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

Category: Uncategorized (Page 396 of 1031)

Moloko Does A Body Korosho

Is that milk?

“Whole.”

Ugh.

“Creamy and viscous.”

I’m going to vomit.

“It’s got a thick swallow to it. Real thick swallow.”

“Didja puke, man?”

Retched. Why would you drink those secretions?

“Good for your bones, good for your eyes, and just plain yummy. Milk: ahhhh.”

You should do an ad.

“I’d pitch for milk, man. I don’t know if I’m quite the spokesperson they want, though, right? They got a wholesome, family deal going on.”

You’ve got a family.

“You know what I mean, man.”

When are you?

“’69, I think.”

Nice.

“Nice.”

HONЖ HONЖ

“Who the hell is that, man?”

“Is Uber.”

“I didn’t order an Uber, man.”

“You sure? Maybe you get high on pot, order Uber.”

“I’m positive I didn’t order an Uber. It’s 1969.”

“Okay. Uber, no Uber. Get in car, please.”

“What? Who the hell are you, man?”

“Jer, just get in the car!”

“Phil?”

“Phil from 2015.”

“I can’t see you.”

“I’m behind Putin, trust me. Just don’t worry about it and move on.”

“Uh-huh. And what’s going on?”

“The 1985 iteration of me stole a bunch of time machines.”

“Is that why there’s all the dinosaurs?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that figures.”

“So me and Putin her are chasing him through the omniverse trying to get all the devices-of-infinite-capability back before he sets time on fire.”

“Sure.”

“Wanna come with?”

“No.”

“Get in car, please. Is Lada. Is swanky.”

“Phil, who is this?”

“Remember Blofeld?”

“From the James Bond movies?”

“Yeah.”

“Him.”

“Oh. Yeah: pass.”

“C’mon, Jer. We never hang out any more.”

“We live in different centuries, Lesh. I have enough hassle from your contemporary iteration. I’m not fucking with multiples.”

“I’m buying ribs.”

“Nope.”

thwip

“Phil, your friend just shot me in the neck with a blowda–”

flump

“What the fuck!?”

“Jerry Grateful disrespect Lada. Very rude.”

“Is he dead, man!?”

“Tranquilizer. Is sleepy.”

“Well, let’s get him in the car.”

“In Lada.”

“In the Lada, whatever. Dunno why you’re so proud of this shitbox.”

“Is not shitbox. Powerful and sleek.”

“It’s not powerful at all. How many cylinders does it have?”

“Two-and-a-half.”

“How is that even possible?”

“Engine is five moped motor bolted together.”

“Why?”

“Because Russians were born to suffer.”

“Oh, whatever. Just help me with him, please.”

“In trunk.”

“No! You can’t put Jerry fucking Garcia in the trunk.”

“Nonsense. Can put anyone in trunk. Putin put many people in trunk.”

“The backseat, man.”

“Da, fine.”

“Sorry, Jer.”

“Whhhhhaaaa th’ fuh is–”

thwip

“STOP SHOOTING BLOWDARTS AT GARCIA!”

“Last one. Putin promise.”

“I’m beginning to think it was a mistake partnering up with you.”

“Nooooooo. You can trust Putin.”

“Uh-huh. Can I drive?”

“Nyet.”

A Day In Our Life

The secret to immortality, at least until he gets us all killed, is having Donald Trump as the president, because every day feels like a million years; he is the Teddy Roosevelt of incompetent disgraces: he packs so much into 24 hours. Remember when every limpdick fuckhead on the teevee elbowed each other out of the way to call him “presidential” because he managed to give a speech without melting down? (You know who gave speeches? No, not Hitler. Me. Stood up in front of my third grade class and read the Gettysburg Address. Giving speeches is not all that impressive.) Remember that?

THAT WAS FOUR DAYS AGO. Seems like months, right? And maybe you’re saying, “Yes, TotD, we know about the perjury thing with the AG.” I would say to you, “Keep up, slopkins.” There’s something new today, because there’s something new every fucking day with this guy.

TotD presents the first (or only) of what will (or might or might not) become a running segment:

The Daily Recounting.

(NOTE: Just the past 24 hours. Literally only the past 24 hours. And I’m probably not going to link to any news sites or anything: this is just a summary, and both you and I know that you should not be relying on me for the news.)

Very early this morning, Donald Trump was left unsupervised for ten minutes and started what will most likely be the worst political crisis since Watergate. He also insulted Arnold Schwarzenegger.

This is what the president tweeted–and if the phrase “This is what the president tweeted” doesn’t make you want to cry until you shit yourself, then I don’t think I can hang out with you–this morning.

If you put aside the fact that presidents are bound by statute from ordering wiretaps and the fact that wire tapping someone would be Nixonian rather than McCarthyism; if you put aside the fact that meeting ambassadors is what the president does, and that 22 times in 8 years sounds about right; if you put aside the dreadful use of quotes for emphasis that shows him for the thickwit he is and–in my estimation–should be grounds for impeachment on their own; if you put all these aside, then there’s nothing really left to discuss.

Except for the fact that President Trump–it hurts my fingers to type that–has backed himself into a golden corner. There are only two options now: either there was a legitimate surveillance operation authorized by the FISA court, or President Obama is some sort of were-Nixon and a full moon came out last November, causing Obama to start ordering illegal wiretaps.

(Also: I guaran-fucking-tee you that the ninny thinks men in ski masks broke into Trump Tower and physically planted tiny microphones all over.)

Moreover, by publicly commenting on the investigation, Dumb Donald might have declassified the investigation

“Very sacred.” I wish there were a Hell, I truly do. He’d be down on the ninth level with Judas and Brutus and Cassius, and he’d be eaten by Satan forever and ever, and though I would necessarily be in Hell to witness this, my heart would reside in Heaven with the Lord.

“Tapp.” Y’know what? I don’t care if there’s a Hell or a Heaven: I just want to blow my brains out. This idiot thinks Gene Hackman is sitting outside in a van with a pair of headphones on.

Now: this is real. He’s lying about all the details, but the fact of the investigation is inarguable; the White House counsel spent today desperately trying to get ahold of the order. How do we know this? Because someone in the White House counsel’s office leaked it, most likely while their boss was still on the phone.

I told you he insulted Arnold.

Having Fun With Elvis On Stage

You may, Enthusiasts, have noticed that TotD has been on a bit of an Elvis bender. I found this nifty YouTube-to-MP3 gadget, and there’s tons of live shows available; some soundboards, but also some great-sounding AUDs and they might honestly be better, as you hear the crowd’s reaction. Elvis told a lot of jokes, so the SBD’s sound like those sitcoms with the laugh tracks removed.

This show’s from ’74 at the International in Vegas. The Dead had the Wall of Sound in 1974; Elvis had a Wall of Musicians: a six-piece rock group, plus TWO sets of backup singers (white boys and black girls), and a lady named Kathy Westmoreland whose job was to sing the high notes, plus a 30-piece (honest) orchestra.

And, of course, Charlie Hodge on scarves and water.

The band is–as I’m sure you’ve grown tired of me telling you–one of the greatest show bands in history: powerful and tight and dramatic and anchored by the great Ronnie Tutt, who would join Garcia’s Legion of Mary a few months after this show. The music is perfect, and Elvis is in good voice; he does some tunes he always did–the sublimely goofy American Trilogy and the genuinely affecting You Gave Me A Mountain–and some lesser known songs like If You Talk In Your Sleep.

But this show is not about the songs. This performance–Elvis’ last of that particular engagement–is about so much more. Allow me, if you will, to slip into some more comfortable bullet points:

(EDITOR’S NOTE: I SWEAR I AM NOT MAKING THE FOLLOWING UP. IF YOU DOUBT ME, THEN PLEASE LISTEN TO THE SHOW AND CALL ME A LIAR IN THE COMMENT SECTION.)

  • Elvis demands Charlie Hodge remove his belt for him.
  • Several book reviews.
    • He liked one book that wrote about him positively, and praised the author for being honest.
    • He did not like a different book which wrote mean things about him, and scolded the author for printing lies.
    • Elvis sounds like a guy I know.
  • An explanation of the belt system in karate.
  • A refutation of rumors about his recent divorce, leading to the introduction of Priscilla, who is in the crowd.
    • She is sitting with Lisa Marie, who is presented to the audience.
    • Also at the table is Elvis’ current girlfriend, who is told to hold up her hand so everyone could see the ring Elvis just bought her.
    • Elvis then talks about the ring for a while.
  • ’74 was when Elvis’ habit of singing along with the band got hilarious.
    • Elvis would just belt out “BAH bah BAH” with the horn section in between lyrics.
  • Multiple women are asked to “TWIRL ‘ROUND SO EV’RYBODY C’N SEE YOU.”
  • It’s Now Or Never is performed twice.

And then there are the introductions. Holiest of shits, the introductions. Elvis introduces damn near every human in the building and it takes a solid twenty minutes while the band is vamping (wonderfully) under him. I was listening to this while running errands, and I didn’t hear one song: just Elvis introducing the crowd to itself.

The introductions are so long that Elvis gets bored with doing them, sings two songs, and then goes right back into them.

Again: I am not making these up; I won’t put silly ones in.

  • All of the TCB band.
    • Obviously, Elvis instructs them all to solo.
    • “SHOW ‘EM WHY YER HERE, BOY!”
  • Both backup singing groups, individually.
  • The high-singing lady.
  • The conductor.
  • Charlie Hodge.

At this point, Elvis demands that the piano player from the opening act come back out onstage and sing a song; Elvis recites the lyrics along with him.

  • The audio engineer.
  • Several karate men.
  • Vikki Carr, who was playing at the Tropicana.

At this point, Elvis sings It’s Now Or Never for the second time.

  • His family, again.
  • His girlfriend, again.
  • His droopy-eyed, weak-chinned, four-balled, whiskey-dicked, fartstain of a daddy–
  • Vernon.
  • –Vernon.
  • Colonel Parker.
  • Judy Spreckles, heiress to the Spreckels sugar fortune. (I swear. I know that sounds like a name I would make up, but it really happened and also Elvis talked about the ring she had given him for a couple minutes.)

At this point, Elvis stops introducing people to declare a recent paternity suit against him “a conspiracy.”

  • Bill Cosby.

I feel I must make a confession, Enthusiasts: I am a monster. This cascading insanity of a pill-fueled nutbar had had me giggling throughout my errands, but when the King said “GIVE IT UP F’R TH’ COZ, LADIES AN’ GEN’LEMEN!” I started laughing so hard that I almost crashed my car. Surprise Cosby is the funniest Cosby. (Or, the least funny Cosby.)

Oh, and then the crazy sumbitch introduces “MAH JEW’RY.” Honest. Elvis introduces his rings to the audience, and the audience applauds.

God bless Elvis, who is America.

Bearcat, Bear, Cat

“HOW YOU DOIN’ BACK THERE, HAIRY GARCIA?”

“This is, uh, real comfortable. Spacious. Man can really kick off his sandals in a backseat like this. Lotta bliss to be found.”

“YOU FIND ANY EXTRA, YOU SEND IT UP HERE.”

“Aye-aye. Elvis, what are these seats made of?”

“THAT THERE IS LEATHER FROM A TUFTED VARLET.”

“Huh. What, uh, what kind of animal is that?”

“AH HAVE NO IDEA, BUT ISS SO SOFT YOU COULD WIPE YER ASS WITH IT.”

“Oh, yeah. You shouldn’t though.”

“YOU WANNA WIPE YER ASS ON MAH CAR, HAIRY GARCIA, THEN YOU GO ‘HEAD. YOU MAH BEST FRIEND AN’ WE HAVIN’ ADVENTURES JUS’ LIKE HUCK AN’ JIM, MAN.”

“There are small differences, I guess.”

“MEBBE WE GONNA MEET A HOBO KING. WILL HE TEACH US HIS SECRETS? AH DO NOT KNOW, BUT AH AM EXCITED T’ FIND OUT.”

“Okee-doke. But, you know: first we gotta get all the time machines back.”

“YOU GOT A LINE ON YER BASS PLAYER?”

“Yeah, well, that’s a problem. Nobody’s seen him in a few days. Could be anywhere.”

“AH HOPE HE AIN’T IN TH’ YEAR 3411 GETTIN’ HISSELF A PAIR O’ QUANTUM NIPPLES.”

“Me, too.”

“MAN, ME AN’ YOU IS JUST SIMPATICO, HAIRY GARCIA.”

“Uh, y’know, Elvis…you can call me Bobby.”

“AH C’N CALL ANYBODY WHATEVER AH WANT T’ CALL ‘EM. AH CHOOSE T’ CALL YOU HAIRY GARCIA. YOU WANNA STOP AT STUCKEY’S?”

“I’m good.”

“YER LOSS, MAN. NOW TELL TH’ KING ABOUT THIS WAYWARD BASS PLAYER. YOU GOT A HUNCH WHERE HE AT? OR WHEN?”

“Here’s the thing about Phil that might work to our advantage: he’s kinda lazy. Most likely, he’s drunk in a bar in San Ysidro.”

“THEN AH SHALL POINT MAH GLAMOROUS AN’ POWERFUL CAR THATTAWAY. HOW YOU FIXED F’R SCARVES AN’ WATER?”

“More than enough of both.”

“YOU SURE? AH C’N STOP AN’ LET CHARLIE HODGE OUTTA TH’ TRUNK.”

“I’m good.”

“WE OUGHTTA GET OFF TH’ HIGHWAY AN’ GO T’ ONE O’ THOSE JOINTS THAT SELLS EV’RYTHING. YOU KNOW: WHERE TH’ POOR FOLKS EAT AT. THEY GOT CHICKEN AN’ SEAFOOD AN’ CHINESE FOOD AN’ MUFFINS AN’ PIZZA. THEN, Y’ MASH ALL THAT T’GETHER AN’ HAVE MISS MARY DEEP-FRY IT. AH CALL IT A BAD NEIGHBORHOOD SAN’WICH. ISS SO DELICIOUS Y’ GET A BONER EATIN’ IT.”

“Not hungry.”

“DO YOU HAVE LOVE IN YER LIFE, HAIRY GARCIA?”

“Sure, yeah. Quite a bit. Wife, kids, Jeff Chimenti.”

“AH HAVE LOST MAH PRISCILLA! MAH TEENAGED BRIDE DONE RUN OFF WITH TH’ KARATE INSTRUCTOR!”

“YOU HEAR ME?”

“Yeah, uh, sorry. Just kinda amazed by the fact that the sentence ‘My teenaged bride ran off with the karate instructor’ is completely factual and not exaggerated for comic effect.”

“DAMMIT, HAIRY GARCIA, AH AM TRYIN’ T’ BE REAL WITH YOU! STOP MAKIN’ ASIDES T’ THE AUDIENCE!”

“You’re right. Continue.”

“WHEN AH FIRST SAW MAH PRISCILLA, SHE WAS BUT A SLIP OF A GIRL. KEPT FALLIN’ OVER CUZ HER BEEHIVE HAIRDO WAS BIGGER THAN SHE WAS. MAH PRISCILLA WAS A DELICATE FLOWER THAT AH NEEDED TO PLUCK, AN’ ALSO MAKE MAH LOVE TO.”

“She was a looker.”

“SOME SAID IT WAS WRONG CUZ SHE WAS SO YOUNG. BUT AH COULD NOT RESIST HER CHARMS, MAN. SHE WAS A STONE-COLD TEEN FOX. YOU KNOW WHAT AH’M TALKIN’ ABOUT?”

“No.”

“YOU NEEDED T’ THINK ‘BOUT THAT?”

“Let’s just talk about you. Why’d she leave? Marriage going bad before that?”

“TH’ MARRIAGE WAS HEAVENLY, MAN. SHE PROVIDED ME WITH MAH PRECIOUS GIRL-CHILD, LISA MARIE.”

“Maybe you should’ve had another kid. I hear having another kid fixes problems.”

“YOU BITE YER TONGUE, HAIRY GARCIA! YOU BITE IT RIGHT OFF! IF AH WASN’T USIN’ MAH FEET AN’ HANDS F’R DRIVIN’, AH WOULD BE USIN’ ‘EM F’R KARATE!”

“What’d I say?”

“HOW COULD AH GIVE MAH GIFT T’ PRISCILLA AFTER SHE HAD TH’ BABY? THASS A RUINED COOTER, MAN! CAN’T DO NOTHIN’ WITH THAT KINDA COOTER! AH DON’T EVEN KNOW IF THAT FULLY QUALIFIES AS A COOTER ANY MORE!”

“Wow.”

“LISSEN UP: BABIES COME FROM GOD. WE KNOW THIS FROM OUR STUDIES. AH READ LOTSA BOOKS ‘BOUT THIS KINDA STUFF. BABIES COME FROM GOD. THAT MEANS WHEN A BABY COMES OUT YER COOTER, YER COOTER IS GOD. CAN’T BE STICKIN’ YER PECKER IN GOD, MAN.”

“I guess not.”

“NOT IN TH’ SOUTH, AT LEAST. DUNNO WHATCHOO WEIRDOS FROM CALIFORNIA GET UP TO.”

“We don’t stick our peckers in God, Elvis.”

“ALL RIGHT. THASS GOOD T’ HEAR. YOU WAN’ SOME SPAGHETTI?”

“Still not hungry.”

“AH GOT IT RIGHT HERE IN THE GLOVE COMPARTMENT. WOULDN’T EVEN NEED T’ STOP.”

“Nuh-uh.”

APPLE WATCH NOISE

“That’s me.”

“AH KNOW THASS YOU. KING WOULDN’T WEAR ONE O’ THEM SISSY STRAPS.”

“Sure.”

“Weir here.”

“Look up, Bobby Grateful.”

“Who is this?”

“Is Putin. I have plane now.”

“How’d you afford a plane? The Flaming Groovies never sold any records.”

“Put Elvis on phone.”

“You bet. Elvis, he wants to talk to you.”

“HEY, POOTER.”

“Is not name.”

“ME AN’ HAIRY GARCIA COMIN’ T’ KICK YER COMMIE ASS BACK T’ TH’ LIBRARY IN LONDON MARX  SCRIBBLED YER DOPEY SYSTEM IN.”

“Communism not dopey. Is for people.”

“NAH, MAN. ELVIS IS F’R TH’ PEOPLE. COMMUNISM’S F’R JOKERS AN’ WOOLY BOOGERS.”

“You are woofy booboo.”

“WOOLLY BOOGER.”

“Woodoo boogie.”

“WOOLY BOOGER.”

“Nyet. This cannot be said with Russian accent.”

“POINT: AMERICA.”

“I have many missile. Maybe I shoot ugly American car.”

“UGLY? MAN, THIS HERE’S A STUTZ BEARCAT. YOU THINK ISS UGLY, THEN YOU MUST BE LOOKIN’ AT YER FACE AN’ MISTAKIN’ IT F’R MAH FINE AUTOMOBILE.”

“Nice burn, Elvis.”

“THANK YOU, HAIRY GARCIA. THANK YOU VERY MUCH.”

“Is no burn.”

“Y’ BURNT, BOY! AH BURNT YA!”

“No burn.”

“MEBBE AH SEND DR. NICK OVER THERE T’ MINISTER T’ YER BURNS. HE COULD APPLY SOME SORTA MEDICATED POULTICE.”

“Propaganda. Burn is propaganda.”

“NOW PISS OFF, IVAN. ME AN’ MAH BEST FRIEND GOIN’ T’ FIND A DRUNKEN BASS PLAYER FROM 1985 WHO DONE FILCHED SOME TIME-ALTERIN’ DEVICES!”

“Da. This is what Putin is doing.”

“WHAT NOW?”

“Phil?”

“Hey, Bobby.”

“You joined the Flaming Groovies?”

“Listen: ’85 me is a drunken fool, and he can’t be trusted with one time machine, let alone several. Whatever item of clothing that jackass has turned into a chronofucker needs to be confiscated.”

“Yeah, no, I agree. That’s what me and Elvis are doing. Why didn’t you come with us?”

“It seems like Putin’s the only one around here who knows what he’s doing.”

“I actually can’t argue with that.”

“AH CAN! AH NOW DECLARE KARATE WAR ON ALL ITERATIONS OF YER BASS PLAYER!”

“Okay, have fun driving around with the lunatic. I’m going to take care of this.”

RUSSIAN DIAL TONE NOISE

“He sounds well.”

“HE GONNA SOUND BEATEN.”

“King?”

“BEST FRIEND?”

“Who’s in the passenger seat?”

“AH HAVE NO IDEA WHO THIS MAN IS.”

“Okay. That spaghetti offer still on the table?”

“AH KNEW YOU COULDN’T RESIST ISS SIREN SONG, MAN.”

Smoking In The Girl’s Room

Still?

“I’m all in, man. Been living my life as The Hawk for a week now.”

Why?

“Honestly? I’m trying to see if there’s anything I can do that would stop me from getting laid.”

is there?

“Getting a tugger right now. Just out of frame.”

Wow.

“Tried it all: not showering, saying stupid shit in interviews, singing through my nose. Nothing.”

I feel bad for you.

“Yeah?”

CELL PHONE NOISE

No.

“Fucker.”

Good insult. Call Benjy and see if he’ll write you another one.

“Is that why you’re mad? Because I asked Benjy to be my writer and not you?”

I’m not mad.

CELL PHONE NOISE

Not mad at all.

“This pettiness is why you’re not successful.”

There are so many more reasons than that.

“Dick.”

“You’ve reached The Hawk’s nest.”

“You do character? No do character. No can take shtick.”

“Oh,  fuck.”

“Hello, hot dog dick. I back.”

“No one wanted you back.”

“I fan favorite.”

“You’re not.”

“Everyone miss Kim Jong-Un.”

“They don’t.”

“Why Josh Meyers tour not come to Only Korea?”

“Same reason I’m not going to South Florida.”

“You no like Jews?”

“No!”

“No Jews in Only Korea.”

“It’s not about the Jews.”

“Father invent Jews.”

“He didn’t.”

“You bring tour here. Play all your hit.”

“Hits.”

“Agree to disagree. Come Only Korea, Josh. I make up room for you. We have sleepover.”

“I don’t want to have a sleepover.”

“We play Nintendo in rumpus room.”

“No, thank you.”

“Make stuffed animal hump. Maybe trade hands.”

“What?”

“Trade hand. You use Kim hand. Kim use Josh hand. Go to work. Make feel good.”

“I don’t want to jerk you off, man.”

“No, no. Is not jerk me off. We jerk ourselves, but with each other hand. Is not gay.”

“Is gay.”

“Is not gay.”

“ISS PRETTY DAMN GAY, KIMMY GIBBLER.”

“Is no gay!”

“Hey, Elvis.”

“PASS.”

“Motherfucker.”

“I no talk to you, hillbilly. You ditch me in Vegas.”

“YOU WAS TALKIN’ CRAZY. COULDN’T UNNERSTAND A WORD YOU WAS SAYIN’.”

“No talk crazy! Was talking Korean!”

“YOU SAY CUH-RAZY, AH SAY KUH-REAN. SAME THING.”

“No same thing.”

“TELL IT T’ TH’ MARINES, BOY. NOW GET ON OUTTA THIS STORYLINE. THAT YOUNG MAN AH DO NOT CARE FOR WAS RIGHT. YOU AIN’T NO FAN FAVORITE. TH’ KING IS A FAN FAVORITE.”

“In small dose. You wear out welcome.”

“DON’T YOU GET META-REFERENTIAL ON ME, BOY! NOW, GIT!”

“You guy suck.”

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

“CAN’T STAND THAT GUY, MAN. FAT, CRAZY, EV’RYBODY DOIN’ WHATEVER HE SAYS.”

“Um.”

“YOU STILL HERE?”

“Yeah, Elvis. Thanks for the help with Kim Jong–”

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

“Motherfucker!”

You brought this on yourself, Hawk.

One Of Our Writers Wore MeUndies For A Month And This Is What Happened

Day 1: Nothing unusual. Just underpants.

Day 2: Turned ’em inside-out; good to go.

Day 3: I’m just gonna roll with it.

Day 4: I think I can smell my own balls.

Day 5: I can smell my own balls.

Day 6: The world can smell my balls.

Day 7: This is my fault. I knew I had 23 days to go with this pair of underpants, and yet I ate at Taco Bell Again: this is my fault.

Day 8: Why did I want to be a writer? Maybe I should take the LSAT’s.

Day 9: Everything is now balls and doody.

Dy 10: I have hanged myself with my pair of MeUndies. Sorry, mom.

Reed At The Library

If you’re in New York and looking for the kind of rock and roll thrill that can only be found while quietly looking at a dead guy’s junk, then go see Lou Reed’s archives. The New York Public Library recently acquired them from Laurie Anderson–she called Bobby to see if he was interested, but he pretended to not remember her–and will be exhibiting selection at the main branch. (The one from the beginning of Ghostbusters.) There are hundreds of libraries in the NYPL system, so having your event in the building with the lions is an honor. Congratulations to Laurie and the Reeds, and also once again to Phil and Jill.

What might you see?

  • Napkin with “Sweet Ann Francine Nancy Jane” scribbled on it.
  • More empty pill bottles than you’ve ever seen in your life.
  • Receipt for box full of human feces he mailed to Lester Bangs.
  • Complete collection of mint-condition issues of Outside magazine.
  • Several white wigs that Andy Warhol thought he had lost.
  • Owner’s manual to 1984 Honda scooter.
  • Bunch of Sovereign Citizen books that Mo Tucker sent him.
  • Letter from Martin Scorsese about how Johnny Depp should star in a movie adaptation of Lou’s 1989 album, New York, called Dirty Boulevard. (All of that is completely true because of fucking course Johnny Depp is involved.)
  • Polaroids of Iggy Pop’s dick.
  • Members Only jacket, tan.
  • Surprisingly large collection of memorabilia from Charles and Di’s wedding.
  • The world’s only Doug Yule tee-shirt. (Lou had it made special just to be a dick.)

They’ve Got Five Years

Speaking on behalf of all* Enthusiasts, TotD would like to congratulate Phil and Jill Lesh on Terrapin Crossroad’s fifth anniversary. 70% of all restaurants close during their first dinner service, so this is an accomplishment; doubly so for a Grateful Dead For example, the place has not:

  • Burned down.
  • Gone bankrupt.
  • Been stolen by Ron Rakow.

It’s been Phil’s lifelong dream to own a restaurant, for a narrow definition of the word “own”: Phil really just wanted to be treated like he owned a restaurant; the actual running of one was something he never thought about, mostly because it’s non-stop agita and drudgery punctuated with the occasional busboy rebellion.

Five years! That’s 260 Taco Tuesdays without a visit from the Health Board or Gordon Ramsey, plus no one has pooped on the bocce courts in quite a while. Lovers have met, friends reconnected, deals made. While we cannot know precisely how many people have humped in the bathroom, it is certainly a non-zero number. TXR has seen some wonderful nights since it opened. Also, Twiddle played.

Before Terrapin Crossroads opened, there was no Baby Levon. There now exists a Baby Levon. Did TXR somehow influence the choogle to create life? Again: we cannot know.

Anyway, congrats to Phil and Jill and all the other Leshes and the busboys. May you have another five years, or wake up tomorrow, say “fuck it,” and sell out to Sizzler: whatever makes you happy.

 

*I speak for you now.

Alternate Jeff Sessions Excuses

  • “Oh, the Russian ambassador? I thought you said the Prussian ambassador, whom I still contend that I have never met.”
  • “I believed that the question was directed to a different racist.”
  • “There was, in my opinion, a good chance that Senator Franken had taken some pots before the hearing, and–in my fear of what he might do to me while high on said pots–I misremembered.”
  • “I forgot to make the finger-quote gesture to indicate that I was saying ‘no’ sarcastically.”
  • “Who better to prosecute the Russians than someone who really knows them, right? Right?”
  • “I was distracted thinking about the four soldiers that Hillary Clinton ate in Benghazi.”
  • “Senator Schumer has eaten blintzes many times; how come he’s not in trouble?”
  • “Listen, I can’t keep track of every Russian spy I have secret meetings with.”
  • “In addition to Senator Franken’s marihuana abuse, I was also very distracted by his hair. It has a specific type of curl to it that I found very familiar.”
  • “This is, somehow, Obama’s fault.”
  • “What’s a little treason between friends?”

Award Season

Oh, Christ.

“Hey, brother. How’s it hangin’?”

Don’t do shtick.

“My name’s Hank “The Hawk” Knut–”

DON’T DO SHTICK!

“Okay.”

I’m sorry I yelled, but I can’t deal with people doing their characters at me.

“I got it.”

I’m not in your improv troupe, John Mayer. You come in this dojo, you come correct.

“This is a dojo?”

Elvis is rubbing off on me a little. What is this?

“Promoting the new album.”

Right. Tears From My Penis.

“No.”

Stop Touching Her, Orlando.

“That hurts.”

Hey, man. I miss her, too. But, seriously: what is this?

“It’s one of my many characters. I do voices, impressions. I like to play dress-up.”

Sure.

“This is Hank “The Hawk” Knutley.”

Blah.

“You could do better?”

Porkchop Paxton. Jeremiah “Mumbleberry” Foyt. Hillman Gravy.

“Yeah, those are better.”

You need a writer.

“Maybe I do. Dead had someone else write their lyrics, right?”

Yup.

“Maybe I’ll try it. I know just the guy.”

Really? I’m honored , but–

CELL PHONE NOISE

Are you calling someone?

“Shh.”

Holy shit, you did not just shush me.

“Shh.”

You’re gonna get it, mister.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Hola?”

“Benjy?”

“Juan! Como esta?”

“Why are you speaking Spanish?”

“Cuba, baby!”

“Cuba, cool. Seeing it before it gets ruined.”

“No, no. It’s 1961. Elvis sent me here. Him and Bobby are fighting Communism’s main forces, and I’m cleaning up around the edges.”

“Riiiiiiight.”

“You haven’t really been in this storyline, have you?”

“Not as much as I’d like.”

“It’s been fun! Except for getting eaten by dinosaurs. Not fun in the slightest. And it doesn’t get any better: I’ve been eaten, like, a dozen times and it’s just as painful and terrifying as the first time.”

“They say you can get used to anything.”

“They’ve never been eaten by a dinosaur.”

“True. Listen, Benj: you wanna be my writer?”

“Didn’t we talk about this last week?”

“We did, but–”

“You said no. So now I’m Elvis’ sensei.”

“Again: I have not been in the storyline, so when you say things like “So now I’m Elvis’ sensei” without any context, I don’t know how to respond.”

“I’m in the Memphis Mafia. Let’s just leave it at that for the sake of the conversation.”

“Sure. That makes much more sense.”

“So, you know: I dunno if I got the time now, John.”

“You could do two things.”

“I’d have to ask Elvis. Hold–”

“HERE AH AM.”

“–on. Oh, hey, King.”

“Hi, Elvis.”

“WHATCHOO WEARIN’, BOY? YOU DOIN’ ONE O’ YER LITTLE CHARACTERS?”

“Yeah. His name is Hank “The Haw–”

“PASS! HELLO, SENSEI BENJY. WHAT WISDOM HAVE YOU BROUGHT BACK FROM YER RECENT TRIP T’ TH’ NETHERWORLD?”

“Always choose a slicker over an umbrella.”

“DAMN, MAN. THASS SOME GOOD ADVICE.”

“What are you up to, King?”

“AH AM ACCEPTIN’ AN AWARD.”

“For what?”

“MAH GREATNESS.”

“Okay. Weren’t you on a road trip with Bobby?”

“WHO?”

“Hairy Garcia.”

“HE IS MAH BEST FRIEND NOW! WE LIKE TONY CURTIS ‘N SIDNEY POITIER IN THE DEFIANT ONES, EXCEPT WE BOTH WHITE. AND WE AIN’T CHAINED T’ EACH OTHER. AN’ ALSO WE LIKE EACH OTHER.”

“Just like it.”

“UH-HUH.”

“Where is he?”

“AH ARRANGED F’R HIM TO BE PRESENTED WITH AN AWARD, TOO.”

“Look what Elvis got me.”

“THASS A FRIENDSHIP TROPHY RIGHT THERE, HAIRY GARCIA. SYMB’LIZES OUR FRATERNAL LOVIN’.”

“You bet. Heavy sucker.”

“Elvis?”

“SENSEI BENJY?”

“I’ve got a great offer to do some writing, but I don’t know if you’d be okay with me doing it. It might cut into our time together.”

“NEXT SUMBITCH WHO DON’ UNNERSTAND HOW TIME MACHINES WORK IS GETTIN’ SHOT!”

“Oh, right. I can do it.”

“YOU GOTTA FOLLOW YER BLISS, MAN, MAH BEST FRIEND HAIRY GARCIA TAUGHT ME THAT.”

“I didn’t really teach it. Just kinda said it once or twice.”

“AH LEARN FROM YOU.”

“Neato.”

“King, lemme call you back.”

“YOU ASSASSINATED CASTRO YET, BOY?”

“It’s on my to-do list.”

“HOP TO IT.”

DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

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