Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: oteil burbridge (page 2 of 10)

Memories Of The Riot

Hey, Oteil. Whatcha doing?

“The thing I love best.”

You’re a positive force in this universe, and I love you for it.

“I hear you’ve been doing a little dip into my old stomping grounds.”


“Hair Metal.”

Don’t do this.

“That was my 20’s. Your boy O wasn’t always a family man. When I was with the Riot, man, I tore it up.”

Oteil, you were not in Quiet Riot.

“I was. It’s just that I was named Rudy Sarzo at the time.”

And you were white?

“Ever see that David Lynch movie Mulholland Drive? That whole idea of doubles? It was like that.”

But that movie made no sense.

“And yet it’s a classic. Bill Pullman is Balthazar Getty, and I was Rudy Sarzo. I can’t explain this any more clearly.”

You probably couldn’t, no.

“Me and my band moved out to Los Angeles in the spring of ’77. We were called John Dillinger’s Penis. We’d been playing around South Florida but there was nowhere to go from there, so we got in the van and then we were on the coast. It was me and Jim-Jim and Shushy and TK. Our first week in town, the three of them were molested to death by Rodney Bingenheimer.”

To death?

“The Bing goes hard. Between him and Kim Fowley, there’s at least two dozen corpses.”

I wouldn’t doubt that.

“Luckily, I met Kevin Dubrow the next day and my life changed. I mean, my life didn’t change that day. Took us a couple years to get a record deal, but they were fun years. Girls would bring us groceries, and we would take dookies on their chests. We were not held responsible for our actions.”

I get that.

“Life got even crazier when I joined up with Ozzy. Oh, man. I don’t like to talk about it. Wow. Are you drinking something?”

I have a Crystal Gayle.

“An Arnold Palmer made with Crystal Lite?”


“Nice. Pour some out for Randy.”

I am not pouring anything out for Randy Rhodes. Stop this. You didn’t know him.

“That man was a brother to me.”

It’s official: you’re as crazy as the rest of ’em. Congratulations.

Oteil Burbridge’s Long-Lost Origin Story: Unlost At Last!

Literally everything is wrong with this photo. From the rando’s sneakers to Josh’s eyebrow game. Every single thing.

“Oh, it’s not that bad.”

Who’s talking? Wait, lemme guess. It was vaguely optimistic and not slurred. Oteil?

“Hey, friend.”

You’re such a cheerful guy.

“Got a lot to be cheerful about. I’m a blessed man.”


“Happy, healthy family. Money’s rolling in. Hell, I’m sorta in the Grateful Dead.”


“I said ‘sorta.’ I know that my membership has some sorta to it. But, hey: I’m more in the Dead than, like, anyone else on the planet. Jeff Bezos. How much he worth?”

Like, a hundred billion dollars.

“And he isn’t in the Grateful Dead in the slightest. You know Cardi B?”

She’s killing this rap game.

“Killing it. But what percent in the Grateful Dead is she?”

Zero. Cardi B is 0% in the Grateful Dead.

“There you go.”

You and Jeff really are the reasonable ones.

“Well, fucking duh. We’re not Rock Stars. They’re all of ’em nuts. It does something to your brain, man. Rewires stuff. Lose touch with the real world. I once had to sneak Gregg Allman out of a grocery store because he thought the produce section was the backstage spread and went hogwild on the carrots. Man ate, like, forty bucks worth of carrots in ten minutes.”

All of that story is terrible.

“And then I tried to, like, explain what had happened to him, because he was blaming Clive Davis, and I say to him, ‘Gregg, that’s not how the supermarket works,’ and he just stared at me for a while. Then he played his harmonica. I don’t think I got through to him.”

Almost certainly not.

“These four aren’t the worst I’ve seen.”

Who was?

“Ozzy. That man had no relationship with reality.”

Why do you know Ozzy Osbourne?

“I played in his band for years, man.”

No, you didn’t.

“I did, but I used a different name.”


“Rudy Sarzo.”

Stop it.

“Look it up.”

I looked it up. You were not Rudy Sarzo.

“Different haircuts.”

Different hair, Oteil. That guy’s white.


Uh-huh. Your contention is that during the 1980’s, you performed with Ozzy Osbourne, Quiet Riot, and Whitesnake as Rudy Sarzo?

“It is.”


“The Hair Metal scene of the 80’s was racist as shit, but I had power ballads in my soul. So I pulled a White Girls.”

Going the other way is called “pulling a Soul Man.”

“No, it’s called fucking blackface.”

Oh, right. Forgot. Listen, Oteil: I love you, but you were not a King of the Sunset Strip.

“Believe what you want. I have my memories and my leather pants. I can’t get into the pants any more, but I still have them.”

Nope. Too weird even for this shitshow.

Where The Oceana Breezes Blow

Jeff Chimenti is whispering to Billy, “Sun’s going down, big guy. You’re getting real tired.”


Is that a Real Housewife? If so, from which program/location? Whose flag does this Real Housewife pose under?


When Josh stands in the middle, he looks like he’s the tall candle in a menorah.


Mickey is befuddled; he has been thoroughly fuddled. Mickey has gone through the process of fuddling.



“Don’t call me that in front of the band.”

They’re the ones who called you that in the first place.


You grabbing ass?







“I’m grabbing ass.”

I knew it! I knew it, you grabasstic sumbitch!

“When you’re famous, they just let you do it.”

There’s my guy.


Is there a wind machine? This is a fancy party, indeed, if there’s a wind machine on the blue carpet. (Blue for the oceans. Nowadays, the red carpet can be whatever color you want it to be, which I despise. A blue red carpet is self-contradictory, like vegan beef jerky. We don’t need forced diversity in carpets, Hollywood.)




You furious?


Any reason?

“I’ll kill you, boy.”

All right, then. But what about here?

“I’m in a better mood here.”

Looks like it. What was all that before about? You frightened me, Bobert Weir.

“God bless ’em, but the randos get to you. 53 years of randos. Y’know, think about it: who in show business has been exposed to more rand than me? Maybe Duke Ellington. He, uh, played until he was 106 years old.”

Not true.

“His trombonist was 98. He could still blow.”

You are exaggerating.

“Okay, fine, yes. Get, uh, get the musicians off the greens, please. And, uh, bring Mr. Gleason another carton of Pall Malls.”

“Kind of you, Mr. President. I were you? I would’ve shot those hippies.”

“Y’know, Gleason, you’re right. Bebe? Where’s Bebe? Someone get Rebozo and tell him to bring his pistols.”

Excuse me. Excuse me, President Nixon. Mr. Gleason. What is going on here?

“You, uh, couldn’t come up with an ending to the post.”

“Terrible. You’ll never make it in show biz, kid.”

One Dead, Two Company

I’m gonna need everyone who isn’t Bobby or Oteil to take his hand off his dick. Thank you.








When did the Dead become Metallica? Are we doing the all-black thing now? I’m fine with it, but Josh wont be if he ever shows up for rehearsal.


Seriously, Jeff, let go of your dong.

Up And Down The (Broward) County LIne

Good for you, Oteil and Oteil’s wife.

“Well, we live around Parkland and we know some of the students. It’s personal for us.”

I wasn’t making a joke.

“You usually do.”

Not about this.


Do your shorts have a Stealie on them?

“Go away.”

Because you’re the new Mickey.



Franti Raid

“You, uh, wanna do a thing?”

“Is the thing drumming?”


“Fine, I guess.”


Jeff Chimenti wearing a hat is like Scarlett Johansson wearing a space suit. Do not keep your beauty to yourself, Jeff Chimenti.  Does the eagle refuse to fly in fear of embarrassing the pigeon? Let the world see your silvery goodness.


Double potato salad.


I feel like Josh is showing me his invisible engagement ring.


“Thoughts on my Ass! Look at my gum!”

No, thank you, Billy.


Fine. Yes, you have gum in your mouth.

“Sex gum.”

What does that even mean?

“Viagra-flavored. Gum gets soft, and Billy gets hard.”


“I’m gonna stick it in stuff.”

Your dick or the gum?

“Both! I used to know some skank in Indianapolis. This chick could chew gum with her swimmin’ hole. Blow bubbles, the whole nine yards. I tried to get her on Star Search, but Ed McMahon called the cops on us.”

Good story.

“I got a million of ’em.”

Thigh-na Doll

You’re just Grateful Deading as hard as you can at this point, aren’t you?

“Settling into the role.”

Do you wanna put your thighs away?

“Skies are clear, thighs are here.”

Not a saying.

“Chicks get soaked, and men pop rods,
When Big Oteil takes out his quads.”

Not a poem.

“Wanna check out the hammies?”


“Dude, peep the hammies.”

I’m fine.

“Hammies, bro.”

Stop saying “hammies.” Those suckers are awfully tight.

“Ball control. Can’t give the boys an escape route. Otherwise, I’m doing my little bouncey-dance and the front row gets a surprise.”

Sure. Where’d you get the sweatbands?

“Mickey has four road cases full.”

Of course he does.

Class Picture

Are you entwined with the teenager, jackass?

“I’m posing coquettishly.”

Josh, I swear to Christ, if you get caught with a teenager…actually, it would be ironic.

“I know, right? They all get away with it, and I get busted?”

Just suck in that left leg, you human bandana.

“No need for that.”

Stop playing footsie with the traumatized children.

“They’re not children, Dude, spaghetti straps.”

I will slap your pretty mouth if you get the Grateful Dead in trouble, Josh Meyers.

“All right, all right. You wanna check on Billy, though.”

Oh, God. Billy?

“I’m surrounded, Ass.”

Oh, God. Just breathe, man.

“30 years ago, this room would’ve looked like a chicken coop after a fox got done with it.”

Well, it’s not 30 years ago. You’re old enough to be their grandfather.


Do NOT call these girls skank!

“No. No skank. Not here.”


“Not yet. But I see some potential in at least three chicks.”

Holy shit, dude. Not okay. All of you need to keep away from–


“I stole him away from Josh. Look at him. He’s dewy.”

I need ALL OF THE GRATEFUL DEAD to move away from the teenagers.

“It’s okay, it’s totally cool. I got his parents to sign over custody to me. I legally adopted him.”

You pulled a Steven Tyler?

“Alternately, a Ted Nugent. But, uh, yeah.”

Everything about this is in poor taste.

“The heart wants what the heart wants.”

Just go help Bobby up.

Babies, Part 2

“Billy, have you seen my son?”

“Black Phil, Jr.?”

“That is not his name, and that is not my name.”

“Nah, haven’t seen him.”

“I’ve been told otherwise.”

“By who?”

“The guy who writes this bullshit.”

“Thoughts on my Ass? Fuck him. He makes stuff up.”

“Billy, gimme my kid back.”

“You’re just gonna send him to school! I wanna make him awesome.”


“I’m sorry. The plan is already in action.”

“Oh, hell, no. My son will not be a drummer.”

“And we got a guy coming by in an hour to teach him how to pick locks.”

“I’m calling the cops.”

It’s A Thousand Pages, Give Or Take A Few

Why are you wearing all-black. George R. R. Martin? You’re at a beach resort.

“Ah, my good sir! You’ve noted my ebon garb! It represents House Marghalis, who are–”

NO. No. No, no, no. I don’t care. Stop talking.

“You shan’t upbraid me with the all-too-cliched ‘Get back to writing, George,” shall you?”

Shit, no.

“A gentleman!”

It’s not that. I just don’t give a shit about The Dragonfucker Chronicles or whatever it is you write.

“You’re quite rude, you know.”

Shut up and go buy a bathing suit.

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