Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: paul simon

Still Crazy After All These Weirs*

“You said you knew the damn song, Bob.”

“I know lots of songs.”

This song. The one we’re playing right now. The Boxer.”

“Oh, no. Never did any of that. I’m more of a tai chi man. Much more relaxing. And, uh, you don’t get punched in the nose quite so much.”

“The song! The song is called The Boxer!”

“Is it about Boom Boom Mancini?”

“No, Warren Zevon wrote that one.”

“We could do Werewolfs of London. I know that one in and out. You got a slide I could borrow?”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Paul, I gotta take this.”

“What!?”

“Weir here.”

“ARE YEW HAVIN’ TROUBLES WITH YER ACCOUNTANT, HAIRY GARCIA?”

“Oh, no, Elvis. Everything’s copacetic.”

“AH GOT NO IDEA WHAT COPACABANA MEANS, SO AH WILL ASSUME YEW ARE SPEAKIN’ IN CODE AN’ NEED RESCUIN’!”

“Don’t you usually wear clothes?”

“NO.”

“Ah. Right. Don’t you usually wear jumpsuits?”

“UH-HUH.”

“Well, that’s settled.”

“AH WON’T HAVE MAH BES’ FRIEND HAIRY GARCIA GETTIN’ ROUSTABOUTED BAH NO TINY BAGELFACE! AH WILL DON MAH FINERY, GET IN TH’ STUTZ, AN’ BE THERE MOMENTARILY.”

“Sure, uh-huh, gotcha.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGHT PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT

“Okay, what chord are we on?”

“Bob, who the fuck was that?”

“Elvis.”

Elvis Elvis? He died 40 years ago. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Paul Simon, are you familiar with the concept of semi-fic–”

“Oh, just shut the fuck up.”

 

 

*Gonna be straight with you, Enthusiasts: I’m a little disappointed in myself that it took all day and four posts to come up with this title. It really couldn’t be more obvious.

A Dialogue That Goes As Poorly As The Performance That Inspired It

Hey, Paul Simon. Whatcha doing?

“Suffering! Honestly? I’m suffering. No Jew in history has ever suffered as much as me.”

You sure you don’t wanna amend that statement?

“No. Fuck Anne Frank. Let her sue me.”

What’s your problem?

“He doesn’t know the song!”

The Boxer.

“Yeah. I asked him Bob, do you know the song? and he said Sure, uh-huh, gotcha.

Ah. That’s how Bobby answers every question. Usually, though, Matt Busch follows up a few minutes later and gets him out of whatever he just agreed to.

“You knew what he sang? In the clearing stands the Bobber; In his poncho and his beard and then he just started humming. It’s unprofessional.”

Hey, you’re lucky. Bobby has been waaaaay more unprofessional than that.

“Ugh. I never got the whole Grateful Dead thing. Doodley-doodley and all the kids are on drugs. Terrible scene.”

Uh-huh. You sure you’re not just still pissed that Garcia fucked your wife?

“HE DID NOT!”

Little bit.

“You include me in your little blog again and I’m suing.”

She gave him a beardjob.

“FUCK YOU!”

TEAM GARFUNKEL!

Diamonds On The Soles Of His Birkenstocks

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Poncho time.”

Uh-huh. What else?

“Well, uh, I’m doing a little duet with Paul Simon. I don’t know if you know this, but–”

He’s not your best friend, Bobby.

“–he’s my best friend.”

I thought Jimi Hendrix was your best friend.

“He never calls.”

Sure.

“Me and Paul are tight, even though neither of us have ever mentioned it, or performed together, or even been seen in the same room.”

If you insist.

“He’s kinda my Garfunkel.”

Don’t say that to him. He’s prickly.

“I think you’ve got him confused with James Taylor. Paul Simon is known throughout the music industry as a caring, generous, warm-hearted man.”

He is not.

“I may be thinking of Simon LeBon.”

Maybe.

“Who is also my best friend.”

Sure.

In The Clearing Stands A Bobby

It’s Monday morning, motherfuckers! Your youth is dead, and ponchos abound.

Pleasant Distractions

Yeah, sure, the speech is almost over, but let’s pretend I was actually a helpful person and posted this a few hours ago.

How about one of the first great mock-rock-docs, The Last Polka, starring Eugene Levy and the deeply-missed John Candy?

Or how about a deep dive into the history of everyone’s favorite 70’s sound, the Fender Rhodes? If you’re unfamiliar with the name, you’ll certainly recognize the timbre: it’s the keyboard that sounds like shag carpeting. Jeff Chimenti’s playing one here in this picture:

And a fellow named Barry Beckett is playing one on this Paul Simon number you surely know:

Nice mustache, asshole.

I’ve Reason To Believe

An offering and some news:

Willie Nelson is awesome, but there’s no version without Paul Simon. Just ignore the Jew and concentrate on the Texan.

Also: images are now enabled in the Comment Section, and there’s a new e-mail notification plug-in. You might have to sign up again, and you can do so in the sidebar.

Crazy Like A Fox

Evidencifications part the 24th in the case against Edie Brickell and that one of the wives who wasn’t Mountain Girl (her name is Mahna-mahna or something) was correct in thinking this lady was on the make.

This is from Brickell’s Wikipedia page, about the first time she met her husband-to-be, Paul Simon.

“Even though I’d performed the song hundreds of times in clubs, he made me forget how the song went when I looked at him,” she said with a smile.

She said this about Paul Simon. Paul Simon looks like he should be demanding gold under bridges, only to be ignored: this man resembles an ineffectual troll. In a hair hat.

You think she does that hippie chick scat-improv thing when she does it?

Twiddley squeeee,

Dod diddly num.

You know what my

butt needs? Your thumb.

Jesus, man. It’s Father’s Day.