Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: dead & company (page 1 of 37)

I Fought The Chaw, And The Chaw Won

Everyone needs to put some damn shoes on.

“Oh, no. Shoes are the foot-killer; I shall not wear them. I will let trips to Foot Locker pass over me like a wave, and when they are gone only my tootsies shall remain.”

Nicely done.

“Besides, I was talking to Josh, and it turns out that sneakers are, like, two grand a pair nowadays.”

Not normal sneakers. Just his  handmade limited-edition bullshit. You can get a pair of Adidas for $65.

“Huh.”

One other thing.

“You want some Fret-Eeze?”

No. What’s with the chewing tobacco?

“I enjoy a good dip. See, what you do is–”

I know how it works.

“–you put a pinch between your cheek and gums.”

Yes.

“Mm, what flavor.”

Chewing tobacco is absolutely the most disgusting way of ingesting nicotine. And least cool.

“I don’t know about that. How about that thing that looks like you’re sucking on a robot’s dick?”

Vaping.

“That scene is not for me.”

Good call. But the dipping has to stop.

“I’m gonna keep doing whatever the hell I want.”

Good. We’re agreed.

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.

Number 19 In Your Program, Number One In Your Hart

Nice shirt, Mickey.

“Pre-yoinked!”

Does that take some of the fun out of it for you?

“It does. Well observed. The thrill of the yoink is in the hunt. I was a bit let down.”

What did you do?

“I yoinked a bunch of merch. Cleared out half the table, then went outside and made people give me free shirts.”

You’re a predictable man.

“I like what I like.”

What’s on your monitor?

“Lyrics, sometimes.”

What about the other times?

“Truly tasteless jokes. Remember those books?”

Yeah. The paperbacks with all the jokes about dead babies and the disabled.

“Those. They come up randomly. Lotta fun. Hey, what’s worse than a pile of dead babies?”

Please don’t, Mickey.

“A pile of dead babies with one live one in the middle, chewing his way out.”

Dammit, man.

“Billy showed it to me. Lotta fun. How did Helen Keller burn her ear?”

Oh, not Helen Keller jokes.

“Answering the iron. Great little pieces of comedy there. Like I said–”

Lotta fun?

“–lotta fun.”

You drinking again?

“Not again. Still.”

Sure.

Never Rub Another Man’s Rhubarb

“What fuckery is this?”

Josh?

“Nope. A little lower.”

Wolf?

“Mr. Wolf. Put some respect on my name.”

Sorry. Mr. Wolf.

“Do I look like a slutty sophomore?”

I’m sorry?

“I said…do I look like a slutty sophomore?”

No.

“THEN WHY IS EVERYONE FINGERING ME?”

Ew.

“What’s happening here is not consensual. Who is this diphthong?”

That’s John Mayer.

“Who is he?”

He’s the Bobby now.

“What is Bobby doing?”

Bobby’s the Garcia.

“Is Mickey still Mickey?”

Mickey is incapable of change.

“Thank God for small favors. I mean, it’s bad enough when Woody Hayes plays me every summer, but at least he’s a fat guy. I like to rest against a big belly. It’s my thing.”

Okay.

“Don’t judge me.”

I wasn’t.

“I like ’em thick.”

FINE!

“But this guy? I can feel abs under his tee-shi–”

What?

“Don’t tell me he’s wearing one of the Big Guy’s tee-shirts, too.”

I don’t think so.

“Hey, tell me I’m wrong for thinking it was a possibility.”

You are not wrong.

“Holy shit, he’s playing me all fucked-up.”

How so?

“Well, he hasn’t clammed a note in…all night, really.”

True.

“And he’s playing too fast. I’ll tell you this right now: he does any of that Van Halen shit on me and I’ll have him murdered in his sleep.”

I don’t think he will.

“Jesus, this is a nightmare.”

Just get through it, Mr. Wolf.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Hey.”

Mm-hmm?

“What happened to Phil?”

Long story.

Tangential To The Line

Aren’t those things supposed to have pedals?

“Yeah, but they’re tricky. I’m just faking it over here.”

Is that a Dusenberg Pomona 6?

“You had nothing better to do than to find out where I bought my steel guitar?”

No. Jesus, look at this website. It’s the digital equivalent of the Champagne Room at the Porsche dealership.

“There is no Champagne Room at the Porsche dealership. They’ll take you into the break room and tongue you for a while, but there’s no ‘Champagne Room.’ The GM will usually tug at you, too, if you seem receptive. That’s not abnormal for us.”

Us?

“The rich.”

Ah.

“Almost all of our services come with a tugger attached. At the very least. Sometimes you’ll get more, or even way more, but you’ll always get a tugger. I buy a watch for a million? I expect free shipping, and I demand to be worked off.”

Capitalism is scary.

OR

Okay, this is absurd:

And there’s no prices. My father warned me about that. Everyone’s fathers warned them about that.

Jesus Christ. Look here:

SHOW ME YOUR BUTTHOLE.

Stop it.

I feel home within buttholes. THERE IS MUSIC IN YOUR BUTTHOLE.

You barely even wrote 200 words, and lost control in the curve. Why can’t you concentrate?

Boo, you’re the worst. Anyway, it turns out that Duesenberg’s aren’t as ferociously expensive as they might be: you can get a used Pomona 6 for $2,300, cash on the barrel, which seems about right for a fancy guitar. Duesenberg guitars are not made by intolerable hipsters–

–but by clueless foreigners. Try and read that paragraph without a comically German accent. Duesenberg ist DREI MACHT STEPPEN! Also: Dieter Golsdorf? Here he is:

Because everything is a circle, maaaaaan.

Man At Work

 

“Ass!”

Hey, Billy. Summer Tour, huh?

“Yup. I gotta tell you something: I love this band more than I loved the Grateful Dead. And not just because Phil isn’t in it.”

Is it the checks?

“You really do know me, man.”

Uh-huh.

“Deadheads got so much more money now! They used to sleep a dozen to a room and give tuggers for drug money, but now half of ’em are real estate assholes. Or respectable criminals. You know: classy shit like fraud, or computer shit. Dead & Company got more respectable criminals in their audience than any other band.”

Almost certainly true.

“And they’re desperate to give us their money. We priced the merch so high as a joke. Figured we’d have to knock ten bucks off, but the rubes ponied right up.”

Please don’t call your fans “rubes,” Billy.

“What would you call someone who spent three grand on a blanket with a Stealie on it?”

Yeah, okay.

Those Wild Backstage Happenings

Is it weird that I can recognize Matt Busch from the back of his head?

“A little.”

And that’s Katie Skene behind you.

“Good for her.”

You all right, buddy?

“Been two-fisting rosé since noon.”

Hey, it’s summertime.

“That was my excuse, yeah.”

Bonin’

How do they fuck?

OR

“Honey, your ribs are caught on mine again.”

“Shit.”

“Move for–”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“–ward a little. No.”

“Twist your torso.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“My back.”

My back. My back. Jesus, you’re a goddamned woman, Albert.”

“FUCK YOU, HENRIETTA!”

Clergymen In Uniform, And Old Men Pulling Muscles

Hey, Bobby.

“I, uh, thought you were mooing.”

Moving.

“Ah. Yeah, that makes much more sense.”

It does.

“You’re not a cow.”

No. Bobby?

“Yuh-huh?”

Explain yourself.

“Well, you know Monet.”

Not personally, but I follow her on Instagram.

“She went out to the lot and, well, she made her old man proud.”

She yoinked that shirt for you?

“She did. It’s a parody of a popular heavy mental band. And, uh, the style is what’s know as a tanked top.”

Right.

“And I don’t know if you’ve noticed–”

Literally every single Deadhead on the planet has noticed, Bobby.

“–I’ve been hitting the gym lately.”

Dude, you got a bicep vein like Arnold.

“Rothstein?”

Schwarzenegger.

“That also makes more sense.”

Happy And Barefoot

Look at you, all happy and barefoot.

“We had the rugs deep cleaned. I tried to get Josh to kick off his shoes, but he started talking about Ibaldi’s Theory of Lace Color, and I think I blacked out. The boy likes to explain his outfits.”

He does.

“So, uh, he’s still got his shells on.”

Shells?

“Your shells. Foot’s an oyster. Shoe’s the shell. Gotta slide on outta your shell, man. That’s where the living is done.”

All of you are getting weirder.

“Mickey is not only wearing shoes, but playing them.”

Sure. This is Mexico?

“Oh, yeah. It’s a hoot. Right on the beach, got the Holy Roller Monster Moon going. Nice check. Cannot complain about this check. Plus, uh, I wasn’t incapacitated by a shrimp taco this year.”

Right. Last year, you caught Montezuma’s Revenge.

“Rough 24 hours. Went through three toilets.”

Glad you’re healthy and happy.

“Better than the alternatives, yeah.”

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