“I can’t understand, man. ‘Bigger?'”
BRITISH MUMBLING
“Jigger? Are you saying ‘jigger?’ Do you want a drink?”
MORE BRITISH MUMBLING
“Tigger? From Winnie the Pooh?”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: elvis costello
Don’t tell me you don’t know the difference
Between a lover and a fighter.
With my pen and my electric typewriter
Even in a perfect world where everyone was equal
I’d still own the film rights and be working on the sequel.
Elvis was cooler than Elvis, but Elvis was way smarter than Elvis. Both of them were worse ice skaters than Elvis, though.
OR
Goddammit, someone get the black-up singers some fucking shoes.
Get better, Declan.
- The truly fascinating story behind David S. Pumpkins.
- The 1987 NFL strike from the scabs’ perspective.
- How the P’zone got its name.
- 20,000 words on Justin Bieber’s new tattoo, including a rare interview with Scooter Braun.
- Inky, Blinky, Pinky, and Lies: The True Story Behind Ms. Pac-Man.
- That time Randy Johnson made that seagull explode.
- What If Urkel Was Cool? The Birth, Life, And Death of Stefan Urquelle.
- The Pet Rock story.
- Those couple years that Elvis Costello looked like a hasidic werewolf.
- Midnite In The Garden Of Good And Bobby: The Complete Oral History Of Bobby & The Midnites.
“Oh, shit.”
…
“Oh, fuck.”
…
“Oh, shit.”
John, why is Bobby running around the room cursing?
“He can’t find Elvis.”
OMG.
“Right?”
Elvis needs supervision at all times. He was alone literally once in his entire adult life and he ended up at the White House.
“Is that how that happened?”
Yeah. He ran away from home and flew around the country for a while by himself, and then decided to meet the president. He had his guys meet him in Washington.
“That’s amazing.”
It is. Why aren’t you helping Bobby find the King?
…
“You’re kidding me.”
What?
“NOW you want me in the storyline.”
Desperate times, etc.
“No.”
Please?
“Kiss my ass.”
Okay.
CELL PHONE NOISE
“You have, like, one trick.”
But it’s a good trick. Answer the phone.
“Asshole.”
…
“Alpha Phi gala, John Mayer speaking.”
“John, have you seen Elvis?”
“Benjy?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you?”
“Still in Cuba. Did you know the Spanish word for ‘marijuana’ is also marijuana? That’s called a cognate.”
“No, it’s a loanword.”
“Let’s not argue about the parts of speech. You haven’t seen him?”
“No. He was at the bar with ’89 Garcia, and now he’s not.”
“Is ’89 Garcia missing, too?”
“No, he’s onstage jamming with Elvis.”
“You said Elvis was missing!”
“The other Elvis.”
“Okay. John, this isn’t good. Elvis can’t be left alone. He’s a people person.”
“I don’t care. Someone I won’t name who’s a lonely weirdo didn’t want me in the storyline.”
“Be a team player, bro. Help out, okay?”
“Ugh.”
“Have you been to Cuba? It’s fuckin’ awesome. You know what they call Cuban sandwiches down here?”
“Sandwiches?”
“Yeah, sandwiches. No modifier.”
“Makes sense.”
CALL WAITING NOISE
“Benjy, I’ll call you back.”
“Find Elvis!”
“No!”
…
“John Mayer, Sorority girl slayer.”
“What’s that now?”
“Nothing! Sorry, Bob. Just a joke.”
“Not a great one.”
“Where are you? I hear music. You’re not onstage. Wait. Where did Phil go?”
“Yeah, we ducked out for a sec. Can you find Elvis and also drive my wife–”
“Natasha Monster.”
“–home? Great. Good talk, Josh.”
DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE
“Oh, come ON!”
Hey, look: you’re in the storyline.
“I hate this universe.”
What if I told you that Hillary Clinton was president in it?
“Is she?”
Nah.
“Fucker. Selfie!”
What?
“Selfie.”
Ah. Just go find Elvis.
“I hate you.”
Understood. Hey, wait. Where’s Putin?
“Dude, he’s shitfaced and heckling ’89 Garcia and Wrong Elvis.”
What?
“You suck, Jerry Grateful!”
Jesus. Is that Medvedev? Where’d he come from?
“Is my Charlie Hodge. Brings Putin scarves and water and dead journalists. Play Freebird!”
Of course you’re that guy. John?
“Oh, what?”
I need you to do the following things: number one, get Vladimir Putin out of Bobby’s daughter’s charity function; two, find Elvis Presley; three, steal all the time machines back from ’85 Phil. You are the storyline now, pal. Main character. All your show.
“I’m not wearing the right clothes.”
You’re never wearing the right clothes. Just do this. Be the hero, John Mayer. You’re the Garcia now.”
“Hey! I’m in the room, y’know!”
“Sorry, ’89 Garcia! John? Buddy? Can you do this one for me?”
“Again: ugh. And how am I going to help? You’ve never let me have the Time Sheath.”
Gotcha covered.
CELL PHONE NOISE
“You’re the man.”
I am.
…
“John Mayer, hero of the storyline.”
“Dynamic duo back in action, Hot Dog Dick!”
“FUCK!”
“Kim Jong Un got Time Hat. Find hillbilly in cape. Save world.””
“Fuck.”
“Take best friend on adventure through history.”
“Fuck.”
“Father invent history.”
…
…
…
“Fuck.”
You two look snazzy.
“The boys told me skinny ties were back in. Got me a purple one.”
“Oy, mate. Up me grimpers wif a Charlie Chuzzlewhit?”
…
What?
“British.”
I know Elvis Costello is British: I just didn’t know he was that British.
“Rumpy-pumpy inna corner flat, Guvn’r?”
“Just ignore him.”
Done.
…
So.
“So what? I got a gig that night. Shapiro’s place: he built the dressing room the way I want it. Plus all the cats I hired? I fucking hired them. I’ve left guitarists on the side of the road in the middle of the night.”
I heard that story, yeah.
“Listen, man: you remember that thing when my liver stopped working and they had to put another guy’s in me?”
I also heard that story.
“It’s all borrowed. Every day is a borrowed one. It’s a gift, man, and I will not spend one more day of it having the same amount of votes as Mickey.”
Concisely put.
“Scouser wit’ a wee cheeky butty dinna onna ‘er Majesty, gor blimey.
…
“I think he’s just making that up.”
Yeah. Phil?
“Uh-huh?”
Don’t mention Ray Charles.
“Gotcha.”
The Dead experimented with many formats before settling on the Two-Set Solution that finally brough peace to the long-embattled region. Some of them were good ideas, and others the drummers came up with, but since Lost Live Dead refuses to return my phone calls and texts and frowns upon my climbing into his window, I’ll have to illuminate these dark corners of Dead history:
The “All-At-Once” Approach was Phil’s idea, and it wasn’t really his idea so much as it was Charles Ives’ idea, and it was completely awful. Ned Lagin loved it, which should tell you something.
Backwards Day was a spiritual cousin to Opposite Day, I suppose, but instead of just turning their guitars around, the Boys (and Mrs. Donna Jean) turned the whole show around, opening with U.S. Blues, doing the drum solo in the first set, then closing with Promised Land or Bertha, and then just standing there smoking for a while. It was, as you would presume, anti-climactic.
Inside-Out Day might also be considered a spiritual cousin to something, but it was just weird. The band would jam backstage for an hour, then take the stage and smoke, get high, get beejers, get more high, check their gambling losses, poo, and yell at the road crew. Then they would return to their dressing rooms and jam for two hours. This approach angered people.
Karaoke Night with the Dead was a poor attempt to ride a 90’s trend, as was Macarena Night with the Dead. In the former, lucky audience members were allowed to sing with the group until they wandered too close to Garcia and Parish punched them in the head. The latter was exactly what it sounds like and I’m not gonna lie: it caused a suicide or two.
The Wheel of Rock and Roll Fortune is an idea recently dusted off by Elvis Costello, a longtime Deadhead, wherein a large wheel of chance with various song titles is spun and Fata Morgana herself chooses the set list. Except Bear built the Dead’s and he was, you know: utterly mad, so it ran on lukewarm nuclear fusion and the first time it was spun, it generated an EMP burst that took out half of Palo Alto. Also, the Wheel of Fortune, like most things around the Dead, quickly gained sentience and it and the Wall of Sound fucking hated one another.
The Dead in the Round only happened once, and for god reason: Bobby got immediately and violently unwell upon taking the rotating stage. It wasn’t moving that fast, but all those people who got drenched don’t care about details. They got Bobby-juice on ’em.
“You remember me: Bobbi Fleckman!”
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