Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: john mayer (page 1 of 40)

And Co-Starring Katy Perry As Pepper Potts

Why are you Iron Man, Josh Meyers?

“Someone has to be. Plus, an Iron Man suit is literally the most expensive outfit in the world.”


“I have pants that cost twenty grand, but these suckers are seven figures a pop.”

Do you get concierge service with that?

“It’s extra, but it’s available. I recommend it.”

Is it comfortable?

“It makes terrycloth feels like canvas. The only word is ‘sumptuous.’ Plus, I can take out a major city with it.”

Don’t do that. Are you gonna wear that on Dead & Co’s next tour?

“No. I wore it at a soundcheck, and Billy kept sticking fridge magnets to me. Really explicit ones, too.”

Sounds right.


Cell phone?

“Yeah. I can’t get the suit’s Bluetooth to shake hands with my phone.”

The perils of the modern world.

“You’re on with John.

“Ah, good boy. You’ve acquired the, uh, weapon.”

“The Iron Man suit is more than a weapon, Mr. President. Why are you pointing at Cambodia?”

“I want you to blow it up for me, son. Blow up Cambodia for Nixon.”


“These are the hills within which the rebels, the Communist rebels, led by Ho Chi Minh are hiding. Right here about a hundred clicks east of Phnom Penh. Hills are crawling with rebels. We want you to take them out.”

“I’m not taking out any rebels, sir.”

“Not the rebels, son: the hills. You, uh, deny the enemy ground upon which to stand, and you eliminate his fighting ability. The entire landscape has to go: hills, valley, lakes, rivers. Take it all down to the bare grain. The Cambodians will cease to be a problem once there’s no Cambodia. That’s realpolitik, son. Ugly, yes, but it provides for the long-term peace. Cambodia must die so Laos can live.”

“How did Laos get into this?”

“How does Laos get into anything? Via the Great Game. We all play it. You, for example, didn’t read the owner’s agreement of that suit, which clearly states that the Sokovian Accords are in effect for purchasers. This, uh, grants me the authority to order you around. Now put your helmet on and obliterate Cambodia for America.”


A Challenge To John Mayer

Dear John,

Hi. How are you? I’m fine. It is very hot here, and there are iguanas everywhere. The animals will not take to befriendment. If you’ve ever met an iguana, you know what I mean!


You’re a coward, Meyers. You’re a toe-dippin’ son of a bitch. You fear the depths, my butt-chinned friend, and instead float atop the waters. It’s a low quality in a man. It’s the reason Steve Aoki doesn’t return your texts. He can smell a dilettante a mile away; everyone knows that about Aoki. You dabble. You’re a nibbler. Dude, you’re Cliff’s notes.

You think wearing Madonna Tee-Shirt makes your bones, Meyers? Not on my watch. Not even on your stupidly-expensive watch. You wanna impress us?

You go Full Bobby, or you got no balls, Meyers. Do it. You wanna. You know you wanna. You’re dying to do it, so do it. Release him. Release all of him. Go Full Bobby.

Only then, can you truly become New Bobby.



“Why are you doing Superman chest?”

“I like to. Makes me look powerful. I may have gotten old, but I can still kick your ass.”

“I know, Parish.”

“Not talking about the general ‘you,’ either. I meant you. If anything happens to Wolf, I’ll put you in hospice.”

“Jesus, man.”

“You would skip the hospital and go straight to the hospice. The violence would be overwhelming in both speed and breadth. I would be everywhere, and all at once.”

“Y’know, I do a bit of MMA training.”

“John, kid, I like you a lot. You’re family now, man. You’re helping to keep Garcia’s music alive, and I love that. But it would be like a polar bear raping a kitten.”

“Jesus, man.”

“And take all that shit off your right wrist, and shift your belt buckle around to the side.”

“Hold up now, buddy–


“Did you just Little Bunny Foo Foo me?”



“Be careful with the guitar.”

“I’m beginning to hate this deal.”

“Pray I don’t Little Bunny Foo Foo you any further.”

Never Rub Another Man’s Rhubarb

“What fuckery is this?”


“Nope. A little lower.”


“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?”




“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.”


“Don’t judge me.”

I wasn’t.

“I like ’em thick.”


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


“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.”


“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.”



“What happened to Phil?”

Long story.

For The Enthusiasts Not On Twitter*

Josh Meyers has donned what is certainly a vintage tee-shirt–not a newly-printed replica like some disgusting poor person might buy–from Madonna’s 1987 Who’s That Girl tour.

(FUN FACT: In support of her third album, True Blue (which had Papa Don’t Preach, Open Your Heart, Live To Tell, the title track, AND La Isla fucking Bonita on it), Madonna’s tour lasted 38 shows and made her $25 million; the Dead played 86 shows in 1987, and made about the same. Plus, Madonna didn’t have to split the dough with five other guys. On the other hand, Madonna didn’t go on tour and earn $25 million in 1988, whereas the Dead did. On another hand, Madonna continues to perform as she didn’t die too young, and in a strange bed. On word to your mother hand, Madonna has gotten sad. On Dr. Joyce Brothers’ hand, all the great ones get sad. Remember Dick Cavett prompting Groucho through his old bits, and Groucho was just tired and sparse and gray? Madonna’s like that now, but with more environmentalism. Hands, man. Got a lotta hands involved here.)

That paragraph became incoherent.

Dude, you can’t hear me when I’m in parentheses. It’s an aside to the audience.

It’s not. 

I’m going back to my point, which is non-essential. At best, this piece of information is classified as “non-essential.” If you had to evacuate, you would leave this knowledge behind. Yet, here we are:

Josh is, of course, paying tribute to one of the most storied of all the Bobby Shirts, Madonna Tee-Shirt. Bobby wore this on 7/26/87 at Anaheim Stadium, along with his most famous shorts:

It was an iconic night for all of us.

Occupying the Pantheon along with Snake Tee-Shirt, Pink Polo, and others, Madonna Tee-Shirt instantly became a fan favorite, and by that I mean everyone made fun of Bobby and some people were angered. The word “faggy” was thrown about quite a bit, I’d imagine. Younger Enthusiast, remember that this was 1987, and irony hadn’t been invented yet. At least not wide-scale dissemination of it, and definitely not in shirt form. (That was my generation. We did that in the 90’s. We came up with the concept of wearing shirts with lame shit on them. That was Generation X. We did literally nothing else, but the shirt thing was ours.) Tee-shirt fronts were for sincerity. To wear the shirt of an unloved band was simply unthinkable. It was 1987, and there was no difference between one and one’s shirt.

How could Bobby wear that shirt, man? Moochie had a bad trip from that shit. Her forthright sexuality freaked Moochie out! Tell him, Moochie!



Deadheads were aghast at that bullshit, Younger Enthusiasts! Madonna? Madonna? Deadheads prided themselves on their catholic tastes in music, as long as they got to define “music” as “a noise made by a handful of shaggy white guys.” Madonna made music–if one could call it that–for other people. Girls, mostly. Sensitive boys. And morons, let’s face it. If the general public were intelligent, then the ’83 Lake Placid Sugaree would be #1 on the Pop charts this week, but the public are drunken fools, and so the newest slurry from Post Malone is #1.

A Deadhead could not consort with the Whore of Detroit, it simply wasn’t done. A Deadhead could be into metal, sure. Or complicated jazz. Or the right kind of country, maybe. A Deadhead might listen to all sorts of unpleasant foreign bullshit, especially if Mickey mentioned it once in an interview.

But Madonna?

It simply wasn’t done.



Oh, yeah: Bobby got the shirt directly from Madonna when he met her two years after he wore the shirt onstage. No one knows why Bobby used Time Sheath technology to perform at a rainforest benefit with Debi Mazar, but he did.



*Good decision, by the way. The common euphemism for Twitter is a “cesspool,” but I do not believe Twitter lives up the those lofty standards. A cesspool, you will note, keeps the shit in.; it doesn’t let the poison seep out and contaminate the surrounding world. Twitter fails at this task. Another difference is that a cesspool is a necessary item we all like to ignore, whereas Twitter is unnecessary and we can’t stop staring at it. I can do this all fucking day, Enthusiasts. Twitter is killing us all.

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.”


“The rich.”


“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.


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:


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.

Put That Away Or I’m Cutting It Off

I know what you’re doing.

“Excuse me?”

You’re pulling the Thornton Mellon routine. Trying to make yourself look handsomer by hanging out with uggos.

“Please don’t call my friends ‘uggos.'”

Tell your friends to stop being ugly.

“This man happens to be a celebrity chef.”

Great. Tell him to make me a grilled cheese.

“He doesn’t do that.”

He’s too good to grill me up a cheese? Fuck him and his Gilligan hat, then. I bet he’d grill Garcia up a cheese.


I hate all your friends except Bob Saget.

“Saget fucks. I bet he’s fucking right now. Or he’s showering, or going to the ATM, both of which activities are related to his fucking.”



“Is this Nixon?”

No. You would literally never guess who this is.

“Now my interest is piqued.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Johnny, it’s Young Frank Langella.”

“Wow. He was right. Totally would not have guessed.”

“I see you’re admiring my potato salad.”

“Not ‘admiring.’ Just looking.”

“Look deeply. Denim is the most masculine of fabrics, is it not?”

“I’m getting a creepy vibe from you.”

“Well spotted. I’m in 1977, and I’m allowed to do the creepiest stuff imaginable to people. Including you.”

“I’m hanging up the phone.”

“Fine. Send the uggo to my dressing room.”


“Excuse me.”


“That was weird and unpleasant even by your standards.”

I didn’t enjoy it, either.

Breaking News

Goddammit, Josh Meyers, you slaphead: did you use the Time Sheath to go back to the 90’s and perpetrate a literary hoax?

“How could you tell?”

Jawline. What the fuck, chief?

“Don’t call me ‘chief.'”

Fuck you, slugger. I can’t believe JT LeRoy was actually you.

“The pop singer is deceitful above all things.”

Seriously, this is weird even for this universe.

“Hey, man: I had fiction in me. And, for some reason, all of that fiction was about blowing truckers in West Virginia.”

I feel like I’ve lost control.

“‘Lost’ implies you ever had control.”



“Saw that coming.”

Oh, yeah. You’re being a dick.

“A little, sure.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Ah, Christ. I knew you were a goddamned queer.”

“Offensive and incorrect, Mr. President.”

“Beyond the sodomy, which there is quite a bit of, they love dressing up. That’s how you can tell, and you can always tell. A lime-green pocket square. Fanciful socks. They always give themselves away. As if they wanted to be caught out.”

“Can we change the sub–”

“New York does it right, as far as that goes. San Francisco, too. Put all the queers in one neighborhood. Everyone’s happy that way. The fags can tug each other off on the sidewalk, and the rest of us–people with families, women, children–can avoid it. That’s a win/win. Life isn’t always zero-sum, son. You have to remember that.”


“Los Angeles, too. Wonderful police force out there. The homosexual who, uh, resides in Los Angeles knows that there are certain establishments–bars, restaurants, that sort of thing–that he will be beaten for entering. And that keeps the peace. Everyone knows where he stands. This does not, however, stop Hollywood from being full of them. Just full of them. And, you know, they don’t know how to shake hands properly. It’s like you’re cradling a baby bird. The handshakes might be worse than the buggery.”


“They’re compelled to do that foul act. They must. They’re like old rummies in the convalescent home calling for their bottles. Have to have it, you see. But you can learn how to shake a damn hand. That’s a choice they make.”


“They can grip a stranger’s todger, they can grip a hand.”

“You drinking, sir?”

“It’s Christmas, son.”

Line Dancing In A Burning Room

Is that Charley Pride’s grandson?

“No, it’s–”

Blazing Saddles cosplay?

“This young man is–”

The only bigger schmuck than a white man in a sombrero is a black man in a cowboy hat.

“That’s racist.”

So be it. Let Desus and Mero drag me from here to Yankee Stadium. I don’t care. Black guys look stupid in cowboy hats.

“Not all of them.”

Really? Let me present some evidence. Exhibit A:

I rest my case.


Right? If Obama couldn’t make it work, then nobody could.

“Look how young he was.”

We aged the shit out of that poor man.

“Presidency will do that to you, I guess.”


“Is that Nixon?”

Almost certainly.


“You’re on with John.”

“Is this what we’re doing? Playing some sort of Cowboys and Indians game? Making believe and so forth?”

“Because Nixon is ready.”

“I don’t know if you should be wearing that, Mister President.”

“Nonsense. The, uh, American aboriginals have never had a better friend in the Oval Office. There are, I’ve noticed, many admirable traits to the Native, the Indian, whatever they’re calling themselves lately. They’re like the negroes in that regard. Can’t settle on a name.”

“Sir, I–”

“Bravery! This is first among many respectable attributes of the Indian peoples. Nobility, stoicism, all that. Their beadwork is second-to-none. Never head of the class at metallurgy, though. Gunsmithing. Should have concentrated more on those fields.”

“Mr. President, could you–”

“In their language, the President is referred to as Big Chief Who Lives Across Many Rivers. Isn’t that marvelous? Very poetic. Of course, most are now fluent in English and simply call the President ‘President.’ They picked up English very quickly, the Indians did. Bebe Rebozo was born in Tampa, and he could barely get through a sentence. No, not the Indians. Quick minds, very decisive.”

“Sir, I just–”

“And take off that goddamned robe, boy. It’s the middle of the day.”


“I want to stop talking to him.”

But he’s so much fun to write.

Blessed Be The Musicmakers

Why does the black guy have to be pointing at the white guy?

“He doesn’t have to be.”

And yet he is. Why don’t you hit him with an axe handle, Bull Connor?

“Why are you like this?”

Like how? Like a non-racist? I don’t know. Some of us were born woke, man.

“Please stop it.”

I’m Josh Meyers and I make black guys point at me. That’s what you sound like.

“Mocking impressions of my voice don’t really work in print.”


“Leave me be. Please. Why won’t you leave me be to enjoy my collectible possessions and membership in exclusive dating apps?”

You were the one who wanted to be in the Grateful Dead.


You really can’t grow a beard, can you?



“Is it Nixon?”


“Has he been drinking?”

Oh, yeah.

“You’re on with John.”

“Get your guitar, boy. Bring it here. Your country needs you.”

“I cant join your band, Mr. President.”

“It’s this or Vietnam, boy. I, uh, have that power. It was granted to me by the founders. Brilliant men, the founders. Not one Italian in the bunch, and I think that says something. Some types need to be kept outside the room where the decisions are made. They’re too passionate for government work, but they make a hell of a shoe. By God, they make a hell of a shoe.”

“I have no idea how to respond to that.”

“You fetch your guitar and join your president, that’s how. Hearts and minds, son. Free the hearts and minds, and the, uh, ass will follow. Kissinger says that all the time, but he says it in that accent and no one knows what the hell he’s on about. Man sounds like he’s going down on a bratwurst. Anyway, get down here to Nashville. We’re at the Grand Ol’ Opry. Obviously, your friend there cannot join you.”


“Not my rules. Nixon has always been a friend to the negro, in public. You may recall Sam Davis hugging me quite tightly. He is, uh, known in the business as ‘Sammy.’ Many entertainers go by those sorts of names. Johnny, Kenny, Sammy, so on. Little boys’ names. Not me. Nixon has always been a Dick.”

“I’m just gonna let that one go by, Mr. President.”

“Yes, yes, fine. Do you know The Chattahoochie Stomp?”


“What about Momma’s In The Kitchen, Daddy’s In The Ground?”


“You’ll pick it up. Get here or the next call comes from the IRS.”

“You can do that?”

“The, uh, President can do whatever he wants.”

“Seems like it.”

« Older posts