Thoughts On The Dead

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

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So That’s Where She’s Been…

June 3, 2018 / / 0 Comments

I’m gonna tell you right now: if you pull that “disappearing without a trace because it’s drizzling” shit on me, I’ll have the North Korean army track you down.

“Only Korean.”

You know what I mean. Who are these people?

“Oh, let me introduce the room. This is–”

Wait. I just remembered that I don’t care.

“You’re rude.”

I’m not. Tell Princess Doofus that her haircut makes her look like a doofus.

“I won’t tell her that.”

C’mon. If you say it, she’ll like it.

“She won’t.”

“Psst.”

…

“Was that you?”

No.

“Psst.”

“It’s coming from a road case.”

Open it.

…

“Oh, shit. Um, everyone out. Nice hanging with you, but you gotta go. Let’s go.”

HIPSTERS SHUFFLING OUT NOISE

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Hide me, Josh Meyers. I cannot go back there.”

“I understand you not wanting to live with him–”

“Soggy Man. I call him Soggy Man.”

“–with the Soggy Man, but you can’t stay here.”

“Is last place they vould look.”

…

“Yeah, okay, you have a good point there, but still.”

“I vill tour vith Grateful Dead. Get head straight. Also, I vill collect $300 that Matt Busch owes me.”

“How do you know Matt Busch?”

“Is long story. You vill hide me, Josh!”

“John.”

“Maybe I vill vork for tour.”

“Doing what?”

“Do you need trophy vife?”

“No.”

“First Lady?”

“Dead & Company does not need a First Lady. Listen, Melania, just leave him if you’re so unhappy.”

“I cannot! He vill send Rudy Giuliani after me vith his clawfingers and veird eyeballs! Or Sarah Sanders vith her fat arms and veird eyeballs. Josh?”

“Yes?”

“Vhy he have so many people vith veird eyeballs vorking for him?”

“Just a coincidence, I guess.”

“See! You understand me, Josh Meyers. Now come help Melania out of trenchcoat.”

“Um…”

“Is easy. Just a button or two.”

“Um, Mrs. Trump, are you trying to seduce me?”

“Shh. Come to First Lady.”

“Oh, this won’t end well.”

Rainy Day Jeff Chimenti, # 12 & 35

June 3, 2018 / / 1 Comment

Hey, Jeff Chimenti. Showing the world your power?

“Just a little bit of it. It’s like the world is a midget and I’m Milton Berle. There’s just not enough space for all my power.”

You refer not to Uncle Miltie’s comedy, but his legendary dong?

“I do. My power is like Milton Berle’s penis.”

I can totally see that. How’s the tour going?

“Same shit, different year. Drummers are a pain in the ass, Bobby’s wandering around confused, John’s bodyguards won’t let me anywhere near him.”

Oteil?

“We’re not talking.”

Why not?

“He re-negotiated his contract this tour. Didn’t even tell me. He’s allowed to eat now.”

That’s fucked up.

“It’s not cool. Uh-oh.”

What?

“Did you feel the rain?”

Oh, not you, too.

“Nope! We’re done here!”

Jeff, don’t do this.

…

Jeff?

…

Oh, good. A new running gag. Always fun.

Brother Sledge

June 3, 2018 / / 1 Comment

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“You, uh, know that song If I Had A Hammer?”

Sure.

“I’d hammer in the morning, I’d hammer in the evening, et cetera?”

I know the song.

“There you go. I’m just seeing if it’s feasible.”

Is it?

“Well, so far I’ve hammered in the evening.”

Okay.

“And, uh, we’ll see tomorrow if I can…did you feel that?”

What?

“Rain drop.”

Drop top.

“No, I’m serious.”

A little rain never hurt any–

“I’m calling it.”

–one. Calling what?

…

Bobby?

…

Bobby, where’d you go?

…

Oh, what the fuck?

An Open Letter To Everyone Involved, Even Tangentially, With This Bullshit Right Here

June 1, 2018 / / 8 Comments

Dear Everyone Involved, Even Tangentially, With This Bullshit Right Here,

Hi. How are you? It’s hot here. I’m not complaining about the heat–it is to be expected, after all–but just noting it for your benefit. Painting a word picture, if you will. Are the mountains nice this time of year? Do you ever get tired of being Boston to Aspen’s New York, Vail?

Anyway, I’m writing about this poster. Let me express my feelings. Hey, Melissa, come here. Look at this.

SHOWING A POSTER TO A PREGNANT WOMAN NOISE

You look pale.

“I don’t feel so good.”

MISCARRIAGE NOISE

See? See what you did, EI,ET,WTBRH? That baby could have grown up to disrupt couches, and now it’s on the floor but the placenta hasn’t dropped yet, so Melissa is attached via the umbilical cord and she’s running around the room being chased by her own dead baby. She’s too freaked out to understand that she’s towing the teeny-weeny corpse, and so she’s juking and stutter-stepping to try to get away. In all likelihood, we’re watching a human being acquire PTSD; this is something you’re not supposed to witness. Oh, no! She stopped short and the dead baby hit her in the back of the head. She’s down. Down goes Melissa! Down goes—

Stop this right now.

Don’t blame me for the poster, man. That sucker’s miscarryotic.

Nowhere ever near a word.

The poster’s Medusavian in its powers. Shouldn’t be looked at.

It’s not that ugly.

Relative beauty has nothing to do with why this is bullshit.

Explain, please.

Jerome John Garcia, born August 9th of 1942 in San Francisco, California, was known for many things. Playing the guitar–that’s first off, I guess–and singing, and writing songs. Beard-having. Garcia was well-known for having a beard. Pretty much only ZZ Top were more famous for beard-having. He was missing half-a-finger, and he loved smoking cigarettes and opiates, and he tended towards hefty. Read a lot. Liked watching movies and nodding off. Fell for every scam artist he got within a mile of. Enjoyed getting married.

He did not backpack.

Garcia did not backpack to the very limits of not backpacking: no human could not backpack as hard as Garcia. There are men and women without backs who do not not backpack as hard as Garcia did not backpack. Garcia had a briefcase that was full of drugs, comic books, and a sheaf of Ritz crackers, not a rucksack with special jungle socks and paracord and other such survival gear. Garcia did not need survival gear, as he had access to a Road Crew. He would survive.

I am almost impressed, EI,ET,WTBRH, by the distance between the Garcia represented on your poster and the historical Garcia. It’s as though you shot an arrow at a target, and ended up increasing the LIBOR. As far as being out-of-character for Garcia, there are few occupations or activities even close to backpacking:

  • Cliff-diving in itty-bitty Speedos while the American widows throw pesos.
  • Ultra-marathon.
  • Male cheerleader.
  • Pope. (I honestly believe Garcia was closer to being Pope than he was to being a backpacker. He was (raised) Catholic. He was good at forgiving people. That’s two shared qualities, whereas he has none with a backpacker. On the other hand, Garcia would have been terrible at wearing all-white.)
  • Ultimate Ninja Whatever-The Fuck. (The teevee show where the people with too much fitness do the obstacle course thing? That. Garcia would be utterly dreadful at that. He’d most likely just refuse to participate.)
  • Senator from Utah.

And so forth.

EI,ET,WTBRH, I demand that you rejiggerate this poster to something more approaching Garcia’s true character. He could be, say, deciding between a tuna melt and a steak sandwich. Or sitting on the most comfortable chair in the room while smoking and playing scales. Or sleepily trying to put out a mattress fire. But this is simply unacceptable.

Sincerely,
Rock Star Richard

PS And it looks just your Dead & Co in Phoenix poster

Pay No Attention To The Jenkins Behind The Curtain

May 31, 2018 / / 3 Comments

“Sir, we need to–”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! NOT AGAIN WITH THIS BULLSHIT!”

“–talk about the poster. Oh, sir, it’s not that bad.”

“It will be when we’re done designing it, Jenkins.”

“Well, maybe we could try a little harder this tour, sir.”

“Trying’s not the problem, Jenkins. Drawing’s the problem. Or painting. Or dipping dongs in ink and slapping them against the paper. However we come up with our cursed images. We’re simply not good at this.”

“Oh, sir, don’t say that.”

“Let’s do something besides posters this tour. How about musk oxen?”

“No, sir.”

“What if we tie-dye the oxen?”

“Even then, sir.”

“Cobb salads.”

“Instead of posters, we sell Cobb salads?”

“And we’ll throw in a fork for an extra 30 bucks.”

“I don’t think that’s what the fans want, sir.”

“The fans are lumpy proles, Jenkins. Lumpy proles! That sounds better in the original German.”

“It sounds exactly the same in the original German.”

“Beautiful language, German. Reminds me of something Wagner once said: Fire that bassoonist; he looks like a Jew. Glorious language. Ah! I’ve an idea!”

“We cannot sell Jewish bassoonists at the merch table, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Health codes, for one.”

“Damn you, Upton Sinclair!”

“Sir, we’re locked into the poster concept. The Deadheads enjoy hanging them in their offices or basements or wherever.

“Let’s just cut out the middle man and sell them drywall.”

“I don’t think that will fly, sir.”

“Ooh, Jenkins, I have it!”

“We cannot sneak into fans’ homes, steal their possessions, and then sell them back to them.”

“Damn you, Obama!”

“Posters, sir. Let’s just think about the posters.”

“I’m thinking.”

…

“I’ve stopped thinking. What about a share in a World-O-Corp?”

“That sounds made up, sir.”

“It is! But we’re dealing with people who were dumb before they got high, Jenkins. I say we fleece ’em.”

“No, sir. If there’s fleecing to be done, then the band will reap the rewards. Rock and roll tradition, sir.”

“So was fingering teenagers in public, but times change. You and me, Jenkins: we’ll go scammin’.”

“No, sir.”

“A-scammin’ we will go.”

“No, sir.”

“Froggy went a-scammin’, he did ride.”

…

“Froggy went a-scammin’, he did ride.”

…

“I will punt your testicles from here to Vancouver, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Froggy went a-scammin’, he did ride.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Better. Don’t you ever leave me hanging on a Froggy.”

“Yes, sir. Can we talk about the poster?”

“Poster! Oh, Jenkins, I can’t do this the rest of my life.”

“What would you do, sir? Where would you go?”

“I got a cousin in Delaware. Got his own key to a small suburban library. Comes and goes as he pleases. Oh, that’s the life.”

“It doesn’t sound appealing, sir.”

“I could masturbate on detective novels.”

“Please let’s just do this.”

“You’re a pest, Jenkins. You’re a pestafazoo. I’m sorry I got so ethnic with you, but it’s the truth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Write this down: bunch of skeletons.”

“Skeletons.”

“Bear or two. Surprise me on the number of bears.”

“Player’s choice for the bears.”

“And a rabbit skeleton that still has fur.”

“Nightmare bunny. Yes, sir. Wasn’t that easy?”

“Bring me a Cobb salad.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wonderin’ If She’s Changed At All…

May 31, 2018 / / 1 Comment

Handsome sandwich?

“You, uh, got it. Me and Johnny Brylcreem are the bread, and Big Red here is the meat.”

Sure.

“Or, you know, she could also be some sort of vegan foodstuff. Maybe a polenta-based ham substitute. Whatever your taste runs to.”

I’ll stick with meat.

“He’s doing that collar thing the hip kids do.”

Shirt over jacket?

“Yeah. Wild stuff. Fashion, huh?”

You said it, Bobby.

Look Seaward, Angel

May 31, 2018 / / 8 Comments

You cannot call Ivanka Trump a cunt.

You can point out that she’s a thoughtless fool, spartan in compassion and bereft of humanity, and that she’s probably sweet to waitress’ faces but then calls them “fat” when they leave the table, but you can’t call her a cunt.

You can observe that nothing exists for Ivanka Trump outside the radius of the tits her daddy bought her, and that she’d look exactly like Eric without all the rest of the plastic surgery, but you can’t call her a cunt.

You can bring up the fact that she’s voluntarily had Jared Kushner’s cock in her mouth, but you can’t call her a cunt.

You can liken her to a golem, but with a twist: real golems are humanoid creatures made of clay, hollow, and brought to life by a piece of paper reading Chai–“life”–but Ivanka-golem’s paper would say “Purchase” or “Ignore Suffering” or, most likely, “Nothing At All.” But you can’t call her a cunt.

You can do the math and figure that each Puerto Rican life lost during Hurrican Irma is worth Ivanka’s a thousand times over, and that we’ll never know precisely how many there were because her father doesn’t think Spanish-speaking people are human, and she never even tried to dissuade him of that belief because she had a ski weekend to attend and Instagram photos to edit, but you can’t call her a cunt.

You can say she doesn’t repeat the Jew jokes her father tells her back to her husband–you know that happens, don’t you?–and she certainly doesn’t let on that she laughs at every single one–“Oh, Daddy, don’t say that.”–but you can’t call her a cunt.

You can recall that national teevee shows, syndicated radio broadcasts and sitting U.S. fucking Senators publicly called teenaged Chelsea Clinton ugly, and that teenaged Chelsea Clinton wasn’t asked to fill in for her father at any international summits, and didn’t receive one single shady trademark approval from a foreign government, and didn’t have a husband whose security application had more errors than Baseball Day at St. Barbara’s School for the Blind, but you can’t call her a cunt.

You can note that Ivanka stood steadfast by her father while he started trade wars with our allies, sucked up to our enemies, banned all Muslims from the country, sold off the National Parks, tried to defund Planned Parenthood, pardoned criminals, sided with Nazis, colluded with the Russians, painted all Mexicans as drug dealers and criminals, cut taxes for the rich, attempted to sic the Post Office on his political enemies, obstructed justice, denied Climate Change, appointed morons to cabinet positions for the express purpose of destroying their departments, insulted the military, emboldened racists and dickheads of all stripe, and generally embarrassed the country at every turn, but you can’t call her a cunt.

You can realize that the best possible interpretation of her actions–the most charitable reading of her behavior these past two years–is not that she’s evil, but that she simply doesn’t give a fuck, but you can’t call her a cunt.

I’m just kidding. You can call her a cunt.

 

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