“Hey! Ass! I got randos, too.”
That’s not Bill Irwin?
“Who?”
Forget it. Wait: that’s Rick Nielsen without his hat.
“Who?”
Nothing. Aw, look: it’s Benjy. I miss him.
“Who?”
Good talk, Billy.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: benjy eisen (Page 4 of 7)
Hey, Billy. Whatcha doing?
“Dreams and memes, Ass.”
Nicely done. Bill?
“Yeah?”
What the fuck does this mean?
“Which part?”
The first part, and the second part, and also in tandem. Doesn’t make a lick of sense.
“Paradise waits. From the song. Garcia sang it.”
…
“Eyes?”
Nope.
“It’s not Dark Star.”
It is not.
“Truckin’?”
Do you know any of the words to the songs?
“Same amount as Bobby.”
Touché
“Fuck off with this Instagram shit. You think I did this?”
Kinda. Yeah, kinda. I think you dictated the wording and couldn’t be talked out of it.
…
Oh, my gosh. Billiam Sommers the Drummer Kreutzmann.
“Don’t call me that.”
You’re seeing a new Benjy, aren’t you?
“Knock it off.”
I’m so happy for you.
“Fuck off.”
I’d ask his name, but I don’t care because I’m just gonna call him Benjy.
“Why can’t I punch you in the dick?”
Only enforced and written rule of this universe is that you can’t punch me in the dick.
“That’s thinking ahead.”
Thanks.
“Fuck off.”
Hi, Hirokatsu Watanabe, radar specialist from Japan. Whatcha doing?
“Ah, Dead-san. Mushi-mushi. Have radar. Study pyramid. Hai!”
…
Can you do this without the accent?
“Sure.”
It was straddling a line
“I see where you’re coming from. No worries.”
So, what’s going on?
“Turns out King Tut’s tomb has extra rooms off it.”
Really?
“Think so. Pretty sure. Can’t just poke through the drywall, y’know?”
The radar says there’s stuff in there?
“Weird stuff. There’s one thing that looks exactly like an out-of-tune piano, but that makes no sense.”
None at all.
“Couple pieces of luggage.”
Sure.
“Plus there might be a skeleton in there.”
No!
“Oddest thing: looks like it’s wearing a denim jacket and a Greek fisherman’s hat.”
Goddammit. Billy!
“Whaaaaat?”
Did you use the Time Sheath to brick Benjy up into the wall of King Tut’s tomb?
…
“Hey! I did! Totally forgot about that.”
Well, there’s a Japanese guy giving the place an ultrasound and he might have found the evidence.
“Good with technology, the Japanese.”
Could you get one of your magical devices to retrieve the body, please?
“Nah.”
Always great to catch up with you, Billy.
“Kiss my dick.”
Wonderful.
Other people donated to charity, or lobbied for America to take some refugees, or simply did nothing: Benjy bought himself some sort of Person-In-Charge costume and hopped on a plane.
“Fugees!”
(Benjy insisted upon addressing the refugees as “The Fugees” and absolutely no one got the reference.)
“Hearken unto me! I am Ben-Ji al-Billy! I am your leader! I have a backpack full of fruit roll-ups and Mike Gordon’s cell phone number: we can get through this!”
The Syrians spoke amongst themselves in Syrian.
“Hakka makka makka?”
“Hakka makka makka.”
“Hakka makka.”
…
“Billy’s Benjy?”
“Hakka makka makka.”
Hey, Billy.
“ASS!” How you, man!?”
Good. You look happy.
“Fun, man. Show wasn’t supposed to happen, and then it does; place fills up, and these are some good kids I got playing, man.”
They’re motherfuckers.
“After I’ve had my turn, yeah.”
Ew. Anyway: great show. Gonna go party?”
“Yeah. Just one thing first. Hey, Benj!”
“Yeah, Bill?”
ShhhhhhhhSHA-SWUMP.
Plop.
…
Did you just cut Benjy’s head off with a samurai sword?
“Called a Katana.”
He worked so hard!
“Gotta keep him humble.”
Makes sense.
“Who’s got the beer!?”
You know me, Enthusiasts: I occasionally fall to facile cynicism, but not on this one.
Lock’n (Lockin’? Lo’k’nn? Peter Shapiro’s Good-Time Fun-Job Sponsored by Visa?) was scheduled to start tonight with a performance from Billy and the Kids, but got cancelled due to the weather.
Yesterday afternoon, Benjy woke Billy up from his nap.
“Billy. Bad news.”
“Phil’s here?”
“No.”
“Bobby finally had my book read to him?”
“No. And: our book.”
“Sure, Benj. What’s the matter?”
“Huge storms. Thursday night shows have been cancelled.”
Billy sat up in bed; he was wearing a ratty shirt from one of his previous bar bands, and he stretched out his arms and his shoulders and his skinny legs.
“Benjy: I’m Billy fucking Kreutzmann and I punch dick and play drums.”
SHWAKKATHOOM!
“And now I have punched today’s dick.”
“Oh, God, why?”
“Show goes on. When you stop puking, make a call or two.”
And in less than 24 hours, the show got booked, tickets got sold, and the gear got set.
The show goes on; we’ll do it right here; there’s gotta be an outlet somewhere.
“I said a-hip.”
“Hop.”
“A-hippy to the hippy.”
“The hip-hop a-hoppin’.”
“And you don’t stop rockin'”
“To the rhythm of the boogedy beat.”
…
“That was fun, Benj.”
“Totally, Billy.”
“I guess we’re rappers now.”
“What’s with the gun?”
BLAM
“Why?”
“We’re rappers. Just gave you a ton of street cred. You should thank me.”
“Thank you?”
“Welcome.
…
BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM
You know, Enthusiasts, that I don’t like repeating pictures, but there was a demand in the comment section to “explain Benjy.” Sadly, I cannot tell you what Benjy is.
But I can show you.
“That’s a good question, Sunburned Guy. Dead & Company was my idea. I remember watching the band in Chicago and thinking, ‘What if we kept doing this, but worse?’ And then I put together a business plan and here we are.”
…
“What was the business plan? Well, I wrote down ‘Mo’ Shows = Mo’ Money’ on a napkin and then I lost it. Anyway, the Dead aren’t really detail guys, so I gave ’em a little of the Razzle-Benjy.”
…
“How did the Razzle-Benjy go? Other than Phil blocking my phone number and Trey threatening to ban me from MagnaBall if I bothered him again? Okay, I guess. I sensed Mickey wasn’t listening.”
…
“Mostly the sound of a thumb-piano being screwed with, I suppose.”
…
“I can neither confirm nor deny any upcoming tour dates, mostly because I am not included on those phone calls or told about those meetings any longer.”
…
“Of course, I’ll be on the tour if it happens. I’m Billy’s personal manager. Right, Billy?”
“Your head looks like a Jiffy Pop and I’m going to murder you.
“See?”
“HOTCHIE MOTCHIE! Where am I? What the fuck?”
“Billy?
“Benjy? I killed you. Where am I?”
“The Peach Festival.”
“Georgia?”
“Scranton, Pennsylvania.”
…
“That makes no sense.”
“No, but the check cleared.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“Did you maybe blackout a little bit?”
“Maybe a little bit, yeah.”
“We’ve been doing a Q-and-A for forty minutes. You know that, right?”
…
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Chicago.”
“Dammit.”
“Anything happened in between then and now?”
“Three or four of these sunshine, drug, and outdoor-pooping jamborees.”
“Did Woody Hayes sit in?”
“Obviously.”
“What else?”
“Joined a new band.”
“I did?”
“Kinda.”
“We sell out?”
“Two nights at the Garden.”
“I’m awesome.”
…
“You wanna know who’s in the band?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t seem to.”
…
“There a blonde behind me?”
“How’d you know that?”
“Because I’m a Grateful motherfucking Dead, that’s why.”
“Okay.”
“Shit like that is why you get murdered so much.”
…
“Scranton?”
“Just outside.”
“Jesus. The only reason more people living here don’t kill themselves is lack of ambition.”
“Scrapple.”
“Yeah, okay.”
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