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

Tag: bill walton (Page 1 of 10)

Traveling

“What really pickles my plums is the Kings’ basketballetics. What I like to call ‘undefinable fundamentals.’ It’s that ‘nothing’ that exists at the heart of all ‘somethings,’ the promise of annihilation that all matter makes. And their passing game.”

“What about Gritty?”

“Gritty is not associated with the Sacramento Kings, Mick.”

“I like that guy a lot.”

“His capering speaks to what I like to call ‘the choatic inchoate.'”

“You are awful smart tonight, Bill.”

“It’s 90% the shrooms talking. How are your eyeballs synchronized?”

“They’re as together as me and Billy.”

“In the 70’s or 80’s?”

“Yes.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Bill Walton speaking.”

“Bill, I got lost.”

“Mickey, where are you?”

“I heard drumming.”

“That explains it.”

“And I followed it. We should add some bucket drummers to Dead & Company. How many is the right amount?”

“Generally, the proper size for buckets is a brigade’s worth.”

“Wonderful. Hey, Bill? Would you say that Sacramento looked exactly like Manhattan?”

“I would not say that at all. The two locations could never be mistaken for one another.”

“Uh-huh. I’m really lost.”

Walton & Hart: Sweatshirt Buddies

“I feel like I could have done some more yoinking.”

“Nothing else yoinkable, Mick. Be grateful for the sweatshirt. 100% cotton, but it’s been pre-shrunk. The pouch in front will bear your hands, or stash, or secrets. You could maybe keep a dream journal in there, I dunno, something positive and creative. And the hood, Mick! For thousands of years, only the wealthiest and most powerful men had hoods. You had to be a king, or French, or whatever to get a hood. Nowadays, sweatshirts just come with ’em. That’s progress. The gradual democratization of fashion is the secret history of the world.”

“Yeah, okay, but I wanna yoink some rum.”

“That’s not yoinking. That’s stealing.”

“No, no, no. The booze-yoink. That’s when I stand in a bar until someone recognizes me and pays for my drinks.”

“Mickey, we ate a lot of mushrooms. Don’t put rum on top of that.”

“Why not? It sounds delicious.”

“I agree. The scents would entice your nostrils into making love to your taste buds. Full-on face orgy.”

“Are we really early, or did the game end an hour ago?”

“We’re early, Mick.”

“Okay. I thought so, but I wanted your take on it.”

Luke, I Am Your Father, And Your Uncle Mickey

“Luke, my son, you are the glory of my loins, and you give me proper praise, like Telemachus unto Odysseus. You honor me, boy. You honor me.”

“Uh-huh. How long you and Uncle Mickey been hanging out, Dad?”

“Since 1974. And also all day.”

“All day?”

“It’s Mushroom Monday, Lukey. We’ve been pounding boomers since dawn. We snacked on that shit!”

“Dad.”

“Chowed down like it was Chinatown. Throwing that yunka back like popcorn.”

“Dad.”

“I go hard on Tour, Lukey.”

“I gotta go coach my team.”

“You make me proud to be an American. I mean, many things do that, but you’re one of them.”

“Is Uncle Mickey okay?”

“He will be!”

“See you after the game, Dad.”

If You’re Named Bill, You Get To Play The Drums

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“I thought you were dead.”

Hurricane missed us. Barely even squalled.

“Well, uh, that’s good, I suppose.”

Thank you for the endorsement.

“Just saying that if you had died, then Phil could have used your back.”

You can’t transplant a back.

“Not with your insurance plan, no, but Phil’s got Cadillac coverage.”

Sure.

“No co-pay.”

Nice. What’s Walton doing?

“Attacking life with a zestful glee. And, uh, whacking the bongos.”

Congas.

“Do I look like Mickey? Foreign drum’s a foreign drum.”

Is he miked?

“He thinks he is.”

You’re a good friend, Bobby.

“Yup, sure.”

Double Beam Dream

“Betcha I can drink all those waters.”

“Oh, Mickey, I would advise against that. Your actions may lead to a condition known as hyponatremia. Too much aqua is just as bad as none at all. Throws your salt balance out of whack.”

“That would be fine. My doctor says I need to cut back on my salt.”

“Mick, I think he just meant for you to eat fewer french fries.”

“Well, I bet I can drink all that wine.”

“Twenty says you shit yourself before you finish.”

“No bet. I’m definitely gonna shit myself.”

“I’m so glad we’re friends, Mickey. It’s like the old saying goes: Always meet your heroes.

Scottie Doesn’t Know

“About my height, but not as handsome. Brown hair. I, uh, think he dyes it nowadays.”

“I haven’t, Bob.”

“Although, if you meet the him that’s from 1986, he won’t need to dye his hair. It’ll still be brown, though.”

“Huh?”

“Goes by Hewis. He’ll, uh, yell at you for calling him that, but I don’t know why. It’s the man’s Christian name.”

“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

“Nifty.”

OR

Look how wee an iPhone looks in Scottie’ massives grawpers.

OR

Kind of a dick move for Walton to stand with Scottie. Bobby must have felt like he was standing at the base of Mount Rushmore.

The Highest Man In Colorado

Hey, Bill Walton. Whatcha doing?

“Greetings and salutations, my lexiconical chum! I’m here in Colorado having the time of my life watching Dead & Company, and hanging out with the greatest fanbase in the world, the Deadheads. Great googly moogly, I wish everyone on earth could be here. Although if they were, tickets would be much harder to get.”

I’m sure you could get in.

“No doubt. I’ve become great friends with the band over the years, except for Jeff Chimenti.”

Why not Jeff?

“He knows what he did.”

You’re very easy to find in crowds, you know.

“It’s because of my length! I’m about a foot longer than most humans.”

Taller. You’re taller than most people.

“No, I measure myself by laying down and getting out the ol’ tape measure.”

Why?

“Coach Wooden said so.”

Sure.

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.”

“Sure.”

“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.”

“Awesome.”

Tall, Dark, And Handsome

Hey, Bobby. Hey, Bill Walton. Whatcha doing?

“Looking up. Pointing.”

“My friend, I am witnessing an event of great and noble import unfolding before my eyes, a phantasmagorical scene that rivals any vista taken in by Buzz Aldrin or Neil Armstrong, and sharing the moment with a man who is not just a legend of music, but of life and beardiness. Every day I’m alive is the greatest day of my life. And I’m also pointing.”

Sure, okay. What are you looking at?

“Not Gary Coleman. For several reasons.”

“That little fella got screwed. Reminds me in many ways of Greg Oden. More talent than the E Street Band, but the man’s bones were made of Play-Doh left in the fridge overnight. Can’t choose your DNA! Unless you’re a mad scientist, and I’m relatively certain neither Gary Coleman nor Greg Oden were scientists of any sort, let alone mad.”

Seriously, what the fuck are you two doing?

“It’s Pippi Longscotting.”

No.

“Pippa Middleton.”

Nope.

“Suzanne Pleshette.”

“Bob, my compadre, this is Scottie Pippin. The Sancho Panza of the NBA! The Tonto! The Otis Toole!”

That last one was a bit inappropriate, Bill Walton.

“We’re all grown-ups here. In fact, two of us are far more than grown. Look at Scottie and my paws.”

Jesus.

“That’s why I live in San Diego! If I lived somewhere cold, I’d have to buy custom-made gloves, and they’re stupidly expensive.”

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