Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: online ceramics

Somewhat-Less-Than Hallowed Eve

Hey, Josh. Love your costume.

“I’m not wearing a costume.”

No? I thought you were Guy With Terrible Friends.

“I didn’t miss talking to you.”

Well, you’re back on tour with the Dead (Or What’s Left Of ‘Em) and so now we have to chat more regularly. Does Jimmy Fallon smell like scotch?

“No.”

Tequila?

“Yeah.”

Figured.

“Hey, man: alcoholism is not funny.”

Makes it perfect for Jimmy, then.

“Are you this relentlessly negative about everyone?”

I’m nice to your friends that don’t suck. Which in this group, ironically, is the gay guy.

“Stop it.”

I’m pretty sure all your Santa has in his bag is herpes.

“He’s not a Santa.”

He looks like if a yoga studio were homeless. Andy Cohen tripping? Those people love their drugs.

“What? That’s just homophobic, man.”

I didn’t mean gays love drugs. I meant “rich Hollywood Jews at Dead shows” love their drugs.

“Oh.”

Although, throwing “gay” in there doesn’t make it less true. He candyflipping?

“I don’t know what that is.”

Hobodosing?

“Hobodosing?”

It’s like Robodosing, but you have a homeless guy buy the cough syrup.

“He’s not doing that.”

Roofie-boofing?

“No.”

Andy Cohen boofing the roofs?

“You’re making these things up.”

Some toot for his snoot?

“Stop it with your rhyming lies!”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Oh, thank God. Wait. This isn’t Kim Jong-Un, is it? I know he’s been calling around lately.”

It’s not Kim Jong-Un.

“Promise.”

Yeah. It’s much more annoying.

“Fuck.”

“You’re on with John.”

“Josh, how do you like your kebab?”

“Mickey, for the ninth time: I do not want kebabs from a truck.”

“I’m here! It’s kebab time!”

“Pass. Pass on the street food, Mick.”

“Ask Johnny Carson and Paul Lynde.”

“Their names are Jimmy Fallon and Andy Cohen, and neither of them want kebabs.”

“What about bibimbap? The guy also does Korean.”

“Do not bring me ethnic food from a rando in a van, Mickey.”

“I’ll buy some extra churros.”

To Dye For

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“It’s been so long since we’ve spoken.”

“It has, sir.”

“Are your children still ugly?”

“They were never ugly, sir.”

“Oh, no. Wretched looking beasts. A hundred years ago, you would have sold them to the first carnival that came to town. And gotten good money for them, too!”

“I know you didn’t call me in here to talk about my children, sir.”

“I saw the shirt for Summer Tour and couldn’t help thinking of their mangled, disfigured faces.”

“Sir.”

“Montgomery Clift had a better face.”

“Sir.”

“I’m talking about after the accident, Jenkins.”

“Obviously, sir. We were discussing the shirt.”

“Shirt!”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s just terrible, Jenkins. I believe the human torso would reject it. Like a baboon’s heart. Your skin would puff up and slough off, and I won’t even bring up the nipples.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“They won’t know what hit them! They’ll flee! Like a Spaniard from soap, they’ll flee.”

“I had hoped we could get through this tour without the overt racism.”

“Hope in one hand and trust a Laotian with your wallet in the other. See where that gets you.”

“What could you possibly have against Laos, sir?”

“They’re Gummo! They’re the Gummo of Southeast Asia, Jenkins. Thailand is your Groucho, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Vietnam and Cambodia are Harpo and Chico, respectively. But Laos? Those bastards are the Gummo. Won’t abide a Gummo, Jenkins!”

“Sir, the shirt.”

“Shirt!”

“The design is influenced by a fashion movement called Streetwear.”

“Yes, it looks like something a street person would wear.”

“No, sir. Streetwear. This specifically is douchecore.”

“You’re confabulating again, Jenkins!”

“Oh, Douchecore is an offshoot of schmuck couture. It’s fashion that only complete tools would buy. $800 sweatpants with giant crotches. Genuine authentic reproductions of 1994 Charlotte Hornet shell jackets. Chipmunkers.”

“Chipmunker?”

“A chipmunker is a shirt that goes down to your knees with your first initial on the front.”

“Let’s suicide, Jenkins. You and I. We’ll suicide together. This world is broken and sad, and your children are shoggoths. Let’s finally do it, man.”

“No, sir.”

“Fine. I’ll go it alone. Drive me to the nearest pit of quicksand, Jenkins.”

“No, sir.”

“And make sure there are no low-hanging vines, or long snakes that could be mistaken for vines. No escape for me this time.”

“Sir, the shirt.”

“Shirt! Oh, I can’t bear to look at it. Jenkins, get over here and blast my eyes. I know you usually blast your own, but this is a special occasion. I won’t fight back. Come and blast my eyes.”

“I couldn’t do that, sir.”

“Ha! Excellent reaction, Jenkins. It was a trick. Had you approached me, I would have stapled your dick to your leg. You’re not as stupid as your children look.”

“Sir–”

“In addition to being ugly, your children are also stupid-looking.”

“Sir–”

“They’re thick-lipped, and wary of both fact and theorem.”

“Shirt.”

“Shirt! Fooey Jenkins. I call fooey on the whole enterprise.”

“So noted, sir.”

“At least jack the price way up.”

“We’re charging $65 for them.”

“Well, then, I think they’re beautiful!”

 

Let’s Get A Picture

Ah! Time-Traveling Clapton!

“It’s not Eric Clapton.”

Took that fucker forever to grow a beard.

“Clapton?”

Yeah. Usually guys with chins that weak have whiskers early. Garcia sure did.

“You know I love Garcia, but the man would not have made a good Batman.”

No. Just didn’t have the jawline.

“Or the physique, if we’re honest.”

He did watch one of his parents die right in front oh his eyes as a child, though.

“True. Do you feel like the importance of that event gets glossed over in biographies?”

Oh, yeah. That’s a primal scene right there. You don’t get over that shit.

“Poor guy.”

Poor Garcia. Hey, is that Slim Shady’s cousin, Skinny Ugly, on the left?

“Had to be a dick, huh?”

Yeah. The readers expect it.

“All dozen of them?”

It’s eleven now. I pissed one off on Twitter.

“Sounds right.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“You’ll die alone.”

We all will.

“Yeah, but you’ll die in, like, an abandoned warehouse in Troy, New York.”

Oh. Yeah, probably.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Hack.”

Wiener.

“You’re on with John.”

“Hot Dog Dick! Come get Dotard! He no will leave!

“Fuck.”

“Come get! Kim never thought Kim would say, but: feel bad for America.”

“Well, unlike the Dotard, you’re human.”

“We try to ditch. No tell him which club we go to. He show up anyway.”

“You guys are going to clubs?”

“Buy bottles. Fuck bitches.”

“That’s no good.”

“No! 김치 똥 make bitches uncomfortable.”

“Excuse me?”

“김치 똥. Does not translate directly. Basically means ‘gastrointestinal distress caused by too much fermented food.’ Is what we call him. We tell him means ‘Master of this and all Universes.’ His translator say, ‘No, it means Kimchi shits’ I say to Dotard, ‘Who you believe, me or him?’ Guess who he believe?”

“You.”

“Is almost not fun. Like having fight with baby. No satisfaction in winning.”

“Have you ever actually fought a baby?”

“Fight baby all the time. Every Tuesday, fight baby.”

“What? Why?”

“Keep sharp. On edge. Where I gotta be.”

“Did you just quote Heat at me?”

“Still hold up! Pacino, De Niro, Kilmer. Fichtner!”

“Gotta go.”

“Fichtner kill it every time! Even when movie bad, Fichtner great!”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Come get 김치 똥! He your problem!”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

I Got The Trash And You Got The Cash, So Baby We Should Get Along Fine

Abraham Lincoln said it, Enthusiasts. You can fool most of the people some of the time, and a couple of the people usually, and all of the people once in a while, and people from Kentucky are generally slow on the uptake, but those looking for the dumbest fucks on the planet should concentrate on fashion. That’s Abe Lincoln saying that, folks, and he was so trustworthy that logs were named for him.

This is the pop-up Dead & Company merch shop that existed for but a brief time today on La Brea in Los Angeles, a retail fruit fly if there ever were one. The credulous and the over-moneyed came from miles. What hypebeast slouches towards Bethlehem? It was everything a rich idiot could want out of life: a chance to stand in line outside in July, and then buy an ugly shirt that costs too much. But not just any ugly shirt, no. An ugly shirt that no one else could buy. An exclusive ugly shirt. A one-of-a-kind ugly shirt. Sui generis and shit, yo.

What’s on the menu?

Who are these pieces for, and can we have their names and addresses so that they may be sterilized? Is this what Millennials are doing with their money instead of buying real estate? What the fuck is a “Dad Hat?”

I don’t mind the Mars Hotel keychain. It should be five bucks, though. Oh, wait: it is.

Pss pss pss.

No.

Pss pss.

You cannot be serious.

PSS PSS!

Don’t yell at me.

The bomber jacket’s reversible. It’s two ugly jackets for the price of one overpriced ugly jacket. Besides, when you think “Grateful Dead,” you think “bomber jacket.” Put on your shiny shell coat, lace up your Doc Martens, tighten up your crew cut, and let’s go choogle.  No, a proper Grateful Dead jacket is one of those big, floppy, woolen coats from Peru or wherever, or maybe a Levi’s denim trucker model with the cover to Blues for Allah painted on the back and a shitload of pins on the front. Or an army jacket. A Vietnam-era slouchy, sloppy, multi-pocketed, olive-drab number–technically an M65 Field Coat originally designed by Alpha Industries–that brims over with utility and functionality that’ll last you a decade’s worth of tours. Semiotically speaking, you cant’t go wrong.

Unless you’re a complete asshole and spend $2500 on this:

 

Beyond the already-limited stock of the Dead & Company pop-up shop, there was also a “bootleg” section spotlighting handmade pieces from one artist. The artist–and, gosh, it was a struggle not to put quotation marks around that word–is named Matt McCormick, and you can see some of his work at his site. Matt spends his days tattooing people–some of whom are famous–and his evenings romanticizing cigarettes. His Spotify playlists are impeccable, he’s more than happy to talk about sobriety with you, and if you got 2500 bucks, he’ll doodle on your clothing.

Excuse me. He’ll art on your clothing. If it were doodling, it would be cheaper.

Matt even arted on the back. Look:

Now you see where the money went, right? You weren’t sold from just the front, but once I turned her around and you saw that there were horsies, you got on the bus. And look at the legibility of that printing, huh? You can read the shit out of those random snatches of someone else’s work, right? (And between you, me, and the horsies: I think “I wonder if you care” isn’t as random as it initially seemed. This jacket may, in fact, be Political. Great art has layers, folks.)

Oh, and:

Nailed it.

There’s a shirt, too. Wanna see it?

Wanna unsee it? WELL, YOU CAN’T, FUCKER. WE’RE ALL IN HELL NOW.

(I don’t know how much they were charging for the shirt, but if an army jacket with some Sharpie doodles on it was going for $2500, then I could imagine five hundred bucks for this useful and attractive garment. Furthermore, I can imagine hunting down anyone who would pay $500 for this bullshit, locking them into a brazen bull, building a fire, and listening to the beautiful music. I got a hell of an imagination.)

Also: is that the McDonald’s Moon Man? Isn’t he a Nazi now?

But that wasn’t everything available from Mr. McCormick at the pop-up shop. You could have also purchased an amateurishly- engraved flask:

This is shit. I tried to think up clever barbs, or some witty derision, but it’s just shit. If your cousin Jumpy made it for you, then you’d treasure it. You and Jumpy did Summer Tour together in ’83 and ’84. Jumpy had an engraving kit, and he’d personalize Zippos for custies on the lot to make some spending money and meet some heady folks. You’d probably still be a virgin if it wasn’t for Jumpy. Taught you how to talk to girls. Taught you how talk your way out of a speeding ticket. After the last show in ’84–Ventura, remember?–Jumpy gave you the flask. You didn’t even drink at the time. Maybe the best summer of your life. Hit Ceder Point on the way back home, rode all the roller coasters because Jumpy was a roller coaster nut. It was two weeks later you walked into his apartment and found him swinging. Didn’t leave a note, but he left you that flask and you think of him every time you take a pull of it. Lately, you wish you could think of him a little less.

But that’s not what this is. This is shit.

Once more for the road:

The Twinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society

Ah!

“Stop yelling.”

It’s the Age of the Twink! It’s here!

“No, these are my friends.”

THEY’LL DEVOUR US ALL!

“Not me. I’m highly twinkish.”

Who’s the first president you remember?

“Reagan.”

Not a twink.

“Dude, I’m such a twink.”

You twere. You twere a twink. But now you’re 40 and 40-year-olds can’t be twinks.

“Why not?”

Same reason a 23-year-old can’t be a teen. Some categories you age out of. Like Don Cheadle.

“He is getting way too old for those superhero movies.”

Cannot agree more. Who are these muppets?

“Online Ceramics. They’re fashion designers.”

But they look like french onion soup left next to the radiator all winter.

“Street-style, man.”

Yeah, exactly. They look homeless.

“I don’t know why I bother. You don’t understand fashion.”

Clothes that cost too much for people who get laid too much.

“Okay, you understand fashion, but leave my friends alone.”

Do you like these guys more or less than Steve Aoki?

“Dude, don’t ask me that. It’s like comparing apples to Steve Aoki.”

Fashion designers, huh?

“Hot ones. Lot of buzz.”

That fucker should sew himself some turtlenecks.

“You’re very rude.”

Hey, you wanted to have friends and wear clothes. You asked for it.

“That makes no sense.”

You know what doesn’t make sense?

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Goddammit.”

You asked for this, too.

“I absolutely did not.”

YOU ASKED FOR THIS, MEYERS.

“I’m gonna pick up the phone so I don’t have to talk to you.”

Cool beans.

“Polymath with the pretty mouth John Mayer speaking.”

“Hello, Little Potato.”

“Thought people forgot about that.”

“Nyet. Putin forget nothing.”

“What do you want?”

“Poland.”

“I mean, what do you want from me?”

“Putin vant Little Potato to see vhat real fashion is.”

“Gold doors?”

“Nyet. Enormous gold doors. Any kulak can have little gold door. Gold doggie door, maybe. Putin has biggest fucking gold doors you’ve ever seen. Is fashion.”

“If you say so.”

“Tvink to your left has degenerate neck.”

“It’s just a tattoo.”

“Putin vill fix.”

“Nothing needs fixing.”

“Putin vipe off.”

“Please don’t–”

SHVEEEEEEEEEE

CHOCK

SH-SHANK!

“Wow. Flying guillotine. Haven’t seen one of those around here in a while.”

“Putin bring back old bits.”

“Please go away.”

“Putin leave, but only because Putin is so busy.”

“What are you up to now?”

“Nothing. Putin do nothing. Stay home on June 3rd. Putin is not bad guy.”

“June 3rd?”

“Da. Trust Putin on this one. And stock pantry. Maybe buy gun.”

“Gotcha.”

SHVEEEEEEEEEE

CHOCK

SH-SHANK!

“Why’d you kill the other one?”

“He leave sticker on hat. Is nyet 2016 any more. Keep up vith fashion.”

“Hanging up.”

“June 3rd, Little Potato.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH ENORMOUS GOLD DOORS NO LONGER DO THAT

“Putin killed my friends.”

Yeah, he’s the worst.

Tattoo Ew

What is this?

“I think it’s called Lil Shard. One of those, uh, Soundcloud rappers.”

And the other one?

“Rich guy’s kid.”

Probably. I think these two are actually Josh’s jerkoff fashion buddies.

“Huh. Never got that about the young man. What’s the point of being good-looking if you’re gonna try? He should do what I used to do: let the face do the work.”

It’s a good plan if you’ve got the tools.

“And, you know, he does. I’ve tried to mentor him in the ways of handsomeness, but he doesn’t want to listen.”

You tried.

“I see him standing in front of those damned clothes cases of his before shows. I used to bring my entire wardrobe for a whole tour in a grocery sack.”

Different approaches. How you doing with that neck tattoo?

“If I look directly at it, I’m gonna vomit. You?”

Same.