Thoughts On The Dead

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

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A Surprise For You

Just click here. You’ll enjoy it. I promise.

Art Rock: Forever A Thing

This one’s got everything, Enthusiasts: Ann Magnuson and David Sanborn having a Hair-Off, underage back-up singers, multiple bass players, and Bobby looking even more confused than normal.

Credit for the find goes to Esteemed Commentator JES. Not thanks. I don’t know if thanks are in order here, but blame can be placed.

Hammer, Toes

This is, without a doubt, the whitest thing I’ve ever seen.

“And, uh, I’m listening to John Prine.”

Wow. So, so, so white. Speaking of which, where’d your armpit hair go?

“Friction rubbed it off around age 60 or so.”


“The human body ages in many wonderful and exciting ways.”

How many pairs of toe shoes do you have?

“I lost count at eight. They’ve got their own road case, let’s say that.”


Could You Turn The Music Down?

“Well, how do you think feel about it?”

I Bet It Felt Good To Be A Gangsta

Rest In Chaos, Bill. Peace would be no good for you.

Hard In The (Face)Paint

“Hi, there. You must be Vinnie Vincent. My name’s Bill Walton, and I’m in multiple Halls of Fame: NCAA, NBA, and loving life.”

“There’s a Hall of Fame for loving life?”

“Yes, and I’m in it.”

“Great. Anyway, Bill, I’m Oteil Burbridge, not Vinnie Vincent. We’ve known each other for years.”

“You fooled me with your makeup. As I mentioned, I believed you to be erstwhile KISS guitarist Vinnie Vincent. That young man simply couldn’t get out of his own way. Of course, both Paul and Gene are tough to deal with. Rambunctious spirits with mean holds on their wallets. I barely lasted six months with them.”

“You were not in KISS, Bill.”

“No, not in the band. I was in the KISS Army. This was during the Dead’s hiatus, and I needed a band to follow around so I would have a new place to take drugs and noodle-dance every night.”

“So you went on tour with KISS?”

“I did! Poor decision. Musically, at least. They’re not very good at playing their instruments, or singing, or writing songs. Skilled at wearing wacky get-ups and selling tee-shirts, but not top-shelf musicians. Little to no jamming, either.”

“Yeah, they’re not great.”

“And I was not befriended. The members of the Grateful Dead have become like brothers to me, sharing their hopes, dreams, and skank as we wandered across this bright blue ball just spinning free. Whereas KISS was, in turn, predatory and downright hostile towards me. Ace puked on my shoes and mistook me for someone of Polish-American heritage.”

“How do you know he thought you were Polish?”

“He kept calling me a Polack.”


“Gene tried to sell me a Camaro. He said that it was a collector’s item, limited-edition KISS Kamaro, but I could spot no modifications or alterations to the vehicle. It was just a Chevy. Later, I learned that Gene didn’t even own the car.”

“Bill, I gotta get ready for the show.”

“Mickey once sold me an MG that exploded as I was driving it home, but it wasn’t like he was swindling me. That’s the MG nature. You’re buying a series of breakdowns. I still have the car. Let’s road trip, Oteil. You and I, cruising across California and the rest of America in my MG. We can discover the wonders of nature, and get truly authentic Tex-Mex.”

“Can we discuss it during the set break?”

“I call it halftime.”


Put That Away Or I’m Cutting It Off

I know what you’re doing.

“Excuse me?”

You’re pulling the Thornton Mellon routine. Trying to make yourself look handsomer by hanging out with uggos.

“Please don’t call my friends ‘uggos.'”

Tell your friends to stop being ugly.

“This man happens to be a celebrity chef.”

Great. Tell him to make me a grilled cheese.

“He doesn’t do that.”

He’s too good to grill me up a cheese? Fuck him and his Gilligan hat, then. I bet he’d grill Garcia up a cheese.


I hate all your friends except Bob Saget.

“Saget fucks. I bet he’s fucking right now. Or he’s showering, or going to the ATM, both of which activities are related to his fucking.”



“Is this Nixon?”

No. You would literally never guess who this is.

“Now my interest is piqued.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Johnny, it’s Young Frank Langella.”

“Wow. He was right. Totally would not have guessed.”

“I see you’re admiring my potato salad.”

“Not ‘admiring.’ Just looking.”

“Look deeply. Denim is the most masculine of fabrics, is it not?”

“I’m getting a creepy vibe from you.”

“Well spotted. I’m in 1977, and I’m allowed to do the creepiest stuff imaginable to people. Including you.”

“I’m hanging up the phone.”

“Fine. Send the uggo to my dressing room.”


“Excuse me.”


“That was weird and unpleasant even by your standards.”

I didn’t enjoy it, either.

Return Of The Womack

Funniest part of American Gangster: Tie between Armand Assante’s acting and Russel Crowe playing a Jew.

Funkiest part of American Gangster: this song.


Mind The Gap

Mickey’s selling doobies, because of course he is, and I’m not writing about it until I get a sample. Or at least a tin. The tin’s nice.

Sign Of The (Rhythm) Devil

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Hey, Billy. Signing guitars?

“Nah. Drawing dicks on ’em.”


“I draw dicks on stuff. It’s, like, my thing. Drew one on New Brent’s back the other day.”

His name is Jeff Chimenti.

“Fucker cried. I guess I drew too hard or something. Whatever. Fuck him and his hair.”

Those guitars are for charity, right?

“I got no idea what they do with ’em. Don’t give a shit, either. I get a hundred apiece. Cash.”

You’re charging for this?

“Shit, yeah. I charge for everything now. Remember when I worked out with Bobby?”


“Made him Venmo me $700.”

You’ve become mercenary with age, Billy.

“Nah, I was like this when I was a kid.”


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