Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill kreutzmann (page 1 of 87)

Help On The Way

Hey, Billy. Whatcha doing?

“Foreign skank.”

Nice sweater.

“Yeah, I stole it from Duke Douchebag.”

Is that a real person?

“Y’know how Dead shows in America are full of CEO’s kids, and little fuckers that went to Choate?”

Sure.

“Well, In Europe, those assholes have titles. I just call ’em all Duke Douchebag, ‘cept for the girls. Lotta skank! You’d be surprised how much of the noble class is pure, unadulterated skank.”

Sluttery is an ancient tradition of the patricians.

“I love it when they yell at me in gobbledy-gook. Y’know how they say ‘no’ in German?”

Nein.

“Trick question! Skank doesn’t say no! That’s why it’s skank!”

Walked into that one.

“Hold on. I gotta make a call.”

CELL PHONE DIALING NOISE

Goddammit, Billy, I’ve told all of you to stop using the Time Sheath to bring phones back to the past.

“Hey, who was the one who gave a time machine to the Grateful Dead? This is on you. Shh.”

“Hello?”

“Hey, Doc Comfort! I gotta come see you!”

“What? I’m not actually a doctor. I’m a hospital ship.”

“Can you write scrips?”

“I have a fully-stocked pharmacy on my main deck.”

“Close enough. My regular doctor got the balogna virus, and I’ve been 86’ed by all the other medical professionals on the island. I’m not even allowed in vet’s offices anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because vets don’t know how to party, man.”

“I don’t even know who this is. Or why I’m sentient all of a sudden. I was built in 1970, and this is quite literally my second conversation.”

“Hey, you’re quiet. No harm in that.”

“What? No! I was a boat! I didn’t talk to anyone because I was a boat!”

“Kid, you gotta believe in yourself. Now let’s talk about what’s coming out of my johnson. Not gonna lie: it’s smelly.”

“AH GOT SOMETHIN’ F’R THAT!”

“Elvis?”

“You know him!?”

“EV’RYBODY KNOWS ME, Y’OVERGROWN BATHROOM TOY! DO NOT FORGET THAT AH AM INSIDE YOU, AND FROM WITHIN CAN BRING ABOUT YER DESTRUCTION, LIKE JONAH WHEN HE WAS IN THAT WHALE, OR CHARLIE HODGE THAT TIME HE GOT LOCKED INTO TH’ VAN!”

“Hey, King! It’s Billy!”

“AH RECOGNIZE AN’ RESPECT YOU, BILLY KRAMPLEBAUM. PLEASE TELL HAIRY GARCIA T’ SEND RONNIE TUTT TO ME IMMEDIATELY. IF AH’M GONNA CURE THESE HERE HEEBIE-JEEBIES, AH’M GONNA NEED A MUCH BIGGER BAND.”

“Good thinking.”

“AH WILL ALSO TURN TH’ SWEET INSPIRATIONS INT’ NURSES, AND KATHY WESTMORELAND, TH’ PRETTY LI’L GIRL TH’T SINGS ALL TH’ HIGH NOTES, IS GONNA BE AN ADMINISTRATOR OF SOME SORT. ‘PARENTLY, SHE HAD A COUPLE YEARS O’ ACCOUNTING AT COLLEGE.”

“Paperwork’s important. Hey, I need enough penicillin to kill a horse, and then enough speed to bring the horse back to life.”

“AH TAKE BLUE CROSS, BLUE SHIELD, AN’ BLUE BELT.”

“What’s blue belt?”

“UNDER THAT COVERAGE, TH’ PATIENT KARATES WITH ME T’ SEE WHO PAYS.”

“I’m paying cash.”

“AN’ BRING ME SOME SPAGHETTI WITH BACON CRUMBLED INT’ IT. THE MESS HALL ON THIS FLOATIN’ JALOPY AIN’T UP TO MAH STANDARDS!”

“Yeah, all right. When are you?”

“ME OR TH’ SHIP?”

“Both.”

“AH MAY HAVE OVERESTIMATED MAH ABILITIES TO HARNESS TH’ TIME CAPE. AH GOT REALITIES ALL OVERLAID AN’ EV’RYTHING. WE GETTIN’ AWFUL CLOSE T’ DINOSAURS POPPIN’ INT’ EXISTENCE HERE.”

“Yeah, y’can’t get too tricky with time travel. It squiggles on ya.”

HERD OF VELOCIRAPTORS VIVASPIRATING ONTO THE DECK OF A HOSPITAL SHIP NOISE

“Jesus! What the fuck!”

“BILLY KRAMPLEBAUM, AH SHOULD TEND T’ THIS. TH’ RAPTORS ALREADY DONE ET UP TH’ SWEET INSPIRATIONS AND KATHY WESTMORELAND, TH’ PRETTY LI’L GIRL TH’T SINGS ALL TH’ HIGH NOTES.”

“Why are there dinosaurs!? WHY ARE THERE DINOSAURS!”

“HEY NOW, SWIMMY BOY! DON’T YOU BE USIN’ NO BIG-CASE LETTERS! THAT’S RESERVED F’R TH’ KING! THIS DIALOGUE-ONLY NONSENSE IS CONFUSIN’ ENOUGH WITHOUT BOTH O’ US LOOKIN’ TH’ SAME!”

“I really don’t understand the rules here.”

“GO WITH TH’ FLOW, MAN! YOU SHOULD BE USED T’ THAT!”

Happy Place

Hey, Billy. Why are you at the Farewell Shoes?

“Looking for a happy place, Ass. Not gonna lie: I’m freaked out.”

But you’ve had so many diseases before.

“Sexually-transmitted! You could get a shot and be cured, and plus it was fun acquiring ’em. Not so much with the carnivorous virus.”

Corona.

“I’m pretty sure it’s carnivorous. It came from bats. This is a dracula-related syndrome. Goddamn Chinese and their draculas.”

What?

“Whole country is crawling with ’em. One out of every six Chinese is a secret dracula.”

I’m just gonna concede the point and move on. What are you doing to protect yourself?

“I got more guns than you can shake your dick at.”

How are you protecting yourself against the virus.

“Not gonna lie, I have fired off warning shots.”

Of course.

“And I got the whole compound on lockdown. There are a couple mines.”

You shouldn’t mine your property.

“There’s no law that says I can’t.”

There are many laws that say precisely that. Local, state, federal, and even international. Do not lay mines, Billy.

“Yeah, here’s the thing–”

You forgot to write down where you buried the mines?

“–I didn’t write down…yeah, that. So I have no idea where they are. Mines have an inherent flaw as a weapon.”

Yes.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I gotta take this. It might be skank.”

You’re still consorting with skank during all this?

“They don’t come over or anything. I make ’em point the phones at their buttholes while they take a Duolingo class. It’s my new thing.”

Do it to it.

“This is Kreutzann. Talk me off.”

“Ooh, I like your phone manners. You a rascally little possum.”

“Mick?”

“It’s Joe Exotic. I done cured up coronavirus in a back trailer at my zoo.”

“I’ve taken lots of shit made in zoo trailers. Keep talking.”

“Mixed me up some ketamine with a bunch o’ other shit I ordered off of the internet. I call it Charlie Sheen.”

“Why?”

“Cuz there’s also tiger blood in there. Well, tiger everything. You ever seen a duck press?”

“Yeah.”

“I put a cub in one ‘ them. Squeezed it ’til it was juice. There was a refinin’ process after that. I know what I’m doin’.”

“And it can definitely cure the cappadonna? I did what Trump said and drank quinine. Well, I had a shitload of gin and tonics. I’m also looking into colloidal silver.”

“Drinkin’ it?”

“Investing. As a hedge against inflation.”

“I wouldn’t know nothin’ ’bout the economy. I was not educated.”

“Not at all?”

“Not even a little bit. There was laws against teaching homosexuals to read as recently as two years ago in Oklahoma.”

“So why do you stay?”

“Cuz there ain’t no laws whatsoever ’bout whether or not a man can own 800 fuckin’ tigers. Y’gotta make tradeoffs in this life.”

“How fast can you get your drug to Hawaii?”

“How fast c’n you hire me a private plane?’

“I can’t.”

“How fast can you buy me a first-class ticket?”

“I can’t.”

“How fast c’n you buy me a business–”

“You’re flying coach, fuckwit. And you’re getting a Silkwood shower when you get here.”

This One’s In B

One must assume that Mickey only brought underwear and socks on tour, and each day wandered–bare-chested and half-cocked–by the merch table to yoink himself a fetching top.

OR

If Mrs. Donna Jean had balls, they’d fall out of those shorts. Balls are always looking for a way out; they’re like Papillon.

OR

What the hell is Bobby playing? It’s an Ibanez, but it’s not Cowboy Fancy. Anyone?

Wall Of Soundcheck

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.

 

Suburban, Commando

Hey, Billy. Whatcha doing?

“Thoughts on my Ass! Long time, no care.”

I think the phrase is “long time, no see.”

“Nah, I meant that I haven’t cared in a very long time.”

Sure.

“Excellent fuckmobile, the Suburban. You can do anything back there. Fattest chick you can find, it’s no problem.”

Inappropriate.

“You wanna fuck in a Porsche, she’s gotta have an eating disorder. Or a midget. But only the right kind! You can’t fuck one of those midgets with the chubby arms and Easter Island heads in a 911. Maybe if you got the top down.”

I truly missed these conversations.

“No position you can’t do in a Suburban. Skank on top, skank in front, taking a dump on a skank’s chest. The world is your oyster.”

Why would you do that?

“The dump thing?”

Yeah!

“Sometimes the skank is into that. And, you know, the road messes your stomach up. Gotta punch the poodle once in a while.”

Punch the poodle?

“The turd hitting her tittieballs? Sounds just like when you punch a poodle in the ribs.”

You should not know how either of those things sound.

“Here’s a fun fact: if you have a Stealie on your car, any member of the Grateful Dead can commandeer it in case of emergency.”

Like cops in the movies?

“Just like that. Back when he was Governor of California, Jerry Brown snuck it as a provision into a giant budget bill.  And it works in every state, too! That’s the Full Faith & Credit clause of the Constitution.”

That is absolutely not how that clause works.

“Hey, I ain’t the Supreme Court. Speaking of which–”

This won’t be good.

“–I’d toss that Mexican one a good thumping. What’s her name, Bongo Santamaria?”

Maria Sotomayor.

“I’d beat that ’til candy came out.”

Stop it.

“I’d give her an Illegal Immigrant.”

“I’d give her an Illegal Immigrant.”

“I’d give her–”

What’s an Illegal Immigrant?

“You sneak around back and cross the border without being invited in.”

Goddammit, Billy.

Lee’s Tower

“Yo.”

I didn’t call for you, Precarious.

“You were gonna.”

Yeah. I was just stunned into silence. Dude, what the fuck?

“Be more specific.”

I cannot. The lack of aesthetics and basic safety requirements is all-pervasive. The stage looks like a Radio Shack, but not a good one; the Radio Shack in the bad mall, where the knife fights break out every so often. The bad mall wasn’t always the bad mall, but the economy and demographics and all that. Used to be a place that sold fancy popcorn. Flavored, seasoned, nice packaging. Now there’s nine stores that sell baseball caps. Time will do her marching, Precarious.

“You got a question?”

I asked it: What the fuck?

“Their choice of apparel and instrument is on them.”

Granted. Do you remember why Garcia was wearing his going-to-court jacket on stage?

“I do not.”

Did the road crew make fun of Bobby’s pink guitar?

“Obviously.”

Was there any thought whatsoever given towards purchasing a tie-dyed scrim to hide some of the more unattractive geegaws and wedged monitors?

“Obviously not.”

Why not?

“This way is easiest for us.”

A performance stage shouldn’t be set according to the laziness of the road crew.

“Not lazy. Efficient.”

What about the tower of speakers behind band?

“Yeah, maybe that was a little lazy. We probably should have set up the rigging.”

Wooden palettes and a forklift, right?

“How else would you do that?”

Holy shit, those cabinets at the top aren’t even strapped down, are they?

“I don’t recall anyone dying, so we must have done it right.”

That’s not how that works.

Go Tele On The Mountain

“Hey, Jer?”

“What, Weir?”

“I’m kinda digging this Telecaster. Thinking about maybe becoming a Tele guy.”

“A what?”

“Telecaster guy. Get myself a shirt styled in the cowboy fashion. Maybe one of those haircuts that requires unguent to maintain its integrity.”

“Haven’t I told you to stay away from unguents, man?”

“At least once a day since 1968.”

“It’s good advice I’m giving you.”

“I think the Deadheads would appreciate the change. Perhaps they could learn to line-dance.”

“They can barely stand in lines, man.”

“Jer, I’ve heard the sound of my soul, and that sound is ‘twang.'”

“Just play the damn song, Weir.”

“Aw.”

Peel Your Face Right Off Your Head

Oh, God. Who gave you a monkey?

“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass! Meet Pinball.”

I don’t wanna meet Pinball. Why is there a chimpanzee around the Grateful Dead?

“The question is: Why HASN’T there been until now!? This fucker’s a hoot! Literally: he fucks and he hoots.

Who is he fucking?

“Bobby’s leftovers, same as the rest of us.”

This is not all right.

“He’s a show biz monkey, too. Knows all kinds of tricks. Watch this. Pinball! Card!”

CHIMP PRODUCING A NINE OF DIAMONDS NOISE

“Was this your card?”

Holy shit, it was.

“Rides a unicycle, juggles, everything. He’s a triple threat.”

Is he toilet-trained?

“Quadruple threat. The poop is the fourth threat.”

Those animals are dangerous.

“So are me and Mickey.”

He should be in a jungle.

“And I should be in skank. But the world isn’t fair, and so we’re both on tour. Besides, it’s not like he’s got nothing to do. Mickey’s teaching him how to play the timbales.”

How’s that going?

“Not well. He fucks ’em. Oh, and–”

Mickey keeps dosing him?

“–Mickey keeps dosing him.”

Jesus.

OR

Hey, Mickey.

“MONKEY!”

Uh-huh.

OR

That would be Mr, Jiggs, who was indeed a show biz monkey; he performed in between sets of the Dead’s 8/4/76 show at Roosevelt Stadium in Jersey City. There is easily-found video of the poor animal’s minstrelry, and it is unbearably sad. Don’t search for it. The past was terrible.

Kreutzmenn

“Justy, I know you’re my son, but–”

“We’re not doing foot stuff, Pop.”

“–let’s do foot stuff. Why not?”

“It’s wrong.”

“Naaaaah. You ever hear about Abraham and Isaac from the Hotel Book?”

“The Bible. That book is called the Bible.”

“They did tons of toe-play. Nobody thought less of them.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve stayed in a lot of hotels, Justy.”

“I’m here to talk about drums, Pop.”

“Shit, you wanna talk drums, you should call up your Uncle Mickey. He won’t shut the fuck up about ’em. I keep telling him to get a hobby, but he just pretends his hearing aids aren’t working. Deaf as a coffee table that had the mumps as a kid.”

“I already talked to Uncle Mickey.”

“He tell you about the time he fucked half the UCLA ladies’ volleyball team? He had to climb most of those chicks.”

“Pop.”

“Eventually, he got tired and just started rubbing against their knees.”

“Pop.”

“Benjy, you went bald quick.”

“Not Benjy, Pop.”

“Am I getting paid for this?”

Why Even Bother Having A Dress Code?

Hey, Billy.

“Ass! Good timing! I was just about to take it out.”

Really?

“Well, honestly: I’m always just about to take it out. Little Billy’s on call 24/7. Like a doctor, but not Jewish now.”

Inappropriate.

“You’re right. Doctors are mostly Chinese now. You’ll never guess what my urologist’s name is.”

Dr. Wang?

“You guessed! Oh, man, I laugh my ass off every time.”

Sure. This is for Justin’s documentary, Let There Be Drums, right?

“Maybe. Could be. I got no idea. Justy showed up and told me I couldn’t see my grandkids unless I talked about Buddy Rich for a while.”

I believe you.

« Older posts