Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
I’d not seen this shot before. The other more famous and widely-circulated frames from this roll of film, yes, but not this one. Any day, any day at all, you could wake up and meet your true love, or step in front of a Honda, or you might see a picture of the Grateful Dead you’d not before.
There’s always a reason to wake up.
OR
Get out of the picture, Rock.
OR
Spot the Heineken(s).
Not pictured: a certain United States Senator and Deadhead who better get off his fucking ass and sharpen his knives.
You have work to do, Senator Franken. Don’t let us down.
The word “masterpiece” is more literal than you might have realized. The guilds of the past–which became the unions of the present–worked on a tiered system: you entered the trade as an apprentice, and then became a craftsman, and a journeyman. To earn the rank of master required that you produce a piece that respected members of the guild would judge.
And this, Enthusiasts, is Precarious Lee’s masterpiece. Notice the lack of symmetry along any plane whatsoever; the waggish nonchalance towards gravity; the duck is upside down. It might be the upside-down duck that pushes this tableaux into the realm of Art.
Those are geese.
Ducks are geese. Multiple names for the same animal. Like puma and cougar and panther and mountain lion all means the same cat, or buffalo and bison, or octopus and squid.
Stop typing.
You’ve just been amusing yourself since you’re 16, right?
“What?”
The shorts.
“Were we in Bermuda, everyone else would look out of place.”
The Dead did not play in Bermuda.
“Jamaica.”
Yeah, you played in Jamaica.
“Hawaii.”
Right, in 1970.
“Manhattan.”
What is your point Bobby?
“We’re no strangers to islands.”
…
What is going on here, Bob?
“Well, uh, judging from the presence of Clive Davis and champagne, I’d say we sold a shitload of records.”
Oh, yeah. You totally did that one time. I forget.
“It was a bit of an anomaly.”
And you welcomed your success with such dignity.
“All the dignity that the situation demanded.”
Clive Davis looks like a high-end pornographer.
…
“Well, yeah.”
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.
If your road crew was simply lazy, then they might just leave that whatever-the-fuck on the stage while you played. It takes special genius to half-assedly chuck a moving blanket on top of the thing.
You know: to hide it.
Where the hell are you, Pig?
“Not America! Can’t make hair nor hide o’ one word these people saying!”
Do they sound angry or hoity-toity?
“Hoity-toity!”
You’re in France.
“The Pig don’t like it! I’m a damn California boy. How can a man sing the blues when he’s turnin’ blue? It ain’t natural!”
I agree. How you feeling?
“Not so hot.”
Ha.
“Yeah, I made a li’l joke. Nah, I ain’t so great. S’okay, though. Touring Europe’s just what the doctor ordered.”
Really?
“Hell, no, peabrain! Fact, the doc said to me the exact opposite thing! Was specific ’bout it, too! ‘Pig, whatever you do: don’t let no one drag you ’round Europe on a bus, and then make you stand out in the cold all afternoon.’ Wrote it all down on his pad!”
Well, what do doctors know?
“That’s right. The Pig’s schedule ain’t made by no sawbones!”
Seriously, though: you look cold. Do you want some cocoa?
“Aw, you know they don’t make it right over here. Probably all fancy.”
I’ll find you some Nesquik.
“And if you could rustle up some of them itty-bitty marshmallows, then I wouldn’t mind.”
Sure.
“Keith, you want anything special for the show?”
…
…
…
“Pumpkin?”
“Gotcha.”
OR
Ned Lagin asked what key the next song was in, and then proceeded to play vaguely rhythmic and atonal squeaky bloops for the next 20 minutes.
OR
Bobby has no idea who the fuck the skinny guy with all the toys is, and at this point it’s too late to ask.
OR
S. Lighthill! When you absolutely, positively, 100% guaranteed need everything left lying in the middle of the stage, call S. Lighthill.
OR
Billy kept punching Ned Lagin in the dick and fucking around with his patch cords.
“One ringy-dingy. Look at me! I’m Billy Tomlin! Two ringy-dingy.”
OR
Game on: Spot The Heineken.
OR
Someone please feed Ned Lagin.
Jesus. Precarious?
“Yo.”
What the fuck? I mean: what the fucking fuck, man?
…
…
…
“The monitor?”
Yes.
“It’s fine.”
It’s not.
“Sure, it is. Long as, you know, no one touches it or makes a loud noise ’round it.”
Right.
The best thing about soda pop in glass bottles is that after you’ve quenched your thirst, you have a weapon.
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