stop it.”

Go for it, bro.

“It, uh, happens to be my wife’s–”

Natasha Monster’s.

“–birthday today, so if you could keep whatever you’re doing to yourself, I’d appreciate it.”

And the one next to you appreciates the Big Dick Energy.

“I’m not gonna ask you again to–”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I gotta take this. Working on a new endorsement deal.”

Sandals?

“Among other things. None of your business.”

Gotcha.

“Weir here.”

“Now that’s the best way to answer the phone I’ve ever heard. Short, punchy, rhyming: that’s just everything.”

“I know this voice. Peter DeLuise?”

“Close. Very close. It’s actually Johnny Depp. Guess how many skulls I have on me right now.”

“Four.”

“Way more than that.”

“Five.”

“Sure, okay.”

“We, uh, do the skull thing, too. Skeletons running all over the place. What about turtles? You do turtles?”

“I like them, I guess.”

“Great animals, just super. Not even talking about ‘great for a reptile.’ Just an unqualified ‘yes’ from me. I, uh, empathize with ’em. I live in a tour bus, and so do they, kinda.”

“Turtles. Okay. I’ll look into buying several thousand. Bob, how are you fixed for bracelets and other assorted wrist spanglery? Let me hook you up.”

“I’m good.”

“Bandana?”

“Oh, no, then you wouldn’t have enough.”

“Courteous. They told me that about you, Bob. I feel like we’re already having a fruitful relationship. Speaking of which, can I buy you a vineyard?”

“I’d, uh, rather just have the wine.”

“Ah, another oenophile!”

“Oh, no. Listen, son, you seem like a great guy, but I’m not masturbating with you.”

“That’s not what oenophile means.”

“What does it mean?”

“Rich drunk.”

“Oh, then that’s a fitting description. Sure, yeah, I’m an eenie-pheenie.”

“Great, great. Anyway, Bob, here’s why I’m calling: I’d like to replace John Mayer in Dead & Company.”

“Who?”

“I think Billy calls him Josh.”

“Ah, him. Well, uh, how long does it take you to get dressed?”

“Couple hours.”

“Been coasting on your looks for a while?”

“Big time.”

“Ever do any ill-considered interviews?”

“I have, yes.”

“You’ll be a perfect fit.”

“Oh, goody.”

The Real Deal (Not With Bill McNeal)

You look like you’re about to explain The Matrix to me.

“No, no. Look closer. I’m smiling.”

You’re absolutely not. You’re looming ominously. You look like Batman’s dad.

“He’s dead.”

If he lived.

“But, uh, if he lived…no Batman. You’ve talked your way into a corner.”

You know what I mean.

“I don’t even know if you know what you mean.”

Yeah, me either. What is this thing?

“It is some sort of doohickey that I own 30% of.”

You’re an entrepreneur.

“And we changed the lightning bolt so we didn’t have to pay anyone.”

I noticed that.

Two Quick, And Entirely Irrelevant, Listings

Movies you can pretend didn’t happen

  • The Prequels.
  • Godfather III.
  • All of the Alien movies except the first two.
  • All of the Terminator movies except the first two.
  • All of the Predator movies except the first one.
  • Fourth Indiana Jones film.
  • Any recent remake of an 80’s classic, such as Robocop, Total Recall, or Ghostbusters. (You already forgot that Total Recall with Colin Ferrell existed, didn’t you?)

They’re works of fiction; you can decide on their validity. Live in a world where these movies just don’t exist.

(Predator is the worst of the lot: half the fun was that they didn’t go into who was the Predator was. He was an alien. There’s the bit in the spacecraft at the beginning, so we know he’s an alien. He’s got a laser rifle with rather aesthetic sights. And he’s invisible until halfway through the film, and then you don’t get a real good look at him until the end. Which was perfect. “There’s a big, scary thing in the woods, and a hero will defeat it.” You need to know who the hero is, but the monster’s backstory isn’t necessary.

Until 20th Century Fox realized they had a hit, and they’ve been shoveling out Predator-related shit ever since. FIVE sequels. All of which develop an entirely unneeded and ludicrous backstory about the Predators that no one asked for; they have also fought Xenomorphs. I believe, but am not sure, that in one installment, humans ventured to the Predator homeworld of Predatoria.)

Everything I have managed to glean from the World Cup

  • That Mo Salah, huh?
  • England is cray, huh?
  • The teams should compete in something other than soccer once in a while; the same game gets monotonous.
  • How about one of the rounds is volleyball?
  • Or a Battle of the Network Stars-type games, with running and obstacle courses and racing kayaks in a pool?
  • What about mathletics?
  • Yes, these World Cuppers are physically fit, but what about mentally?
  • That Ronaldo guy is too fucking pretty.

Pear-Shaped

Does his tongue ever go in his mouth?

“Not that I’ve seen. It’s been in her mouth.”

Oh, sure.

“Recently and repeatedly. They simply will not stop making out.”

Aww.

“What?”

You’re jealous.

“Of him?”

And covetous.

“Of her? Ha! No, dude. I’m good.”

I’m sure you are. I mean, you used to be the guy with the hot, famous girlfriend. And now someone else is. That wouldn’t bother me.

“I am currently not dating so I can spend some time with myself and concentrate on my music.”

Famous chicks aren’t calling back?

“No! I don’t know what the fuck happened!”

Justin Theroux snagged your job, pal. And now Petey boy here is making his play.

“I’m still hot. I’m chart-topping. Hair’s looking great.”

You’re dressed like a doofus.

“Everything I’m wearing is an important piece. This hoodie is limited edition.”

The edition should have been much more limited. Were there paparazzi at the club when you got there?

“Tons?”

For you or for them?

“I’m having a lovely evening with friends. These guys are comedians. Very funny people. I love seeing them because I just laugh the whole time. And then you show up and I gotta tell you: it’s like taking a baseball bat made from misery to the face. You’re simply dickish.”

Yes. Gimme the inside scoop on these two.

“They’re so hot right now. Their love gives me life. I call them Pear. PEte and ARiana. PEAR. The fandom is called Pear Bears, and if someone attacks the fandom, we give them the Pear Bear Stare. They are so sweet and they support each other and they are so lit. I live for them and I am crying.”

Are you trying to talk like a youth?

“That’s how they make me feel. I’m gonna be honest: I don’t completely understand their generation. They Like each others’ posts on Insta for foreplay.”

Yeah, the internet has rewired the young people’s brains. You think they’re gonna make it?

“Oh, God, no. The first time these two have a fight, someone’s going to jail. The authorities will be getting involved in this relationship. You can smell it.”

I concur. John?

“Yes?”

Do you keep an assortment of snacks in the dropped crotch of your sweatpants? A bag of Starburst and some Toblerones you stole from the hotel?

“Drake gave me these sweatpants.”

You should give them back.

“Y’know, I don’t have to listen to–”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“–your bullshit, and…you could have let me say my piece.”

Say my peace.

“What?”

Peace. You say your peace.

“That’s ridiculous. You say your piece. As in ‘your piece of the conversation.’ You cut me off, so I didn’t get my piece.”

No. You say your peace because the peace is the last part of the argument. It’s your conclusion, and after that will be peace. It’s a statement of truce.

“That’s as wrong as putting mayonnaise on a duck.”

When you were eating the duck?

“No, in the park or wherever. Hang out at ponds and give the ducks bread crumbs. When they come to you: SHMRP you slap a cooking spoon’s worth of mayo on their backs.”

Is that wrong?

“How could that possibly be right? In no society throughout history has that been acceptable behavior.”

But now we come to the categorical split of “immoral” and “weird.”

“Ah, but we–”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“–must realize…you suck.”

I don’t wanna talk philosophy. Pick up the phone.

“I got an assortment of snacks in my dropcrotch for you, buddy.”

You’re telling me to suck your dick?

“I am. Not in a sexual way.”

Cool. Answer the phone.

“John is on.”

“Wow, that’s great. That’s great. Really creative way of saying hello, y’know? The energy in it! I liked it a lot.”

“This voice sounds incredibly familiar.”

“It was featured in Rango, which I’m very proud of. The character was a lizard, a desert reptile, and I said: put him in Hunter Thompson’s clothes. And then I did my impression of Hunter. That’s what a producer does.”

“I know what a producer does. Is this Johnny Depp?”

“Present. I gotta ask you one thing: I know your name is John, but Billy was calling you ‘Josh.’ Is that what you like to be called?”

“John’s fine. Wait. Billy? Billy Kreutzmann?”

“Is that how it’s spelled?”

“You know Billy?”

“He was a guest aboard my personal submarine, the Chickawonna, which was named after the Native American tribe I lied about being from when I did that movie with the bird on my head. John, I feel like we’ve bonded and I’m free to be free with you.”

“Absolutely.”

“Please let me buy you some accessories. You’re almost naked.”

“I’m fine. I have a watch.”

“I have three watches. I’m covered in watches. Where are your bandanas?”

“This is not a bandana-appropriate outfit, Johnny Depp.”

“That’s just defeatist. You’re just giving up. There’s bloodsuckers out there, This business conspires against us, the artist, and tries to set us against each other. So here’s why I’m calling: I’m taking your place in Dead & Company.”

“Oh, I had a feeling this would be stupid.”

“Now, I want to explain myself to you. I could have just taken the position without talking to you. Or, you know, had my assistant do it or whatever. But I don’t want there to be hard feelings, so I thought I’d call and do this mano to mano. Maybe we should get a drink or nine. Where are you?”

“New York. You?”

“I am always in Los Angeles. When I am in France, Moscow, Antibes: I am in Los Angeles. I exist in Permanent LA now, John. I carry her with me.”

“You okay, Johnny?”

“I am becoming pure. I am ascending.”

“How drunk are you?”

“It’s wine. I’m not drunk. I’m classy.”

“Okay. So: no, we cannot meet for a drink. And you cannot replace me in Dead & Company because you can’t be around Bobby. You would be a bad influence.”

“I’m internationally known as a bad boy, yes. John, this doesn’t have to be ugly. Let’s part this situation as newfound friends. Let me buy you a house.”

“No, thank you.”

“Let me buy you six houses.”

“That’s just a weird offer to make.”

“Have you ever been on a blimp? Let me come pick you up in my blimp and we’ll discuss what it would take to make the transition smooth. Then, I’ll give you the blimp.”

“What would I do with a blimp?”

“Float.”

“Johnny Depp, you cannot replace me in Dead & Company just because…wait, did Billy actually agree to it?”

“Quite readily. He was excited and full of passion.”

“Had he recently been given a large sum of money?”

“Quite recently.”

“There ya go. Johnny, no. This is not going to work. I love being in Dead & Company. We’re starting to sound real good. And it’s a healthy profit center. Can’t lie, buddy.”

“Then go enjoy it! How many houses do you own right now. At this instant?”

“Two and an apartment in New York.”

“Go buy ten more houses. How many cars you have?”

“Ten? I think I have ten.”

“Cash out, brother. Say goodbye to the jam band, let me step in, and go buy yourself a man’s amount of cars. Ask me how many I got.”

“How many–”

“I got no fucking idea how many cars I got, John Mayer. Because I’m an artist. You’re holding yourself back, man. Okay, here’s my final offer: we trade bands.”

“What? You have a band? Like, you hire some local kids to come by and jam with you?”

“We’re playing the Montreaux Jazz Festival this year.”

“That sounds fun. Better than going to Oregon, actually. And this band of yours is called what?”

“Hollywood Vampires.”

“Uh-huh. And in this band is whom?”

“Alice Cooper and Joe Perry and three other guys in black jeans.”

“Pass.”

“Alice is better than ever.”

“Agreed, but still gonna pass. I don’t wanna be a Hollywood Umpire–”

“Vampire.”

“–and you can’t be in Dead & Company.”

“Guitar duel.”

“No.”

“These are the rules. I didn’t make them up. Rock and Roll must be obeyed, man! I challenge you to a guitar duel for your job in Dead & Company. This is life, John! This is how it works!”

“It absolutely isn’t.”

“A herd of bison. I will trade you a herd of bison for your job. These are healthy, American animals.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“I’m not giving up.”

“Of course you’re not.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“I’ll say this: I wasn’t threatened with kidnapping or assassination, actually murdered, eaten by time-displaced dinosaurs, mind-controlled by Trump, or had my Earthroamer befouled by various living and dead Grateful Deads. It was just a weird phone call. So, you know: better than everything else.”

Good point.

“And he called me John Mayer. At this point, I’d have listened to him if he went full-on anti-Semite.”

Sure.

Harmless Elision

It was obvious from the way Sinatra looked at these people in the poolroom that they were not his style, but he leaned back against a high stool that was against the wall, holding his drink in his right hand, and said nothing, just watched Durocher slam the billiard balls back and forth. The younger men in the room, accustomed to seeing Sinatra at this club, treated him without deference, although they said nothing offensive. They were a cool young group, very California-cool and casual, and one of the coolest seemed to be a little guy, very quick of movement, who had a sharp profile, pale blue eyes, blondish hair, and squared eyeglasses. He wore a pair of brown corduroy slacks, a green shaggy-dog Shetland sweater, a tan suede jacket, and Game Warden boots, for which he had recently paid $60.

Frank Sinatra, leaning against the stool, sniffling a bit from his cold, could not take his eyes off the Game Warden boots. Once, after gazing at them for a few moments, he turned away; but now he was focused on them again. The owner of the boots, who was just standing in them watching the pool game, was named Harlan Ellison, a writer who had just completed work on a screenplay, The Oscar.

If you don’t care for science-fiction (and I don’t), then remember Harlan Ellison as the Guy Who Didn’t Back Down To Sinatra.

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