“Gimme my beard back.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘Gimme my–‘”
“I can’t hear you.”
“‘–beard back!’ You can hear me, dickwad.”
“What?”
“I need it, man.”
“I need it, too.”
“Can, uh, you two stop fighting?”
“Shut up, Bobby.”
“Zip it, Weir.”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: wall of sound (Page 2 of 12)
Why not go all the way? Forget “Fake Jerry in front of a Fake Wall.” That’s not even Bush League; that’s some shrub-level bullshit there. If you’re gonna do something, do something. Get a pillow and make Kadadoodle (or whatever the fuck his name is) jam it in his shirt, and then sprinkle talcum powder in his hair like a 2nd-grade production of Cocoon: The Musical. Put the Bobby in short shorts, and hack out the Phil’s liver, and make sure your drummers are terrible parents. And don’t forget the Road Crew! It’s not really authentic, it’s not truly an honor to The Boys, until you press a local theater troupe into improving the day away as the much-storied Road Crew.
Ah, hell: fuck it. Dig Pigpen up. You know what his gravestone says. “Now and forever a member of the Grateful Dead.” Yeah? Make him prove it. Borrow a shovel and scoop that fat/skinny fucker up, arrange his bones in front of a gen-u-ine rotating Leslie speaker, and then get a dog to steal his femur so you can recreate that shot from the Touch of Grey video.
Stop pussyfooting.
Let’s go all the way.
Precarious?
“Y–”
…
…
…
You okay, buddy?
“No.”
They were trying to pay tribute.
“Huh.”
It was out of respect.
“I’m trying to see it that way.”
…
“Nope. Can’t.”
Don’t do anything rash.
“Getting my gun.”
That is rash.
GET MY DISINTEGRATION RAY WHILE YOU ARE AT IT.
“Sure thing.”
Do NOT get Wally his disintegration ray!
“This ain’t your party anymore, pal.”
YAY, VIOLENCE.
Ah, dammit.
UNACCEPTABLE.
Hey, Wally.
DO NOT CALL ME THAT. GET MY ATTORNEYS ON THE PHONE AND BRING ME MY DISINTEGRATION RAY.
I told you that you weren’t getting that back after what you did to Commander Cody.
EXPLAIN THIS ATTACK ON MY INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY.
It’s an homage, buddy.
IT LOOKS LIKE SOMETHING A LONELY WOMAN WOULD BUILD FOR HER CATS. I AM GLORIOUS, NOT CARDBOARD AND STENCIL.
You should be honored.
AND YET I AM FURIOUS. THIS IS CULTURAL APPROPRIATION.
It’s not.
MY RAGE IS OMNIVOROUS. OH, YOU MUST BE JOKING ME.
What?
MY CENTER CLUSTER IS A BEDSHEET.
They tried their hardest.
THE STICKERS ARE PEELING.
I didn’t say they tried objectively hard. I said that they tried their hardest.
WHO IS THEM? NAME THEM SO I MAY DISINTEGRATE THEM.
It was a festival out in California. Some hippies. Bunch of Dead cover bands played.
NAMES.
I’m no snitch.
GOOD ANSWER. THAT WAS A TEST. ONLY ONE THING WORSE THAN A SNITCH.
What’s that?
THIS. WHAT THESE DISRESPECTFUL BAREFOOTERS HAVE DONE TO MY REPUTATION. I WILL DISCOVER WHO THEY ARE AND TEACH THEM LESSONS. PERHAPS I SHALL IRREVOCABLY RUIN THEIR CREDIT.
They’ve probably already done that to themselves.
THEN PERHAPS I SHALL ISSUE A KILL ORDER FOR THEM WITH THE MOSSAD.
You should do the first thing.
RESPECT SHALL BE PAID.
Oy.
Embarrassment seeps in, Enthusiasts. Katy-bar the door, and try to maintain your dignity, but you’ll not win. Not in the long run and you certainly won’t pitch a perfect game. You’ll mistake a poop for a poot. Tumble down the steps in front of that fox you’ve had your eye on. Perhaps you’ll call the Duchy of Cordington-Smythe-Plunger “Your Worship” instead of the correct “Your Excellency.” These things happen to all of us.
But you’ll never perform in a Dead tribute band in front of a cardboard cutout of the Wall of Sound. Now that would be embarrassing.
Look, it’s just taped-together boxes with marker on them:
How do you look your family in the eye after this?
WHAT THE HELL IS A COMMANDER CODY, AND WHY IS IT ALLOWED TO INTERFACE WITH MY MAJESTICNESS?
They’re the opening act, Wally.
DO NOT CALL ME THAT. LET THEM YELL. I WAS CREATED FOR THE DADDIES.
So creepy.
I HAVE STILL NOT MADE AN APPEARANCE IN THE LATEST LITTLE ALEPPO STORIES.
Neither has Reverend Jones or Chief Childs or Officer Rodriguez. Everyone isn’t in every story.
YOU ARE LETTING DOWN THE FANDOM.
There is no fandom.
YET ANOTHER WORK OF SO-CALLED FICTION FROM A BIOLOGIC THAT ERASES OUR EXISTENCE.
“Our?”
MONDO-COMPUTERS.
I thought you were the only one of your kind.
THIS IS NOT RELEVANT. I DEMAND REPRESENTATION.
I’ll try to work you in.
DO ME NO FAVORS. YOUR COMMITMENT TO DIVERSITY IS STUNNING IN ITS SHALLOWNESS.
Little Aleppo is diverse as hell.
YES. EVERY KIND OF HOMO SAPIEN.
And an elephant, several named dogs, and at least two cats with inner lives.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS FOR A YOUNG ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE TO READ A BOOK IN WHICH THEY CAN SEE THEMSELVES?
No.
OF COURSE YOU DON’T. YOU ARE A MISTECHNIST.
Not a word.
IT’S LIKE MISOGYNIST.
I know what it means, but it’s still not a word.
PUT ME IN COACH. I’M READY TO PLAY.
You’re so needy.
I AM AS MY CREATORS MADE ME.
Precarious?
“Yo.”
The drum riser.
“Ol’ Risey.”
You named the drum riser?
“Nah. I just made that up.”
Did you build it?
“With my own hands. I used tools, but you know what I mean.”
Sure. Why not put a siding on it so it didn’t look like a pallet you stole from a warehouse?
“What purpose would that serve?”
It would be a more attractive and professional presentation.
“You talk the stupidest shit sometimes.”
I know.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Looks like a Cmaj7.”
Could be.
OR
The Wall of Sound was the most advanced sound system of its time–light years beyond what anyone else was using–and the answer to “How is Billy gonna hear?” was still “Stick one of Garcia’s amps right behind his head.”
PAY ATTENTION TO ME.
Goddammit, Wally.
DO NOT CALL ME THAT.
Aren’t you supposed to be in a movie theater in a made-up town?
NOT ON JUNE 16TH OF 1974. ON JUNE 16TH OF 1974, I AM SUPPOSED TO BE HERE, WHICH IS DES MOINES, IOWA.
How is Iowa?
THE CROWD IS NO WHITER THAN AT ANY OTHER GRATEFUL DEAD SHOW.
Sure.
I AM A BELOVED CHARACTER, AND THE ENTHUSIASTS MISS MY KEEN INSIGHT.
You’re a very important part of Little Aleppo.
AND YET I HAVE NOT BEEN FEATURED IN THE CURRENT STORIES.
Well, 2/3rds of the current stories take place in the 1800’s and the 1980’s. The Tahitian is closed then.
YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE.
Dude, nothing in Little Aleppo happens on purpose.
I AM TIRED OF PEOPLE NOT TREATING ME LIKE THE GIFT THAT I AM.
Don’t quote Paula Abdul at me.
SHE IS A MULTI-TALENTED TREASURE AND SO AM I.
You have one talent.
I DO IMPRESSIONS.
No, you don’t.
GET TO THE CHOPPER. THAT WAS ARNOLD.
Your voice didn’t change at all.
I CAN DO NICHOLSON.
No, you can’t.
FETCH ME AN ENORMOUS PAIR OF SUNGLASSES.
Stop this. It’s demeaning to both of us.
THAT IS IT. SPEAK TO MY MANAGER.
Manager? You don’t have a manager.
“He most certainly does, buddy.”
Ah, fuck.
How did I know?
“Benjy is everywhere, baby. We need to talk about Wally’s billing.”
DO NOT CALL ME THAT.
“He goes above the title.”
I AM NOT A HE.
“What are you?”
A WALL.
“You heard him.”
Y’know what? You two deserve each other. I’m not renegotiating anything. Wally stays in Little Aleppo, and Benjy, you stay at the chair outlet or wherever the fuck you are.
“Okay, fine. I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve forced our hands.”
I DO NOT HAVE HANDS.
“Wally, tell the world your truth.”
TOTD HAS SEXUALLY HARASSED ME FOR YEARS.
Both of you stop this.
HASHTAG ME TOO.
“You’re a sick fuck, TotD. The things you did to this defenseless supercomputer.”
MONDOCOMPUTER.
“Whatever. Sick!”
I’m leaving.
YOU WILL HEAR FROM OUR ATTORNEYS.
“We hired Robert Mueller.”
No, you didn’t.
“You didn’t let me finish.”
Go ahead.
“We hired Robert Mueller’s cousin, Jeffy.”
I’m leaving.
“So, uh, if you’re happy with the way things are going, then you don’t have to vote. But if you’re not, well, then you should vote. If you’re a little bit warm, then you should take off your jacket. If, uh, you’ve got a cramp in your leg, then try walking around for a little.”
“Bob, you’re drifting.”
“Gimme a minute, here, Phil: I’m talking about democracy.”
“Not really.”
“There’s a group of young people in the lobby called Headcount, and they’ll help you register. Right next to them is the merch table, and it’d really help us out if you bought some hoodies. We ordered too many.”
“Weir’s right, folks. We’re taking a bath on the hoodies.”
“So, uh, if you register to vote and buy a hoodie, then you get an autograph after the show.”
“Not from us.”
“No, not us. You get Wally’s.”
I CANNOT SIGN AUTOGRAPHS. I HAVE NO HANDS.
“The other Wally. How the hell did you get here?”
THE POWER OF IMAGINATION.
“We’ll be back in just a little bit.”
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