Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill kreutzmann (page 1 of 84)

An Aesthetic

Precarious?

“Yo.”

Why must there always be pandemonium?

“Referring to?”

The stage. It looks like a woodworking shop had a baby with a Guitar Center, and then the baby exploded.

“Eh. Band liked it this way.”

How could anyone like this?

“Maybe ‘like’ is wrong. How about ‘The band didn’t give a shit if it looked this way?'”

That sounds right.

Lei Down, My Dear Drummer

Hey, Billy. Still celebrating your birthday?

“Birthweek!”

Huh?

“It took me about five days to come out. I was what they called a ‘logy fetus.'”

That’s an unpleasant phrase.

“I was happy in there. Hell, I’ve spent the past seven decades trying to get back in.”

Sure.

“I just didn’t wanna come out.”

How’d they entice you into the world? Forceps?

“Nah. They laid a check at the foot of the bed.”

You’re a remarkably consistent man.

“Oh, yeah. Hey, you sex striking?”

Oh, that thing Alyssa Milano is on about? I don’t know if that’ll work.

“I’m into it! Love me some sex striking.”

Billy, do you mean–

“Punching puss!”

–physically striking women…I thought so.

“I got no idea how it’s helping get rid of Trump, but I’m all in.”

Happy birthweek, buddy.

“Yeah, I’m great.”

Acrostic The Rio Grand-ee-oh

W is for water, as in rain, which was dripdripdroppifying all over the scalawags and reprobates and chickies at Woodstock, which is where this photo was taken.

O is for omelettes, which you couldn’t get because there was no food because it was just a fucking field with no amenities.

O is for opera, which is the plural of opus, which just means “work.” When you call something an opera, you’re literally saying “this thing someone made.” Lot less fancy when you know that.

D is for Dirty Dingus Magee. Sinatra was in it. He played a cowboy.

Because when you think “cowboy,” you think “Sinatra.” Blue-eyed Enthusiasts will note the luxurious toupee under the hat; Frank named all his hairpieces, and called that one Husky Boy.

S is for Sly Stone, or perhaps Sha Na Na, (PREDICTION: When the absurd “every single note of every single band” 38-disc Woodstock box set is released, Rock Nerds will all rediscover the Na’s brilliance. Pitchfork is already readying a thinkpiece on Bowser, I guarantee it.)

T is a drink with jam and bread, or crystal meth, or testosterone, or the mohawked muscle of the A-Team, or a square, or one of two events that stop play in a basketball game.

O is pissing me off, honestly. Three appearances in one word is too much, O. Let the other vowels get a chance to play.

C is for Country Joe and his Fish, and I’m gonna pass. Hard pass.

K is allowed to ask me about my business just this once, and also potassium.

Lei, Billy, Lei

Hey, Billy. Happy birthday.

“Thoughts on my Ass! C’mere and blow out my candle!”

I don’t know about that.

“The candle’s my dick!”

Right. I got that. How’s your big day going?

“Aw, it’s been great. Got up early, watched the sun rise, then I went down to the IHOP and got myself a syrupjob.”

Is a syrupjob what I think it is?

“Exactly.”

Ew.

“You gotta shower afterwards, no matter how powerful the skank’s tongue work is. Strongest muscle in the body, but that boysenberry is sticky.”

Uh-huh. Then what?

“Stopped at the bakery on my way home.”

You picked up your own cake?

“Nah. Fuck cake. I had to see Eduardo.”

He works at the bakery?

“He doesn’t work anywhere now. I mean, he’ll dig for a while, but that tires you out.”

Billy, did you bury a baker alive?

“Yeah.”

Why?

“He knows what he did. Well, he knew what he did.”

You celebrate your birthday weird.

“It’s the Grateful Dead way.”

Is it?

“I don’t give a shit.”

Philia

“Hey, Billy?”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“If you could measure love, would you do it with a scale or a ruler?”

“What kind of love we talking about here? Agape? Storge? Eros? You definitely measure eros with a ruler. Eros is the boner-love. You measure boners with rulers, I know that.”

“No question.”

“An argument  could be made that boners are weightless.”

“A good one. Weight has to do with gravity, and boners say ‘No, thank you’ to gravity.”

“Right. I mean, it’s still got mass.”

“Sure.”

“But no weight.”

“Far out, man.”

You Sexy Things

Women–hot ones, with perfect titty-balls and asses that went woobblewobblewobble when struck (consensually) with a belt–would line up to blow these dudes. Sometimes, the women would blow other, uglier, men to get to these paragons of masculinity. Your dongs, the women would wail; We need them!

What I’m saying is that you should learn how to play guitar.

Someone Steal That Man’s Razor

A reminder: Never wear your boots like that unless OSHA demands that you do so.

A further reminder: “Body Positivity” is a scam invented to sell products–some cheese-covered, some not–to fat people.

A farther reminder: Nick Paumgarten fucking loves mountains. Climbing ’em, sliding down ’em, getting drunk with rich fuckers at the base of ’em: the man’s a catholic slopist.

A father’s reminder: Get your hair cut and tell your mother you love her.

A farmer’s reminder: The Grange meeting is Tuesday night.

A Farnsworth reminder: I INVENTED TEEVEE, YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARDS!

Bikin’

Hey, Billy. How come you don’t have a bike?

“Probably cuz I’m not a homo.”

I forget how charming you can be.

“It’s an inherently queer activity. Might as well be huffing a hairy pair. I mean, if that’s what you’re into: go for it. But you know me, Ass. I’m a skank man.”

You’ve never explored that side of your sexuality?

“Explored? What am I, Gay Indiana Jones? What do I do, blow that guy who played the war-midget?”

What the fuck’s a war-midget?

“The movie’s got the war-midget and the gay guy and the little hairy fucks. Buncha other assholes with swords. Maybe a dragon. He had a beard, and he fought, and he was a midget. And he was Indiana Jones’ heathen friend.”

John Rhys-Davies. You’re talking about John Rhys-Davies.

“Whatever his name is. I’m not blowing him.”

I have absolutely no idea how the conversation got to this place.

“You wanted to talk about war-midgets.”

So Dapper

Where the hell are you two going?

“Court.”

“Also court.”

What did you do?

“Punched a busker!”

“Held a busker while Billy punched him!”

Good luck, guys.

We Can All Agree That…

…Mustache Garcia is the worst Garcia. Sweatpants Garcia was the saddest Garcia, and Clean-Shaven Garcia was the most unsettling Garcia, but Mustache Garcia was awful in every way.

…Billy’s beginner’s paunch is adorable.

…No favors are done by Ramrod’s hair. Grow that shit out, Ramrod. You look like one of those naked holy babies in the Sistine Chapel

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