Mickey’s demands for the day:
- Visor.
- Dead shirt.
- All the cocaine in the world.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: donna jean godchaux (Page 3 of 15)
Bobby still has no idea who Ned Lagin is.
OR
Look again. That’s not a balloon.
OR
Phil and Mrs. Donna Jen have assumed what can only be described as boogie-posture.
You just gonna keep posting compulsively all night?
Yes. It’s like knitting. It calms me.
When did you become afraid of flying?
It’s not the flying. I have no fear of flying whatsoever. I like watching out the window during takeoffs and landings; to tell the truth, I still have a child’s fascination with airplanes.
So what is it?
It’s every single thing that surrounds the flying: showing up early, and having your shit together, and being locked in a tube with strangers, and cops everywhere. And then assuming Radical Islamic Terrorists–
Which Hillary Clinton will not say.
–don’t kill me, which they probably will, at the end of the flight I am 2,000 miles away from my bed, books, and desk. And toilet.
There’s a bed and toilet waiting for you.
Sure, full of strangers’ filth and rot.
Your entire family–some of whom are actively dying–will be together for the first time in several years. Your beloved Brother and Sister-in-Law on the Dead are looking forward to seeing you. If you act like an asshole, I will slap you like a wife. You will behave, goddammit, and you will not talk about politics and you will not grouse and gripe.
I’m not a good traveler.
You are like french fries. Still, though: you will not be an asshole.
Are you giving me The Talk?
Yes.
How old am I gonna be before I stop getting The Talk?
Up to you, isn’t it?
Yes.
Quick tip. What’s your favorite sentence the past few weeks?
Oh, that would have to be “We’re all gonna fucking die.”
Right. Let’s leave that one at home. Don’t pack it.
What if I need it?
You won’t need it.
…
Please don’t be an asshole.
Christmas is known for miracles.
The other way, Garcia.
“Which way?”
Rotate to your left about 140 degrees.
“Wouldn’t that make it way too hot in here?”
Bobby, don’t help.
“This way, Jer!”
No, no. Don’t listen to Phil. Turn towards the crowd. The way Bobby is facing.
“Are you talking to me?”
DON’T TURN AROUNDoh goddammit.
Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?
“Feelin’ it, sugar.”
I see that. You look like Kate Moss.
“All pretty people look alike.”
Your hair length says to me that you’ve suffered no extended illnesses.
“Okay, that’s enough. Don’t talk to me like you talk to those Burnin’ Man skanks, darlin’. I ain’t gonna contemplate the universe with you.”
Sorry.
“Besides, I’m married.”
What?
Oh, Mrs. Donna Jean. I don’t want to do this bit with you.
“IS THIS GUY BOTHER–”
shlummmmph-plop
…
Did Keith just slide off the horse?
“Looks like.”
Where’d he get a horse?
“Stable?”
Good talk, Mrs. Donna Jean.
In the distance, where the hills ran parallel to the stream of frissile blue water his best goat drowned in summer last, there were Comanche; The Guitarist had seen them, once, outside of a town whose name was unknown to him. The fierce horribles, gnashing ghastlies in mufti and chaps; some naked, and painted, not with paint; one had a stovepipe hat and a slavewoman’s ass for a saddle; blood-eyed mustang unsaddled madness in the red-specked snow of a winter that doesn’t belong to the white man around here.
And Mrs. Donna Jean thought, “Oh, not this shit again.”
OR
We’ve got ourselves an old-fashioned chin-off, Enthusiasts.
OR
Aw, they gave Bobby the clavés.
OR
This is another pic from FoTotD Ste4ve (pronounced Stuh-FOUR-vuh) and maybe if you say nice things to him in the Comments Section, then there will be more. or maybe not: people with numbers in their names are often squirrelly, as exemplified by New York Times reporter Jennifer 8. Lee. That woman’s squirreliness is off the charts.
Game time, Enthusiasts! There are seven small differences between these two photos: can you spot them?
Also: the day Bobby bought those trousers was the happiest day of Creepy Ernie’s professional and sexual life.
This is a lovely photo of Mrs. Donna Jean that I hadn’t seen before, but this photo is also a good test of whether or not you’ve been reading TotD too much: if you saw the casters and the coil of haphazardly abandoned wire, and thought, “I know who set that up,” then you have been coming here too much.
Summer’s here,
and the time is right,
for Bobby’s tan capris.
Show’s going on in Queens. Listen here, or watch here, or look at Ned Lagin naked some more. It’s a free country.
There will always be a Mrs. Donna Jean.
Fillmore South will be a reef, corrupt and smoky and teeming with surly fish. The water is rising, and the lakes becoming brackish, and we will move to the mountains; buy real estate in Colorado right now.
Your ancestors, if there are any, will forget your name and all records will be lost after the Grand Mutilations of the Shallow King. When they dig up Las Vegas, they will surely think it religious.
There will still be a Mrs. Donna Jean.
Bobby posted this on his Facebook, and I think it’s sweet and it makes me happy and I wouldn’t dare make one single joke.
(I will get to the guitar.)
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