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.”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: dead & company (Page 2 of 38)
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!”
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.”
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.”
Seriously, don’t depend on me for any sort of news or updatery. This information is 12 hours old at this point.
OR
D&C played the Hollywood Bowl two years ago, but last year decided to shoot the moon and book Dodger Stadium; you will notice they are back at the Bowl. But, wow, Foxborough.
OR
“Cellairis Amphitheatre” is unpleasant, and “Ruoff Home Mortgage Music Center” is the sound God makes when He gives up on you, but “Dos Equis Pavillion” is the most depressing. It’s a name that saps your strength.
Surprisingly, “Jiffy Lube Live” is my favorite of the venues’ titles. It belongs in a satirical 80’s movie set in 2018. I think there was a “Jiffy Lube Arena” in Demolition Man. We are living in the future, Enthusiasts, and it is dumb.
OR
Who did the logo? That banner doodle? It looks like an ad for Pirates of the Penzance performed by the mentally deficient.
Lo, ‘fore the Tour were the horsemen,
Of which there were four:
Plague
Pestilence
Famine
The guys from Online Ceramics.
(They were dressed as turtles and those fucking bears
But I know
Pestilence
And those guys from Online Ceramics
When I see them.)
They are heralds.
So they herald.
You don’t want an imaginative herald; they must stick to the script.
“Hark!”
(That’s what the heralds cried.)
“Death is coming!”
“Did you mean the Dead?”
(This was the response of social media.)
“Same thing.”
“Very much not at all. Different concepts entirely.”
“The Dead is coming! Are you happy?”
“What about Company?”
“Well, of course Company is going to be there. Company’s pretty much been dragging Dead around amphitheaters the past few summers.”
“You are not a great herald.”
“Hey, kiss my asshole, fuckface.”
Excuse me. Jackass?
Mm?
This started as some of your terrible poetry.
Particularly putrid this time, yes.
And then simply devolved into another lazy dialogue.
Didn’t even really establish the premise. Very stream-of-consciousness. I’m really the only person around continuing the Dead’s spirit of improvisation and joyful confusion.
It just doesn’t make any sense.
Wait until I go into a list thing right now.
What? Aw.
Ladies and Geraniums, TotD has eyes everywhere. High-ups in organizations both directly and tangentially related to Grateful Dead business compete with one another to leak me information; TotD is like Julian Assange with melanin. Thus, I have obtained the Dead & Company 2019 Summer Tour schedule early, and I can share it with you.
[ATTENTION: News outlets quoting this information MUST credit TotD. For these purposes, Jambase and Live4LiveMusic will be considered “news sources.”]
DEAD & COMPANY 2019 SUMMER TOUR DATES
5/30 – Adelaide, Australia (Date newly added, as Billy demanded to be taken to see “that big fuckin’ cow” so he could “jerk off on it.” Follow-up questions were deflected, and the show was booked.)
6/5 – New York City, The View taping. (Bobby is gonna get in an argument with the chubby blonde; everyone else just wants to hang out with Whoopi.)
6/6 – CitiField, Queens. (Double-header with the Mets/Giants game that afternoon.)
6/8 – Some Soul-Deadening Shed in some Shithole Town, Ohio.
6/9 – Some Soul-Deadening Shed in some Shithole Town, Indiana.
6/11 – Bobby’s Bus Eaten by Quicksand, Oklahoma. (Bobby is rescued, but all of his sandals are lost.)
6/12 – Replacement Bus also Devoured by Quicksand, Still Oklahoma. (They weren’t even in the thing an hour and SHLORP the sucker was gone. Bobby again escaped, this time with his sandals.)
6/12 (Night) – Holiday Inn Bobby is Staying in Gets–You Guessed It–Eaten by Quicksand, They Have Not Left Oklahoma. (At this point, it seems like there’s a vendetta involved. Bobby tries to get his lawyer on the phone, but the quicksand snatches the phone from his hand and runs off, giggling.)
“Hey. Excuse me.”
I know that voice.
Oh, hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“I gotta go with the drunk guy: none of this makes any sense.”
The drunk guy?
“Italics are regular letters that have been drinking.”
I guess. Bobby, I’m providing a useful service to the Deadheaded community.
“You’re getting all goofy and typing.”
That, too.
“There’s, uh, something that Bill Graham used to say to me. ‘Don’t be a putz all the time.’ I think that applies here.
A little.
“You having fun. man?”
“Fuck, man, I had no idea about you motherfuckers.”
“Yeah, we get it on for white boys.”
“This is a blast, Jerry. You do this every night?”
“Except for when we suck, yeah.”
“That happen a lot?”
“You’d be shocked.”
“Well, not tonight. I feel like I can’t play a wrong note.”
“You’ve got an open invitation, man. Hell, you can join the band if you want.”
“Lemme think about that, man. I’m really gonna–
SHWAZZATHOOM!
“–think aboutWHAT THE FUCK?”
“WHAT JUST HAPPENED!?”
“What’s up, Branford? Do you need some Fret-Eeze?”
“No! Where am I? What year is it? BOBBY? What the fuck? Where’s Garcia!?”
“Ah. What, uh, year do you think it is?”
“1990!”
“Ah. Did you, uh, play a D-flat?”
“I think so.”
“Well, there you go. It’s 2018, Jerry’s dead, I’m the Garcia now, Josh is me, and our new bass player is also named Branford.”
“What kind of white person bullshit is this?”
BANG!
“What the fuck?”
BANG!
“Bobby, someone’s–”
…
“Bobby? Damn, he’s quick.”
“I got you now, Wynton, you corny motherfucker!”
BANG!
“STOP SHOOTING! I’m not Wynton! It’s Branford!”
“Branford?”
“Yes!”
“Not Wynton?”
“No!”
“Hate that fucking brother of yours.”
“I know!”
“Hey, motherfucker. Why you hanging out with those old white motherfuckers?”
“I wasn’t! I was hanging out with middle-aged white motherfuckers and then I got shoved sideways through time or something!”
“Chill the fuck out before I slap you.”
“Okay.”
JAZZ SLAP!
“I was calm!”
“You was getting to calm. I helped you along the fucking way. C’mon, let’s go for a ride and I’ll take you back to wherever the fuck you came from.”
“You can do that?”
BANG!
“I’m Miles Davis, motherfucker. Course I can travel through fucking time.”
“I’m so confused.”
Maximum effort, Billy.
“Big Jeff.”
“Johnny Checkers.”
“Bro, I love it over here. Me and my guy rocking the fuck out.”
“Making beautiful music. Having a blast, bro.”
“Right side is tight side.”
“I like that! Nice.”
“Uh-huh. Um, Jeff?”
“Yeah, John?”
“Where’d you get that shirt?”
“Which shirt?”
“The one you’re wearing.”
“Oh, this one. I, uh, don’t remember.”
“It looks familiar.”
“I’ve probably worn it before.”
“I don’t think so. It looks–and don’t take offense to this–much more expensive than the shirts you usually wear.”
“I’ve been hitting the gym. Maybe that’s it.”
“No.”
“Huh. No idea, then.”
“Jeff?”
“Yeah, John?”
“Did you rob my house?”
“No.”
…
…
…
“I burgled your house.”
“GODDAMMIT.”
“Not cool?”
“No! Not cool in the slightest!”
“Dude, you’ve never been in a band before. This is what bandmates do.”
“It is not.”
“Billy breaks into my house all the time.”
“That’s because he’s a psychopath! This is not acceptable behavior!”
“Okay, okay, okay. Tell you what: you can burgle my place.”
“And steal what? Your gym shorts and Ratdog tee-shirts?”
“And conditioner.”
“I have my own conditioner.”
“And yet my hair’s nicer than yours.”
“That’s it: Oteil’s switching back.”
Reports of a teenaged girl up in the rigging turned out to be false, but Jay Blakesburg got a good shot while he was up there, anyway.
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