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

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Rose-Colored

What are you doing?

“Don’t rightly know! Boys got me whackin’ at stuff again. Gave me these mallets, tol’ me, ‘You’ll know what to do.’ And I didn’t! So I been fakin’ it, but nobody’s givin’ me the hairy eyeball, so the ol’ Pig must be gettin’ by!”

Is that a guy or a girl behind you?

“Don’t rightly know that, either!”

Well, however they identify, tell them that haircut doesn’t work.

“Heh.”

Speaking of which, is there a young lady sitting next to you during the damn show?

“Heh.”

C’mon, Pig.

“C’mon nothin’! Only reason them drummer dogs ain’t got chicks on their laps is cuz they can’t work the bass drum pedals that way!”

Who is this girl?

“Name’s Denise! Met her tonight! She came with her friends and I spotted her in the parking lot. I said ‘Woman!’ That’s to get the fox’s attention, y’see.”

Sure.

“And she said ‘Pig?’ And she said it real funny, so I laughed.”

Then what?

“Then I gave her my rap!”

You’re not gonna let us in on it?

“Why would I share my rap!? I do that, every hound in the country gonna be snakin’ my foxes! Get your own rap!”

Okay.

“And now me and Denise have made it!”

Good for you. Pig?

“Yessir?”

Do I wanna ask what the name of the building she goes to during the day is?

“You do not!”

Gotcha.

Throw Me In The Waffle House, Til The Sun Go Down

They fed you!

“Yeah, thanks. Bobby saw your post and felt bad. I mean, not bad enough to pay, but bad enough to stop.”

“I hadn’t eaten in four days. No, wait. I found an old sugar packet in my organ yesterday. Tasted fucking awesome.”

“You didn’t tell me about the sugar packet.”

“Sorry, O. I just ate the whole thing before I even thought about it.”

“Not cool, man. I ate my shoes yesterday.”

“So that’s where they went.”

Guys, are they really not letting you eat?

“It’s fine.”

“They love us.”

This is not okay. Aren’t there, like, union rules that say you have to have a certain amount of meals provided?

“Oh, they’re provided.”

“And then slapped cruelly from our hands.”

Jesus.

“When I play my big solo on Friend of the Devil, Mickey uses a fishing rod to suspend a burrito above my head like Tantalus.”

“I often don’t have the strength to do my bouncy dances.”

“Billy often makes his water on the salmon.”

“John made me watch him pull his pork.”

Is that a euphemism?

“Yes and no.”

This is unacceptable. What does Bobby say?

“He lets it happen.”

“When everyone finds out, he’s gonna issue a statement saying that he had no idea.”

“Complicit.”

“Benign moral neglect.”

This is shocking. You guys should quit!

“What? And leave the Grateful Dead?”

“I get to sing now. I’m not going anywhere.”

Enjoy your meal, guys.

Menu New Minglewood Blues

This has been floating around the internet for the past few days, and so I present it to you: Ladies and gentlemen, the least interesting Dead & Company document in existence. This is some boring-ass white person food. If this menu were a vacation, it would be a week in a Delaware laundromat.

Assorted notes:

  • If Bobby sees a fish, Bobby eats the fish; that’s why he’s not allowed in aquariums.
  • John Mayer’s meal is what they give you after surgery; it’s food to contemplate suicide by.
  • Are abs worth that?
  • I don’t know if abs are worth that.
  • They probably are, though.
  • The Grateful Dead hates blue fin.
  • Mickey out of nowhere with the pulled pork.
  • Was he thinking, ‘What’s the most pain-in-the-ass food there is?’ and came up with the bullshit you have to cook for nine hours?
  • Or did Mickey think the phrase “pulled pork” was funny?
  • The second thing, right?
  • What if you brought Mickey unpulled pork?
  • Would Mickey pull his own pork?
  • Does Billy ever pull his pork, by which I mean masturbate in front of strangers?
  • Um.
  • Uhhhh…
  • Do…
  • Do Oteil and Jeff Chimenti not get fed?
  • What the fuck?
  • That’s not cool, Dead & Company.
  • Do they have to hit the Burger King drive-through on the way in to the venue?
  • What if they’re running late, and don’t have time; would Mickey share his pulled pork with them?
  • This is bullshit, Dead & Company.

It’s In The Details

Fine, just talk about it.

“Today’s toppermost was made by a Japanese man named Akira Yoshida. He’s an artisan/courtesan.”

What is that?

“Sewing in the day, fancy-fucking at night.”

Courtesans are very fancy.

“Right? If you made a bell curve of prostitute classiness, courtesans would be all the way to the right.”

And crack whores to the left?

“Yeah.”

I can see it.

“This is his masterpiece. The toppermost originated in Japan, y’know.”

I didn’t.

“Somewhere around 800 AD, a shogun named Suzuki Nintendo–”

Nope.

“–awoke from a dream on his tatami mat. He went to the window and arranged some flowers. Then, he had tea.”

We get it. He’s Japanese.

“His servant brought in his kimono for the day, and Suzuki refused it. The servant asked what he wanted to wear. Suzuki pointed at the kimono and said, ‘That, but not quite.’ Then Mt. Fuji gave birth to a dragon, and the toppermost was born.”

Uh-huh.

“It’s like this mash-up of art and religion for them. Very spiritual, very inspiring. They give their lives to the clothing. You know how it takes forever to become a sushi chef over there?”

Yes.

“Well, that’s lunch. This is toppermost, man. My guy does pieces for the Emperor.”

Japan still has an Emperor?

“Japan’s got, like, nine or ten systems of government going at the same time. It’s impenetrable.”

True.

“Decades. It takes decades to become a master. My guy Akira? First three years was just threading needles for his master. Nothing else. Threading needles all day. Master never talks to him. Finally, after a year he says, ‘Master, don’t I get to do anything else?'”

Ooh, what did the master say? I bet it’s all wise and shit.

“No, he just beat Akira senseless. These were the old days.”

Sure.

“But now? Look at this sleeve.”

Which one?

“Either one.”

I don’t wanna choose. You pick for me.

“Left.”

What am I looking at?

“Quality!”

Stop making me look at your clothes.

“Now we move on to the hem stitching.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“You suck.”

I know.’

“What’s up, player? It’s John Mayer.”

“No one answers the phone like my Johnny!”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“We are making moves out here, baby. You would not believe the business I’m drumming up for you. You know those parks where they got the birds in cages, and rich assholes come out with shotguns and kill a whole bunch of ’em?”

“Like where Dick Cheney shot that guy in the face?”

“Exactly. It’s like that. These deals are just flying out in front of my face and I’m taking ’em down. Bing bing Benj.”

“Great. Whatcha got?”

“Nike.”

“Nike? That’s awesome!”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Dammit.”

“Nikehitsu. They’re Japanese.”

“Oh, we were just talking about Japan. What are they? Energy drink? Clothes?”

“It’s a consortium of salarymen who want to pee on you.”

“You’re killing me, Benjy.”

“It’s a lot of money for not a lot of pee!”

“Pass.”

“I got an offer for you to play the President of Turkmenistan’s birthday party. $1.5 million for an hour.”

“Wow. That sounds okay.”

“And, you know, it’s a party so there’s gonna be chicks.”

“I figured. Who’s the President of Turkmenistan?”

“Great guy. Don’t look him up. Wonderful man.”

“I’m gonna look him up.”

“Pass, Benjy.”

“The people love him! He won the last election by 96 points!”

“No.”

“I have a firm offer on the table from a Broadway producer to do a jukebox musical based on your songs.”

“Huh. That’s interesting. Maybe I could do that. Who’s the producer?”

“Jeremy Piven. He’s switching lanes.”

“Pass. Benjy, find me something that’s not weird or damaging to my career, please.”

“Working for my guy!”

“And why are you still at the racetrack?”

“Remember that sponsorship deal I told you about?”

“The one where I would be the sponsor? Yeah. We’re doing the other thing. Where people give me money instead of the other way around.”

“Right. Except you gotta spend money to make money, buddy. This is great publicity!”

“Pass.”

“You already took the deal.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have your power of attorney. We signed the deal. Six months of the Mayermobile.”

“How the fuck do you have my power of attorney?”

“You do remember when I brought you back from the dead, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the management contract you signed?”

“Shit.”

“You should have had a lawyer look that over.”

“Fuck.”

“I want you to think about the Broadway thing. Piven’s a dick, but he’s got a vision. I saw him do Troilus & Cressida way back in Chicago. Brilliant mind. Okay, they’re calling me back to the track. Later, Johnny.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

“Hey!”

Yes?

“This is not funny, and it’s not cool.”

It’s a little funny.

“I’m thinking about pulling a Gawker on you.”

Feeling froggy? Leap.

Congratulations Are In Order

Awards are for wieners. This is a fact known by everyone who has never won an award. Are we discussing sprinting? Because awards should be given out in sprinting: one fucker hit the tape first. Boxing, too. The guy who’s not unconscious gets an award. Or contests. Elmira June sold more Girl Scout cookies than Susie May: you have a pre-decided metric or accomplishment, and whoever scores the highest, wins. Hot dog-eating competitions and hunger strikes can both be graded to find the singular “best” and that person or group awarded, yes, absolutely.

But art? An artist asks, What right have you to grade my work? Show me your portfolio, bring me your creations and let me judge you first. And, as a true artist has no rival but himself, he rejects others’ appraisals. The true artist creates his own award.

Hell, fuck art. Entertainment? Get out of my office with that foolishness. Actually: wait, don’t leave yet. Watch me masturbate.

Stop repeating this joke.

It makes me giggle.

It makes the nice people nauseous.

Yes, awards are for wieners, unless you’ve been nominated for one, and we have, so awards are fucking awesome and I love the Grammys. I have come to this revelation today, having learned that we are up for two Grammy Awards.

We?

Yes. We. This is a team effort. Morale is low since Franken.

True.

The Grateful Dead is up for two Grammys, Enthusiasts! Kinda! The Dead never won any of the shiny little doodads–they were never even nominated until after Garcia died–but, as usual, everyone’s favorite choogly band is doing its best work after becoming semi-defunct. The nods are in the categories of Best Boxed Or Special Limited Edition Package (May 1977:  Get Shown The Light, Masaki Koike, art director) and Best Music Film (Long Strange Trip, a bunch of Jews*, producers).

Did you know that the Recording Academy is at the forefront of medical research into tinnitus prevention and treatment? That’s just one of the many charities that the fine folks behind the Grammy Awards fund; others include MusicCares, which helps aging musicians with healthcare bills, and the Starkey Hearing Foundation, which investigates hearing loss and provides low-cost hearing aids for Academy members. It’s like I’ve always said: the guy from the record company is the real hero.

What was that all about?

Those Grammy voters are good eggs. The salt of the earth. They’re salted eggs, man.

Stop kissing the Recording Academy’s ass. 

You’re right. We need to cheat. What if we buy twitter bots and launch a fake news attack on the other nominees?

No. Well, maybe. Who are we up against?

In the Package category, the one to beat is the re-release of the Golden Record they sent up with the Voyager.

The one with Johnny B. Goode on it?

Yeah.

How nice could itHOLY SHIT look at that fucking thing.

Right?

That’s tough to beat.

Hey, the May ’77 box comes with a whole book.

Yeah, I read it. I’m going with the spaceship. My God, the paper stock. I would blow that box set.

Dude.

It’s sexy, man.

You’re getting weird. Odds are better in the Best Music Film category, though. But not great. This is going to come down to one thing.

Don’t say–

Me.

–me. No. You have nothing to do with anything. You’re almost irrelevant to yourself.

I will turn the tide in favor of the Grateful Dead. I have a plan.

Already?

I will come up with a plan.

Better.

 

*Amir Bar-Lev, video director; Alex Blavatnik, Ken Dornstein, Eric Eisner, Nick Koskoff & Justin Kreutzmann, video producers.

Row Jimi

Bobby, stop this.

“Don’t tell me who to be best friends with.”

These are manipulated photos that do not reflect reality.

“Reality is so often pliable.”

It’s truly not.

“This picture is from, uh, right before our first tour.”

Our?

“The Jimi and Bobby Best Friends Experience.”

Stop it.

“We’re opening for the Monkees. I’m, uh, surprised you haven’t heard of this. Famous rock and roll moment.”

Yes, it was, but you weren’t part of it.

“Those teens didn’t know what we were laying down. Monkees were real decent guys, though. Peter Tork let me try on his hat.”

None of this happened.

“Gotta tell ya: it was weird getting someone else’s leftovers in the Hostility Suite. Didn’t much care for it.”

I need you to stop telling these lies.

“Is this because Jimi’s black?”

No! It has nothing to do with that!

“Those exclamation points say different.”

I can’t do this any more.

“No one asked you to.”

True.

Keeping Updated In Little Aleppo

Riding ‘Cross The Land, Playing In A Tributing Band

In Grateful Dead-related news–

This is about the Dead?

–we have two items…shut up, you…for the discerning Enthusiasts appraisal this evening. First up is this history of the Dead (among others) at the Capitol Theater; the Dead often played the Cap, which is in Port Chester, NY, right outside the city, because Bobby was still scared of Manhattan after being mugged his first time there.

Second comes to us courtesy FoTotD David Gans from the land Down Under, where the Tribute Band ideovirus has apparently gotten past the quarentine; Enthusiasts, there now exists antipodal choogle, and that is a good thing. Wave the flag far and wide, as the song goes. Not only is Dead Set (the band’s name is Dead Set, instead of Hippiedoos or Grangalanga Dingers or something) in Australia, they’re in the middle of nowhere in Australia, Byron Bay. Neighboring towns include Mullumbimby, Boonoo Boonoo, and an abandoned Blockbuster Video stocked exclusively with copies of the 1971 cult classic Walkabout.

Dead Set may be the farthest flung Tribute Band, though they could be topped by an outfit in Perth. (Fun fact: a Dead band that formed within the confines of McMurdo Station on Antarctica would be closer than either Australia city. Spheres!) They’re almost 2,000 miles closer than the Warlocks of Tokyo, who are far better than a Japanese TB has any right being, especially when Joe Russo is sitting in with them.

Of course, there are bands closer to home. One of the longest-running Tribute Bands in the world is The Rosalie MacFall in Manchester, England. The Fake Jerry is prone to firing drummers in the middle of sets; there have been close to 150 members of the band since its inception in summer of 1972. A local rock nerd once tried to put together a comprehensive list of participants and accidentally wound up exposing the Panama Papers.

Parisians have been noodle-dancing to Nous Essayons de Jouer les Chansons du Grand Barbu, Mais Nous Sommes Voués à L’échec since 1972, as well, but the drummers’ constant strikes have hampered the band’s popularity.

Albania thought they had a Dead Tribute Band for a while, but it turned out to be a bunch of goats.

A Conversation In A Greek Restaurant In Alexandria, VA

“Thank you for meeting me, Ms. Phillips.”

“Well, I am quite nervous, Ms. McCrummen. Judge Moore is such a powerful man, and this is such a powerful story. It would probably bring him down, don’t you think?”

“Ms. Phillips, I’d just like to ask you a few questions about your previous statements to me. I’m going to record our conversation, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I am so very nervous.”

“Mm. Are you recording this conversation, as well?”

“Me? No. Of course not. I am a simple rape victim. Man, ‘rape.’ Once that word gets in there, it stirs the whole pot up, huh? Probably end his career right there, right?”

“You’re not recording?”

“No.”

“And the reason you’re holding your purse on your shoulder and aiming it towards me is?”

“War injury.”

“War injury? You hadn’t mentioned you were in the service.”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Which branch?”

“I was a Navy SEAL.”

“Mm. Ms. Phillips, can we get back to it? You stated in your e-mails that you met Roy Moore, who was a judge at the time, when you were 15. This was during the one summer you lived in Alabama.”

“Yes. It was like the opposite of that song from Grease. Summer Raping, my song was called. And then, of course, the abortion he forced he to have when I became pregnant with his child.”

“You’ve mentioned. You were just in Alabama for that one summer as a 15-year old?”

“Yes.”

“But your current phone number has an Alabama area code.”

“Does it?”

“It does.”

“Oh, I never notice those sorts of things. Must be some sort of mix-up at the phone company.”

“Okay. And you said you work at Second National Bank in Rochester, New York.”

“We’re like a family over there.”

“Is that so? There is no Second National Bank in Rochester.”

Second National Bank? No, the First National Bank. You must be confused.”

“You might be right. Could you give me the name of your supervisor over there?”

“Marvoo Babababa.”

“Marvoo Babababa?”

“Yes. Him.”

“It sounded a little like you were making it up as you went.”

“No. He’s my supervisor. He’s very tall. You’d like him.”

“What was his name?”

“What I said. Ms. McCrummen, you are being very hostile to me, a rape victim who must be believed, and not concentrating on the problem here: hitting Roy Moore. When do you think it have the maximum impact on the race to release?”

“Ms. Phillips, do you run any websites?”

“Oh, no. I stay off the internet as much as I can. Nothing but that horrible Trump all over it. I hate him so much. Did you hear he endorsed Roy Moore? What a monster. Don’t you think Trump’s a monster and hate him?

“No websites at all?”

“No.”

“Not www.helpmeprankthewashingtonpost.com?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Whose homepage is a video of you explaining your plan to get us to believe your lies in order to discredit us?”

“That is a false flag operation. Those images are manipulated. Like how they made Princess Leia in that last Star Wars movie.”

“And the Patreon account asking people for money for–and I quote–Making false rape accusations against Roy Moore in order to fuck the Washington Post?”

“Why are you stalking me?”

“It was under five minutes of light googling, Ms, Phillips. You’re terrible at this.”

“Terrible at what? My God, to be treating a rape victim like this!”

“Ms. Phillips.”

“Yes?”

“You’re wearing a Project Veritas tee-shirt.”

“I won’t be talked to this way! I’m leaving.”

“But our gyros haven’t come yet.”

GRIFTER STORMING OUT IN A FLOP-SWEATY HUFF NOISE

“Eh. More for momma.”

Orpheus, Returned

I thought you were dead.

“I am really thinking about calling my lawyers on you. I don’t appreciate you using my image in this manner.”

I warned you! I told you flat-out that Miles Davis–

“Who I married.”

–was going to shoot and kill you.

“I blame you.”

This wasn’t the worst relationship you’ve ever had.

“It was. Most of my relationships involve movie stars and anal. Very rarely before I became a character in your little cry for help was I pimped out, beaten, and murdered.”

Look on the bright side.

“What bright side!?”

Dude. #MeToo.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

You need to jump on this bandwagon, bro.

“I should come forward with my story about how a jazz legend who died in 1991 killed me?”

Domestic violence is so hot right now. You know how many offers Terry Crews is getting?

“That’s kinda dark, man.”

It was, wasn’t it?

“Usually, you voice those terrible thoughts through other people.”

I do. Let’s move on.

“Wanna talk toppermost?”

No.

“Topper time?”

Absolutely not. I want to know how you came back from the dead.

“Oh, right. I forgot. It all blends together after being eaten by dinosaurs, inhabited by the spirit of 1993 Donald Trump, and blowdarted repeatedly by Vladimir Putin. Why exactly is it that I’m your Mr. Bill doll?”

Jealousy.

“Gotcha.”

I don’t recall anything in the continuity about you having any sort of resurrectory powers. How are you alive?

“A friend came and got me. Well, not a friend: my new manager.”

New manager?

“Best decision you ever made, Johnny.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Hey, Benj. You Ubering people back and forth from the afterlife now?

“Anything for Johnny.”

“What did I tell you?”

“Bro, we’re going places. I got big plans. John Mayer is not just a guitarist, a singer, a songwriter, a Furry prostitute.”

“That was just the one time.”

“John Mayer is a brand. It’s like: Coca-Cola, Apple, John Mayer. And that list is probably out of order; people are drinking way less soda lately. We’re gonna leverage you, buddy. What do you think of pecans?”

“They’re all right.”

“Could you love ’em for two million?”

“I could, yeah.”

“Okay, great. One condition: you have to legally change your name to Pecan John.”

“Pass.”

“No problem, no problem. I got a ton of shit lined up. I’ve been on the phone all day. Nothing but work for you, buddy!”

“Uh-huh. Then, uh, why are you in a racesuit standing next to a racecar?”

“Johnny!”

“Stop that!”

“It’s for you! It’s a sponsorship deal!”

“A racing team wants to sponsor me?”

“Other way around. But your picture would be on the car!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine, fine, I got more. How do you feel about kittens?”

“Kittens are great.”

“How do you feel about tattooing your face on kittens?”

“Negatively. Very negatively.”

“Is that a pass, or a hard pass?”

“Hard. Very hard. Why would anyone want to do that, anyway?”

“They wouldn’t tell me.”

“Benjy, these are terrible deals. How about an upscale liquor?”

“Upskirt licker?”

“What?”

“Sorry, I just got horny.”

“Benjy, concentrate.I need you to find some moneymaking opportunities for me that are not insane. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know. Can we?”

Oh, this totally smells like a new storyline.

“Awesome possum!”

“Goddammit.”

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