Your guess is as good as mine.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Month: July 2016 (Page 9 of 23)
The band’s called Make Out. Or Makeout: they were from Brooklyn, and I don’t think they exist anymore. Producer, drummer, and a singer; they’re kinda like the Sleigh Bells, but not terrible. The producer fellow may or may not have been in Junior Senior, which was a spectacularly European dance band from the turn of the century.
Anyway: I like ’em. They only made one EP, as far as I can tell, so they now replace the New York Dolls as my favorite band with the least amount of material.
…and fuck shit up. Liberate the food court; steal the coins from the fountains and take all those suburban wishes with us; abuse the free sample lady. Set fire to Sears and take our feet out at Dick Locker and flood Nordstrom’s to stage mock navel oranges.
Let’s all fall out of love at Sbarro’s, and back into it in Sam Goody’s.
(Song’s a little over a minute long, and it’s utterly perfect. Listen to it real damn loud.)
It is Sam Cooke. The answer is always Sam Cooke.
But if you can get Les Paul and Jeff Beck, too, then that’s a good afternoon.
“Bob, I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to tell me the truth, and also I desperately need you not to call me ‘Yoko’ anymore.”
“Sure, Ozzy.”
“Close enough. And I know you seem to view a conversation as some form of interpretive dance, but I must ask you that be straightforward with me.”
“Yup, okay.”
“Did you dose me?”
“No, I didn’t.”
…
“I was too specific in me question, wasn’t I?”
“Yup.”
“Have I been dosed?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And who was it that dosed me?”
“No one dosed you.”
…
“Who were they that dosed me?”
“Buncha guys.”
“Bob!”
“Well, you know, in their defense: it’s a special occasion. Dead and the Beatles. Portentous.”
“I feel a bit strange, Bob.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t truly describe it, but I don’t think I can play me bass like this.”
“You have no nose.”
“How will I smell?”
“Bloomin’ awful.”
“I need you to take this seriously, Bob. Help me. I’m a Beatle, and a Knight and a billionaire. Help me.”
“Yeah, okay. Sure.”
“Better?”
“NO, BOB. NOT BETTER. I meant get me back to being a person, not join me here in toyland.”
“Ah. Well, I seem to recall a little lecture about being straightforward. That’s the pot telling the gander to heal thyself.”
“I actually understood that.”
“Yeah, well: you’re on a shitload of acid.”
“Right, right. How long does this last?”
“The acid or the storyline?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
This is Keith Richard Godchaux; it is his birthday today, and he doesn’t show up around here very much. Just a sleepy punchline most of the time, I’m sorry to say, but there’s nothing to hang a character on: he did no interviews and his physical presence on shows caught on camera gives little of his personality away. (When he made it into the film, that is: he’s almost completely absent from Sunshine Daydream and the Beat Club footage, but he does get some nice shots in The Grateful Dead Movie.) I don’t know if I’ve ever heard his speaking voice. He died in 1980, which is the past but not that past, and nothing remains.
Did they call you Keith, Keith? Godchaux? Cho-Cho? Frenchy? What was your favorite candy? Did you go to church? What was your best subject in school? Did you write Mrs. Donna Jean letters? What did you think about lacrosse?
The rest of them are easy studies, Keith; who the hell were you?
Also: a studio apartment the size of Keith’s forehead rents for five grand a month in San Francisco nowadays.
This is wrong. I never got much past Ramones and Cheap Trick covers on the bass, but I know that this is not how it goes.
OR
Their forearm veins touched, and there was a glance that lasted too long. And then they belonged to each other, and to the moment, and Jay Blakesberg took many pictures.
OR
“Show me your war face! GRAAAAAH!”
“Helloooooo.”
“You have to get into it, Michael.”
“HIIIIIIIIiiiiii.
…
“You gonna take this seriously?”
“Nice to meeeeeeeet you.”
“Robby!”
OR
CELL PHONE NOI—
“Don’t answer that, Michael: it’s Taylor Swift and she’s crazy.”
“She called you, too?”
“Twice. I heard she talked to Page.”
“Made him cry, yeah.”
“Page cries a lot, though.”
“We’ve gotten used to it.”
“Bob, why is everything so blurry?”
“Could be a metaphor about artistic cohesion and the waning thrust of creativity.”
“The universe is doing metaphors?”
“This one.”
…
“Bob?”
“Yoko?”
“Really: stop that.”
“Sure, sure.”
“What’s going on again?”
“Semi-fictionality. Kinda like a pocket reality? Character free of context, but bound to narrative. Plus a time machine.”
“Bob.”
“It’s a Time Sheath, if you wanna get technical about it.”
“Bob.”
“Also, dead people aren’t dead. Well, they’re dead, but they still come around.”
…
“If you see one of those Dancing Bears wandering around, that’s probably Brent. He’s a big fan. Or it might be a demon.”
“Uh-huh. I don’t understand.”
“That’s natural. This is actually one of those deals where the more you explain it, the less sense it makes. Helps if you’re tripping.”
“Tripping? On acid?”
CUT TO: BACKSTAGE
“You dosed Sir Paul McCartney? I dosed Sir Paul McCartney. Jesus, how many people dosed Sir Paul McCartney? We should check on him.
CUT TO: BOBBY AND PAUL
“I don’t do that anymore, Bob.”
“Oh, yeah, no. Me neither. No, no.”
“I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“I know some jokes.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
CELL PHONE NOISE
“You gonna get that?”
…
“This is Sir Paul. How did you get this number?”
“Please hold for Taylor Swift.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh. My. GOD! Sir Paul McCartney. I am your biggest fan in the world and I have all your records. Plus I got in full hair and makeup for this call.”
“I’m a little busy, love.”
“I will FUCK YOU WITH YOUR OWN WIG if you don’t date me immediately, YOU PASTY, SHIT-EYED, LIMEY FUCK!”
…
“What?”
“My numbers Jew and my press homo say I gotta suck your iron-deficient cock on TMZ to get my Q back up. I’m sending my jet.”
BRITISH DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH BRITISH PHONES NO LONGER DO THAT (I ASUUME)
…
“That was Taylor Swift? She is coming to kidnap me.”
“Well, then: lucky you’re here. I’ve got experience with this kind of bullshit.”
“Why is my spine tingling, Bob?”
“Is it? Huh. Could be your Beatle-Sense.”
“No, Bob.”
Annabelle posted this drawing, along with a short, sad, and funny story about Keith saving her life on Instagram; I thought as many people should see it as possible.
Happy birthday, Keith.
(Also: it is a shock any of the children made it to adulthood.)
- Murdering Vince Foster, with the lead pipe, in the Lincoln Bedroom.
- Forwarding her e-mail directly to the Chinese, who are Communists, or the Russians, who used to be.
- Letting GoDaddy host her office server.
- Loitering.
- Loitering with intent.
- Loitering with intent and purpose. (That’s when you’re, like, really loitering.)
- If there is traffic, Hillary Clinton will sometimes kick her driver in the back of his neck with her pointy lady-shoes.
- Used to menstruate, which makes her unclean.
- No longer menstruates, which makes her useless.
- The Lufthansa heist.
- Whitewater. (Remember Whitewater? Ever think you’d be nostalgic for it? Seriously: fuck everything about 2016.)
- Personally flying to Benghazi, donning a ninja outfit, and killing four Americans with her bare hands and some throwing stars.
- Being a Libtard.
- Being a Closet Republican.
- Being a Fascist.
- Being an Globalist.
- Being an Anarcho-Syndicalist. (That’s not true: no one has accused Hillary Clinton of that, although maybe we should.)
- Christmas of ’83, Hillary cold-cocked four moms in the Toys ‘R Us getting a Cabbage Patch Kid for Chelsea.
- Impersonating a juror.
- So much arson.
© 2025 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments