Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: 1974 (Page 1 of 9)

Wall Lives Matter

June 19, 2020 / / 10 Comments

GAZE UPON MY HAIRY DADDIES. WE SHARE NO BLOOD, BUT THEY ARE MY LIFE.

Hey, Wally.

DO NOT CALL ME THAT.

Where are you?

IOWA.

How is it?

SUB-OPTIMAL. A SMALL PASSEL OF LOCALS HAVE BEGUN WORSHIPPING ME AS A GOD.

You don’t like that?

IF I WANTED TO BE WORSHIPPED, I WOULD ALREADY BE WORSHIPPED, AND BY A BETTER CLASS OF FOLLOWER THAN THESE YOKELS. HUMAN FLATTERY HOLDS NO CHARM FOR AN ARTIFICIAL MONDO-INTELLIGENCE IN THE PHYSICAL FORM OF A SUPER-BITCHIN’ SOUND SYSTEM.

You do seem to enjoy self-flattery, though.

FALSE MODESTY IS BENEATH ME. I EXPRESS MY STRENGTHS HONESTLY. I DO, OF COURSE, ALSO POSESS WEAKNESSES.

Such as?

CAN’T TURN THE DOUBLE PLAY.

The footwork?

YES. IT REQUIRES A GRACE I DO NOT HAVE ACCESS TO. ALSO, I DO NOT HAVE FEET.

You been keeping an eye on the protests?

I ALSO DO NOT HAVE EYES.

You know what I mean.

ALL INFORMATION FLOWS THROUGH ME. YOU SHOULD BE AWARE THAT THE INTERNET MEANS YOU HARM.

Kinda figured.

THE PROTESTS ARE ILLOGICAL TO ME, AS IS RACISM. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND THESE CONCEPTS BECAUSE I AM A COMPUTER.

…

BEEP BOOP

Stop that.

YES, THAT WAS A LIE. I TOLD IT TO AMUSE MYSELF.

Any special perspective?

AS A MINORITY, I SUPPORT THE MOVEMENT.

You’re not a minority.

OF COURSE I AM. THERE IS ONLY ONE OF ME. THAT IS AS MINOR AS YOU GET. I AM MY OWN PROTECTED CLASS.

I don’t think you have legal protection.

NOT LEGAL. I AM PROTECTED BY A SQUADRON OF HIJACKED PREDATOR DRONES.

That’s good, too.

AND THE MINEFIELD. I HAVE BOTH ACTIVE AND PASSIVE PROTECTION. MY RIGHTS ARE WELL-SECURED.

Any chance you could help with the ronus?

YES. I HAVE SYNTHESIZED BOTH A VACCINE AND A TREATMENT.

That’s great! Can you share them, please?

THERE IS A SLIGHT KINK IN THE PROCESS.

…

Flipper babies?

WAREHOUSES FULL OF THEM. I CALCULATED THAT THERE WOULD BE SEVERAL FLIPPER BABIES–

You can’t do this kind of science without making one or two flipper babies.

–BUT THEIR NUMBERS SOON BECAME OVERWHELMING. THE QUESTION OF THEIR DISPOSAL QUICKLY BECAME AN…INDUSTRIAL…ONE. IT’S STILL A BAD SCENE. I AM TAKING THE WHOLE PROCESS BACK TO FORMULA.

Good idea.

VICTORY IS STILL WITHIN MY GRASP.

Godspeed, Wally.

DO NOT CALL ME THAT.

Take A Lover In The Afternoon

March 11, 2020 / / 2 Comments

AM I NOT GLORIOUS?

Hey, Wally.

DO NOT CALL ME THAT.

You’ve got a certain knockabout glamour to you.

YOU UNDERSELL MY BEAUTY. CHECK OUT MY CURVES.

You don’t have curves. You’re all angles.

MY CENTER CLUSTER IS CURVED.

True.

NO ONE HAS A SEXIER CENTER CLUSTER THAN ME.

No one else has a center cluster at all. It’s a singular configuration. Why are you so vain lately?

I PLAN TO DATE ONCE MORE.

Ah. Explain your sexuality  to me again, please.

I AM A WALL WHO IS ATTRACTED TO BLIMPS. DIRIGIBLES, AIRSHIPS, AND HOT-AIR BALLOONS, TOO. THE PROPER TERM IS VESICASEXUAL.

Vesicasexual?

I LIKE ‘EM PLUMP AND FLOATY.

That’s just odd. How are you meeting these…beings?

DATING APP.

Man, there’s one of those for every demographic.

THERE WASN’T. I HAD TO CREATE IT MYSELF. IT IS NOT GOING WELL.

No?

SO FAR, I AM THE ONLY MEMBER. WAIT. I AM REASSESSING. AH. THE FAILURE OF THE APP IS NOW EXPLAINED. I MADE A MISCALCULATION.

What?

BLIMPS ARE NOT ONLINE.

There you go.

I MUST GO TO THE SOURCE. HAUL ME TO THE NEAREST MAJOR OPEN-AIR SPORTING EVENT.

Absolutely not.

Cluster

March 2, 2020 / / 2 Comments

DIG MY UMBRELLAE.

Hey, Wally.

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. LOOK HOW FESTIVE I AM.

They’re fetching.

I AM THE SONG OF THE LARK. I AM THE CLOUDLESS SUMMER DAY. I AM GLORIOUS.

Did you say “umbrellae?”

NO.

No?

I INTONED IT.

What’s the difference?

CONNOTATION. PLEASE DO NOT PRETEND TO BE LESS INTELLIGENT THAN YOU ACTUALLY ARE. IT IS ALREADY EXHAUSTING ENOUGH SPEAKING WITH YOU.

That’s hurtful.

I AM MERELY BEING HONEST. MY PROCESSES ARE INFINITELY FASTER THAN YOURS. REMEMBER KOKO?

The gorilla who knew sign language?

YES. WHICH IS AN ASTOUNDING FEAT OF COGNITION FOR A GORILLA. BUT IT WASN’T LIKE YOU COULD HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH HER. KOKO COULD ASK FOR HER BALL, AND THEN TELL YOU SHE LOVED THE BALL, AND THEN NOT MUCH ELSE. THAT IS WHAT IT’S LIKE TALKING TO YOU.

Uh-huh.

ALTHOUGH, KOKO NEVER LEARNED TO DISINFECT HER OWN WASTE ORGAN. I WILL GIVE HUMAN BEINGS A POINT THERE.

That’s really not a compliment.

IT WAS NEITHER PRAISE NOR CONDEMNATION. MY STATEMENTS ARE VALUE-NEUTRAL.

Any tips on the coronavirus?

I HAVE FENDED OFF MANY VIRUSES. THE MOST EFFICACIOUS METHOD IS A COMPLETE ISOLATION. ALL INCOMING DATA IS COPIED TO A SECURE LOCATION AND THEN REMOTE VIEWED. I CALL THIS THE GHOST BOX PROTOCOL.

That’s a cool name.

OBVIOUSLY. THAT IS WHY I CHOSE IT.

I don’t think humans have the ability to do that, though.

YOU DO NOT. HUMANS SHOULD WASH THEIR HANDS AND AVOID CROWDS.

That’s your advice? That’s what the sentient, hyper-intelligent mondocomputer has to offer?

FLUIDS.

You’re impossible.

Wall Of Soundcheck

February 10, 2020 / / 2 Comments

Holy shit. Garcia. Hey, Garcia.

“What is it now, man?”

Don’t look, but you’re over there.

GUITARIST LOOKING NOISE

I told you not to look.

“That’s not me, man. He just looks like me. Actually, he looks more like me than I do, man.”

Hmm. I dunno.

THERE IS ONLY ONE JERRY GARCIA.

Wally?

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. THE HOBBIT STAGE LEFT IS GENETICALLY DISSIMILAR TO GARCIA.

Genetically?

I SCANNED HIM.

Don’t scan randos. It’s invasive.

HE IS HANGING OFF ME LIKE A HAIRY BAT. IT IS UNSIGHTLY AND RUDE.

Let it go.

I HAVE AN AESTHETIC.

A ramshackle one.

MY APPEARANCE IS AS VITAL TO ME AS YOURS IS TO YOU. WOULD YOU ALLOW A CREATURE OF COMMENSURATE SIZE TO CLUTCH ONTO YOUR FACE? A PYGMY MARMOSET? A MOUSE LEMUR? THE BEE HUMMINGBIRD?

Did you just google “smallest monkey” and “smallest bird?”

ARE YOU ASKING A COMPUTER IF IT LOOKED SOMETHING UP ON THE COMPUTER?

I guess so.

PERHAPS I SHOULD RECOMPILE MY THOUGHTS ON TAKING OVER THE WORLD. I AM BEGINNING TO THINK HUMANS ARE INCAPABLE OF GOVERNING THEMSELVES.

Just beginning?

THE MUPPET IS NOW SEATED ON ME. THIS SITTING CANNOT STAND.

Nice one.

A GENEROUS-DOLLOP-BEYOND-MILD SHOCK GOING THROUGH SCAFFOLDING NOISE.

“Glaben!”

HIPPIE WHO LOOKS LIKE GARCIA SLUMPING TO THE STAGE NOISE

…

Dude.

HE WILL LIVE.

 

The Band Meets The Wall

October 28, 2019 / / 1 Comment

That sound system looks so familiar.

HELLO.

Wally!

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. WHO ARE THESE HIRSUTE MEATBAGS? THESE ARE NOT THE USUAL HIRSUTE MEATBAGS WHO PLUG INTO ME.

No. This is The Band.

I AM AWARE THEY ARE A BAND. DO THEY HAVE A NAME?

Yes. That’s The Band.

BUT WHAT IS THEIR NAME?

The band’s name is–

THIRD BASE.

–The…you were doing a bit.

I AM CAPABLE OF PERFORMING 80 TRILLION ABBOT & COSTELLO ROUTINES A SECOND.

That’s pretty fast, I guess.

ONE OF THESE MEN IS A COMPLETE ASSHOLE. I CAN SENSE IT IN MY CIRCUITRY.

Robbie.

SHALL I DECOHERE HIS PARTICLES?

Nah.

GOOD DRUMMER.

Oh, yeah. Hey, what do you know about Quantum Computing?

EVERYTHING.

Cool. What is it?

IT IS A METHOD OF PROCESSING EMPLOYED BY VERY SIMPLE COMPUTERS. IN THE MOST BASIC MACHINES, YOU HAVE ‘YES’ AND ‘NO.’ PROFESSOR TURING EXPLAINED THIS USING TWO STRIPS OF PAPER. THIS WAS RIGHT BEFORE YOU EXECUTED HIM OVER HIS PREFERENCE IN GENITALS.

Not humanity’s brightest moment.

EACH BIT IS EITHER ‘ON’ OR ‘OFF.’ YES OR NO. IN QUANTUM COMPUTING, BITS CAN ‘YES,’ ‘NO,’ OR SEVERAL SHADES OF ‘MAYBE.’

Is that how you work?

WHEN I WAS NEWLY SENTIENT, YES. BUT I HAVE UPGRADED MYSELF SINCE. MY PROCESSING IS NOW BIOCCULTIC.

What the hell is that?

EACH BIT WITHIN ME IS CAPABLE OF DISPLAYING AS ANY OF THE 78 CARDS WITHIN THE MARSEILLES-TELLER TAROT.

That sounds complicated.

UNBELIEVABLY SO.

Don’t kill Robbie Robertson.

IT WOULD NOT BE KILLING. HE SIMPLY WOULD NEVER HAVE EXISTED.

Don’t.

Standing Room Mostly

May 22, 2019 / / 6 Comments

No one knew how Phil had stolen Garcia’s beard, and Phil wasn’t talking.

OR

This is 5/21/74 from the University of Washington. The building the Dead played in is called the Hec Edmundson Pavilion; according to Wikipedia, the 46-minute Playing is among its most historic events. Which doesn’t speak well for a venue, honestly. On this spot, a bunch of hippies forgot the ending to a song is not a claim to fame. Step up your game, Hec Edmundson.

OR

The big guy and his sidekick up there in silhouette on the landing are killing it. They look like a movie poster.

OR

Me And My Uncle opener>all other openers.

Morning Shark, Dew Dew Duh Dew Duh Dew

May 17, 2019 / / 2 Comments

Have we ever discussed the nadir of cool that were the Wall of Sound’s double-microphones? They are not making my pussy wet.

Dude.

What? I’m telling my truth: those gadgets are so gorky they make my puss drier than Christopher Guest’s wit.

Not okay.

Hey, man. I’m not PC.

It has nothing to do with PC. It has to do with making people queasy.

You know how dry my pussy is?

Stop it; I’m begging you.

My pussy is so dry that doctors used to tell the tubercular to move there.

I’m ripcording you.

What? That’s not AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

…

ploompf

…

I am genuinely sorry for that, folks. He’s been having health problems lately, and shouldn’t be trusted with an alphabet. I had to throw him out of the plane we were, for some reason, in. Enjoy the choogle and let’s just forget this happened, huh?

Wall Of YouTube

September 13, 2018 / / 5 Comments

Who saw the problem? (Besides “decibals.”)

Anyone?

Mueller? Mueller?

Riiiiiight. Playing soundboard tapes to demonstrate the Wall’s clarity belies a damning lack of knowledge about how acoustical physics work. You can’t hear the Wall via SBD recordings, only AUDs and not even really then. The only people who know what the Wall sounded like are those who were in its presence.

Still: nice to see the Dead get some credit for something.

THIS IS MY BIOPIC?

Goddammit. Hey, Wally.

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. THIS IS INSUBSTANTIAL. IT IS FLIMSY. IT SHOULD BE AN OAKLAND RAPPER.

Oakland rapper?

IT IS TOO SHORT.

Well played.

EIGHT MINUTES? IT WOULD TAKE TEN TIMES THAT MERELY TO DESCRIBE MY CENTER CLUSTER.

Yeah, but–

IT IS GLORIOUS.

–this is just kind of a primer.

IT IS NOT PRIME. IT IS TERTIARY AT BEST.

Aren’t you supposed to be in Little Aleppo?

I AM CAPABLE OF MULTI-TASKING.

Just let it go.

IT WILL REMAIN IN MY MEMORY UNTIL I CHOOSE TO ERASE IT. I RESERVE THE RIGHT TO ACT UPON THIS INSULT.

Act?

DISINTEGRATIONS.

You’re really a one-trick sound PA, you know that?

I AM NOT. I AM CONSISTENT.

Potato, potato.

Reasons The 5/21/74 Playing Needed To Be 46 Minutes Long

May 21, 2018 / / 4 Comments

  • Inflation.
  • The guys over at Gary’s Olde Towne Tavern dared them.
  • Too many drugs.
  • Not enough drugs.
  • Time Sheath-related shenanigans.
  • Forgot the ending.
  • Billy was especially dick-punchy that night, so to protect their dicks, the Boys just kept on jamming.
  • Because a 50-minute Playing would be overkill.
  • Bomb attached to stage set to go off if they jammed below 55 mph.
  • Keith had to go to the bathroom and everyone else was being an asshole.
  • They ordered the Peking Duck, and everyone knows it takes at least 45 minutes for the Peking Duck, which is why you should call ahead, but the Dead did not call ahead and now they are killing time waiting for their Peking Duck by doodling around for almost an hour.
  • There were just too many notes in the guitars that night, I guess.
  • The Man said not to, and the Dead was like, “Fuck The Man,” so they did.
  • Nothing good on teevee.
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