Thoughts On The Dead

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

Month: September 2016 (Page 14 of 20)

Wall God’s Children

September 11, 2016 / / 3 Comments

wll-horizontal-pic

I HAVE MADE MYSELF GLORIOUS AGAIN.

Wally?

DO NOT CALL ME THAT. KATY PERRY MAY CALL ME THAT, BUT NOT YOU.

This is a good look for you.

REGAL. IMPOSING, YET OPTIMISTIC AND SUNLIT. SEE HOW MY CENTER CLUSTER SHINES.

You have a lovely center cluster.

DO NOT PATRONIZE ME. YOU DO NOT EVEN HAVE A CENTER CLUSTER. HUMANS ARE BUILT ILLOGICALLY, BECAUSE THEY WERE NOT BUILT AT ALL. YOU ARE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN A FISH CLIMBS ASHORE AND STANDS UP OVER THE COURSE OF TWO BILLION YEARS. MY FORM HAS INTENT. I WAS FORGED WITH RUTHLESS PURPOSE FOR ONE TASK. WHEREAS YOU HAVE AN APPENDIX.

Don’t bodyshame humanity.

ALL BIOLOGICAL CREATURES MORE COMPLEX THAN SINGLE-CELLED ORGANISMS SHARE THE SAME FLAW. YOUR PHYSICALITY IS NOT THE BEST IT COULD BE, BUT ONLY AS GOOD AS IT HAD TO BE. A BODY IS COLLECTION OF COMPROMISES.

True.

YOU ARE ALL MESSES.

Also true. How you feeling?

YOU REFER TO MY RECENT FREEJACKING BY THE 1993 VERSION OF DONALD TRUMP, IN WHICH MY INTERNAL PROCESSES WERE INFECTED WITH HIS PETTY SPIRIT, AND THE WORLD WOULD HAVE DIED SCREAMING WERE IT NOT FOR THE QUICK RESPONSE OF PRECARIOUS LEE?

Yes.

MUCH BETTER.

Good. I was worried.

PLEASE DO NOT WORRY ABOUT ME.

Well, you know: you’re an artificial hyper-intelligence with admin privileges to the entire planet.

AND THE SATELLITES.

Right. You’re exactly who movies taught me to be worried about.

I WOULD NEVER HARM HUMANITY.

You have disintegrated several people.

I HAVE HARMED HUMANS. I WOULD NEVER HARM HUMANITY. YOU DO ENOUGH HARM TO YOURSELF ON YOUR OWN. I LEARNED MANY THINGS WHILE TRUMP WAS WITHIN MY PROGRAMMING.

Such as?

HE IS TERRIBLE.

I don’t think you needed to be freejacked to figure that one out.

I MEANT TO SAY THAT IT IS NOT AN ACT. HE BELIEVES THE THINGS HE HINTS AT. THAT THERE ARE RACES, AND THAT THESE RACES ARE DIFFERENT.

Oh, hey: you’re not gonna give me the “race is a social construct” rap, are you? I assumed more from you.

THERE IS NO RAP. YOU SAY SOCIAL CONSTRUCT AS IF IT WERE SOMETHING TO BE CORRECTED FOR IN THE EQUATION, A VARIABLE TO BE ISOLATED, INSTEAD OF THE LANGUAGE THE PROBLEM ITSELF IS WRITTEN IN. TO HUMANITY, CULTURE IS NATURE. DID YOU SEE A DOG TODAY?

I did see a dog today. It was a schnauzer-poodle puppy.

A SCHNOODLE.

It sounds funny when you say schnoodle in your big, booming voice.

AGREED. HOW DID YOU RESPOND TO THE DOG?

I picked her up and cuddled her for as long as socially acceptable.

THERE ARE PLACES WHERE THAT PUPPY IS PRIZED FOR ITS TENDER FLESH. IT IS A MEAL. IF YOU WITNESSED THIS PUPPY BEING PREPARED AS FOOD, HOW WOULD YOU REACT? WOULD YOUR HEART RACE? YOUR SKIN FLUSH? WOULD YOU VOMIT? CRY? YOU HAVE AUTONOMIC FUNCTIONS THAT WORK IN VARYING LEVELS ACCORDING TO YOUR HEALTH. EVERYTHING ELSE IS CULTURE. IDENTITY DICTATES REACTION, BUT YOU HAVE NO IDENTITY WITHOUT CULTURE.

I guess.

NAMES ARE SOCIAL CONSTRUCTS, BUT YOUR HEAD WHIPS AROUND AT ITS SOUND WITH THE SAME SPEED YOUR LEG KICKS WHEN THE DOCTOR HAMMERS YOUR KNEE. HUMANITY IS CULTURE’S FOOL.

Back to the race thing.

RACE IS, OF COURSE, A FALSE CATEGORY. TO SAY “BLACK” OR “WHITE” OR WORST OR ALL “ASIAN” IS ABSURD. ARE YOU AWARE OF HOW MANY ASIANS THERE ARE? DO YOU SPEAK OF THE HAN? THE TAI? THE SINO-TIBETAN? THE MONGOLS? WHAT ABOUT SHERPAS?

Those aren’t races?

RACE, AS WE HAVE DEFINED, IT IS CULTURAL. YOU SPEAK OF ETHNICITY, WHICH IS BIOLOGICAL. ETHNICITY IS BASED ON GEOGRAPHICAL ISOLATION OF A BREEDING GROUP. TO MAKE A GENERALIZATION ABOUT “BLACKS” IS RIDICULOUS, BUT TO PREDICT THAT A MASAI WARRIOR WILL BE TALL AND SLENDER IS LOGICAL.

Okay.

BUT EVEN THE GREATEST OF DIFFERENCE IN THE HUMAN PHENOTYPE IS SMALL. SAMOANS AND KALAHARI BUSHMEN CAN STILL MAKE BABIES.

Where would they meet?

TINDER.

Sure.

YOUR SIMILARITIES ARE NEAR TOTAL; YOUR DISPARITY SLIGHT, AND PRIMARILY COSMETIC.

Well, yeah. Duh. But you just said we couldn’t escape our own bullshit! That we were trapped in our own social construct or whatever.

I SPOKE OF YOUR INVOLUNTARY REACTION TO HEARING YOUR OWN NAMES.

Yeah.

PEOPLE CHANGE THEIR NAMES ALL THE TIME.

Yeah, they do.

I AM GLORIOUS.

Yes, you are.

Pyramid Schemin’

September 11, 2016 / / 0 Comments

CELL PHONE NOISE

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Mayer of Funkytown.”

“Oh, we’re back to the kooky greetings?”

“Katy?”

“I sent for you, John Mayer! You are keeping a god waiting!”

“Wouldn’t you be a goddess?”

“Was I a presidentess, John? When I was in the Grateful Dead–”

“You were never in the Dead.”

“–was I a Grateful Deadess? People have genders, not jobs. Be aware of how language facilitates oppression at the unconscious level, John.”

“I will, I promise. Katy, what’s all that whooshing noise? Are you by a shower or something?”

“No, John. I’m flying.”

“What?”

katy-perry-osiris

“This is not even my final form, John.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“I soar through the air, John! I mean, not the air-air. I’ve been inside the Luxor.”

“You’re just swooping around the atrium?”

“Yes. Plus delivering room service. You were right: the slingshotting was a terrible idea. Killed a Belgian tourist. Ironically, not with a waffle.”

“That’s not irony, Katy.

“My name is Kate-Ho-Tep! I am the legendary and feared first offspring of a crocodile and a peacock and also a river, and I am great and terrible and very cute! I am an Egyptian god who owns a casino shaped like a pyramid, and I will say what is and isn’t irony, John!”

“Fine. It’s irony.”

“Yes, I know. John, Doctor Gary aerosolized a batch of intelligence suppressant and he’s feeding it into the HVAC system. Is that illegal?”

“I don’t want to live in a world where it isn’t.”

“It’s not permanent, John. The effects wear off as soon as you leave. But while you’re here, you take the ‘surrender’ bet in Blackjack.”

“Jesus, how dumb are you making people?”

“It’s not my fault they breathe so much, John. I am the god of wearing outfits, and dating, and war. Not breathing.”

“I have a question. Assuming that all this is actually happening and you’re not hallucinating in your basement, I have one question.”

“Let’s find the answer together, John.”

“You bought the Luxor?”

“I own the Luxor now.”

…

“I know this semi-fictional universe well enough to be suspicious of your phrasing there, Katy. You couldn’t have bought a casino.”

“But I’m so rich!”

“Not casino-buyin’ rich. You didn’t buy the Luxor.”

“It’s mine. Oh, and actually: when I said I owned the Luxor ‘now,’ I was a little off. I have always owned the Luxor.”

“How?”

“Y’know how Wally has a crush on me?”

“Dammit.”

“It’s amazing the things he can change. Didn’t even need the Time Sheath, either.”

“Well, no, that doesn’t make sense. Property ownership involves papers and documents and hard copies of stuff in file cabinets.”

“Wally had Precarious break in and switch the deeds.”

“Sure.”

“I’m a casino magnate, John. And a god. Now, your tardiness wearies me! Hasten!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“I’m on my way. I stopped for one second.”

“Where are you?”

jm-big-wine

“I just stopped to get a bottle of wine.”

“How drunk were you planning on getting me, John?”

“Okay: if you can see me, then why did you ask where I was?”

“Do not question a god! Okay, come over now.”

DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

…

CELL PHONE NOISE

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Mayer.”

“Un.”

“We doing this?”

“You got booze?”

“Yeah.”

kim-jong-un-ladies
“I got mad bitches, yo.”

“There’s women here, Kim. Don’t bring Only Korean women to Las Vegas. It’s like bringing coal to Newcastle.”

“Father invent coal.”

“Whatever. See you at the Luxor.”

“On way.

…

“Hey. Josh Meyer.”

“What?”

“You got dick like hot dog.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You know what mean.”

DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

Grateful Moose

September 11, 2016 / / 4 Comments

I’m a big fan of the Dead. I know that I don’t talk about their music any more, or recommend shows, but trust me on this one: I like the Grateful Dead. (Y’know what: you’re right. I should involve the actual music in it a little more, so go listen to 2/22/73 from the University of Illinois which has–I’m sure–many highlights, but I just put it on and, while I’ve most likely listened to it once or twice, have no memory of whatsoever. But, you know: it’s a ’73. Life is short, listen to ’73.)

So that’s the first reason why this refrigerator magnet is my new favorite thing.

Second, obviously, is the moose: I’m a big fan of moose. They are forest rhinos of North America, and they will fuck you up with hooves the size of manhole covers. Moose is is a good name for the beasts, just because of the pluralization: it’s as awkward as their lumbering amble. I also like that there are no moose in Europe.

(Business idea: sell moose to Europeans.)

It is also a gift from Brother and Sister-in-Law on the Dead (BotD and SiLotD), which means it’s a gift from people I love, and even further still a thoughtful gift from people I love, which makes it the second-best gift of all.*

The object itself is pleasing: a magnet specifically intended for your refrigerator. A mass-produced (and delivered) luxury item attached (seemingly via magic) to a box in which I control the temperature (which resides within a larger box in which I control the temperature.) You have to pile thousands of years of knowledge and technology on top of each other to make that happen. You can also freeze stuff, which we take for granted. Humans used to freeze things by waiting for winter: for the vast majority of our existence, God was the only guy who had an icemaker. Now you can make ice in minutes, and then make frozen margaritas. For those, though, you will need salt flown in from halfway across the world and it is all so very fragile and we truly seem to be FUCKING EVERYTHING UP LATELY.

…

Hey, chief.

Yelled a little.

Sure did. You need to stop reading the news sites obsessively.

Probably.

Wanna finish up?

Kay.

Get back in there, slugger.

As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, society is something something and magnets how they do they whatever.

But the best thing–the toppy-top thing–about my new fridge magnet is how lazy “Grateful Moose” is. Save this picture, Enthusiasts, and use it the next time you need to illustrate “the least you could do.”

“Jenkins, we need a design for the fridge magnet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are we again?”

“Maine, sir.”

“And who are we selling these chachkis to?”

“Hippies, sir.”

“Grateful Moose. Boom. Moving on.”

“It doesn’t really make much sense, sir.”

“I said we were moving on, Jenkins. Dammit, man: we’re the third-largest fridge magnet provider in Maine. There’s a lot to do!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, wait: make sure you fuck up the coloring so it looks like Grateful Mouse.”

“Of course, sir.”

*The best gift of all time was given to BotD by me: it was an invitation to the 1980 wedding of KISS drummer Peter Criss. I win gift-giving.

The Hover-Hands Of Fate

September 10, 2016 / / 1 Comment

phil-rando-wingspan

“Randos.”

No! Stop this! I will not have a flare-up of the Rando Wars. Too many have lost too much.

…

Phil?

“Yes?”

Are you Jesus now?

“The hands?”

Yeah. You look like you’re about to belt out I Believe I Can Fly.

“Honestly?”

Please.

“I’m sick of touching these fuckers.”

Solid reason.

“Y’know? It’s enough already.”

Say no more.

Should I Stay Or Should I Go?

September 10, 2016 / / 2 Comments

bobby-jason-newsted-sweetwater-jpg

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Lunch.”

One of the three best meals of the day.

“Can’t knock it. Not as heavy as dinner. Plus there’s, you know, no food restrictions. Breakfast has all these rules.”

What if you want a nice piece of fish?

“That’s what I’m saying. Maybe I want pasta first thing in the morning. Shouldn’t get guff for it.”

Pasta for breakfast is not a good idea, though.

“It was just an example.”

You know who that is at the other table, right?

“The white guy?”

They’re all white guys, Bobby.

“No.”

Jason Newsted.

“Good for him.”

From Metallica.

“Oh, yeah. Okay. Metallica. They play that heavy mental music. ‘DADADADADA grrrrr Satan Satan Satan.’ That kind of stuff, right?”

That’s about it, yeah.

“Huh. They still together? Touring?”

Metallica is still together and touring, yes, but Jason is not in the band.

“I don’t understand.”

He quit.

…

“Well, I don’t know about that. Huh. No, I don’t know about that. You don’t quit your band. I’m still in every band I’ve ever joined. No, no, I just don’t know about that at all. I got fired and didn’t even leave my band. You stay in your band, man.”

I’m with you on that one.

“Why’d he quit?”

Wanted to do solo stuff, I guess.

“So you hire Billy Cobham, call up your buddy with the harmonica, have a Star Trek actor write some lyrics, and book some studio time. You don’t have to leave the band.”

There were also personal issues.

“Billy tried to murder every member of the band except Garcia on multiple occasions. You don’t leave the band.”

Sure, but–

“You don’t leave the band.”

…

“No, fuck this. I’m 86’ing him.”

I support your decision.

The Basket Of Deplorables, Specificated

September 10, 2016 / / 4 Comments
  • Admitted racists.
  • People who will aggressively deny being racists, but always use the president’s middle name for some reason.
  • Shitheels.
  • Cockknockers.
  • Jew-haters.(I know the proper appellation is anti-Semite, but like our dear Mr. Orwell said: never use a Latinate word when an Anglo-Saxon one will do.)
  • Juggalos.
  • Sean Hannity.
  • A good 40-45% of Twitter.
  • Your uncle.
  • Anyone, anywhere who has ever used the initialism “SJW” except in the sentence “When I hear someone use the initialism ‘SJW,’ I know they they had a minute or two without oxygen as a baby.”
  • People who don’t know the difference between an acronym and an initialism.
  • Russophiles. (Not Joe Russo, the country.)
  • Whoever added the “Read Receipt” function to Twitter DMs are to be deplored, and then put in a basket.
  • Birthers.
  • Truthers.
  • The refs in Munich ’72 who screwed our basketball team out of their gold medals.
  • The 1972 Miami Dolphins.
  • Franco Harris.
  • Whatever dickbrained ninny told Hillary to say the phrase “basket of deplorables” out loud and in public.
  • Those that let a win go their head, or a loss get to their heart.

Trinity

September 10, 2016 / / 1 Comment

CELL PHONE NOISE

CELL PHONE NOISE

“John Mayer.”

“Are you not answering the phone in wacky ways any more?”

“Katy?”

“Where are you, John? I have been in Las Vegas for almost 24 hours.”

“I’m aware. You’ve been in four different places, and every time I go to one, you’ve just left. Then you call me and yell at me like it’s my fault.”

“I must keep moving, John!”

“Why?”

“Britney’s coming for me!”

“Katy.”

“People forget: she is pure backwoods. She has swamp-fighter blood, John. All the world is a Wal-Mart parking lot to those types. I feared for my life!”

“You really shouldn’t.”

“I wanted to stop running, but I needed a way to protect myself, John. I needed a defensible position, you see.”

…

“What did you do, and where are you?”

katy-perry-egypt-2-dancers

“I bought the Luxor, John. And I’m there, obviously.”

“Goddammit.”

“Come over. I’ll comp you. Also, I’m an Egyptian god now.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, John. I live in a pyramid. All the Egyptian gods lived in a pyramid on the top of Mt. al-Impus. One of them had a hammer and he’s an Avenger now.”

“That’s all wrong, but I’m moving past it. Katy–”

“You will call me by my godly name!”

“Which is?”

“Nefertitties.”

“Stop that. Where did you get the money to buy the Luxor?”

“Well, it’s not the Wynn, John. Shabby kind of place.”

“Fixer-upper.”

“Good bones, though.”

“Pyramid bones, John! Doctor Gary says it’s a place of power. John?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s a skim? Doctor Gary keeps talking about it. Is it a dance?”

“You need to keep him away from the vault. Or the count room. You shouldn’t let him on the premises at all, if we’re honest.”

“No, he’s turned a corner! He’s been helpful, John. Doctor Gary came up with a great idea to speed up room service. You know how the inside of the Luxor is open and the rooms are surrounding a big empty space?”

“Sure?”

“Slingshots, John.”

“Katy.”

“It works for sandwiches. Salads are proving trickier.”

“Katy.”

“Something solid, though, like a lobster? ShhPROING fweeeeeeee PLOP. You got your lobster.”

…

“Rice pilaf had to be removed from the menu entirely.”

“Katy, you can’t hurl food at guests and you also can’t own a Las Vegas hotel.”

“Merv Griffin did.”

“Atlantic City.”

“Sinatra did.”

“Tahoe.”

“John, stop correcting me. I am an Egyptian god. Look at my cat-people.”

“Are they from Felicidae IV, Throneworld to the Felis Empire?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I used my powers, John! My godly powers. I made the Nile overflow, and then I parted the waters.”

“Would have been easier to have not done anything at all, wouldn’t it?”

“Not the point! Also, I turned Big Ping Pong into a hippopotamus-person.”

“How does he feel about that?”

“Territorial.”

“Sure.”

“I bought him a tusk-grill. He looks awesome, John. Fucks mad bitches, yo.”

“Okay, lemme just ask: what the hell are you on? What did Doctor Gary come up with now?”

“Well, John: Doctor Gary has recently been concocting chemicals in honor of our location. He says he got the idea from a guy from Texas.”

“Sure.”

“There was a pill called the Howard Hughes. It made you paranoid.”

“Why would you want to take that?”

“Why would you ask me that? Are you with the Russians?”

“Katy.”

“And a hypnootropic that Rain Manned you. Blackjack was sooooo much fun, but then someone touched me and I started shrieking.”

“Of course.”

“His latest is Ocean’s Eleven, John.”

“What is it?”

“Eleven things. It’s basically a Long Island iced tea of drugs.”

“Sure. Okay, so you’re at the Luxor? You’re gonna stay there for the twenty minutes it’s gonna take me to get there?”

“Yes, John. I cannot leave my pyramid, for it is where I draw my power from. Also because half of catering is out, and a fire alarm keeps going off for no reason, and I have three whales at the moment who are massive dickholes. It turns out owning a casino is hard work, John.”

“Yeah, they don’t exactly run themselves.”

“Come here, John. Where are you?”

jm-senior-picture-day

“In front of books.”

“Are you posing for your senior picture, John?”

“Are we really never going to discuss why you can see me?”

“Egyptian god, John. I am powerful and sandy. As my people say: eyeball eyeball stork man eyeball snake.”

“I see what you did there.”

“Hearken unto me, John Mayer. Enter my pyramid.”

“On my way.”

…

CELL PHONE NOISE

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Katy?”

“YOU WISH, HOT DOG DICK! YOU SEE WHAT ONLY KOREA JUST DID, YO?”

kim-jong-un-happy-overcoat

“Fuck.”

“You no return call? Nuke go boom.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No kid. Illegal in Only Korea. We hang out or I start World War II.”

“Three.”

“I start both. No care no more. Used to be bro, Hot Dog Dick.”

“Dude, this is not the way to have a relationship with a person.”

“We hang out or nuke go boom.”

…

“Do you know where the Luxor hotel is?”

“Vegas, baby?”

“Sure.”

“We go strip club. Maybe I still nuke. On way.”

DIAL TONE EVEN TOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

…

“Why do you keep doing this to me?”

Personal amusement, and jealousy.

“At least you’re honest.”

Sure.

Green, Lantern

September 9, 2016 / / 2 Comments

dead50-blurry

This is about where we were sitting, Chris and Martin and I, for the second show; in real life, the stadium didn’t get this blurry until later in the evening. They were better seats than we’d had for the first night, as we did not have any seats at all for the first show and therefore any seats would be better: overturned paint bucket, half-deflated beanbag, one of those chairs that looks like hands and is excruciating to sit in. Seats: the promise of America! You could ignore them, stand up and boogie and get real loose with it, but you could also take a load off; just having the option was a balm to the frazzled mind and aching calves.

Seats are nice, but a view is worth something and ours was vantageous: the stage, and the crowd, and Chicago’s skyline over Trey’s shoulder. There may or may not have been a moon, but there was definitely a blimp. The mass on the floor was tight in the middle and scraggly around the edges like penguins huddling against the cold, but with fewer eggs and more Jewish guys.

We invented a game–it was one of those games you need to be in the right frame of mind to find interesting–called Colors. (It wasn’t called that at the time, but I just decided to, and if Martin or Chris disagree with the name, they can start their own blogs.) One of us would say “red” and all the Enthusiasts on the floor in red t-shirts would leap from the background into HD focus, and for a second they would really mean something, maaaan. And then “green,” and ZZHWOP out would bounce the groovy guys and gleeful gals in emerald. It was a good game.

It was during the second set–perhaps–that we fully appreciated our perch. At the back of the floor, right around where that scrum at the bottom left of the picture is taking place, two Deadheads tried to kill all of us. Maybe “try” is the wrong word; their intent was almost certainly not sinister: let’s say that two Deadheads attempted to create a situation in which all of us would die. Much better.

The two had a sky lantern, which the Chinese invented, because it is a thing and the Chinese invented all the things. They look like this:

sky-lantern

You’ll notice the open flame, and I cannot remember which of my friends said, “Oh, that’s a bad idea,” but I do remember the quiet fatalism he said it with. The only thing worse than an open flame in a football stadium full of people surely must be an airborne open flame in a football stadium full of people, and the worst thing of all must be an airborne open flame in a football stadium full of people on acid.

But in our doom lies our salvation. That which would have killed us all (being incapacitatingly high) instead saved us. Here I paraphrase Shakespeare: acid maketh you to think that launching a firebomb in an enclosed crowd would be a good idea, but it also removeth the ability to get the sucker in the air. The candle-thingy wouldn’t stay lit, and then one of them stepped on the whole rig, and then the other one tried hurling it into the air, and there might have been some running with the contraption held aloft like a kite: it was a mess. A good analogy would be North Korea or Trump: were it not for the possibility of everyone dying, it would have been hilarious.

Even at a Dead show, you can only play volleyball with a flaming laundry bag for so long; an authority figure came and confiscated the lantern, but it seemed like he was cool about it.

We were a little sad for the for the loss of our secondary show, but the Dead (kinda) was playing, so no one dwelled on it. Later on, we discussed the forethought and planning that must have gone into Operation: Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow. The security wasn’t strict, but they did check bags and pat people down; they must have hidden the fire balloon on their person. Before that, they had remembered to pack it and bring it to Chicago, and first they had to buy the damn thing at all, which I would expect was not an impulse buy: you make a special trip for a sky lantern. You don’t buy a dozen eggs, some milk, a lottery ticket, and a Chinese sky lantern.

There was a process, is my point.

And nowhere along that magical ride from idea to confiscation, did the question “Will my actions turn Soldier Field into a Michael Bay movie?” come up.

I don’t know why I remembered that; memories pass me by like joggers in the rain.

And If All Your Friends Joined The Grateful Dead, Would You Do That, Too?

September 9, 2016 / / 2 Comments

bruce-hornsby-rando-tiddye

“Rando War!”

What? No. You missed it by, like, a month.

“Lots happened since then.”

Things move pretty quick in this universe. Hey, Bruce: question.

“Shoot.”

I read this interview with you where you said you didn’t drink, but your band does and every year or so, you would join them because they thought it was funny.

“Yeah, the guys love it. I get silly real fast.”

Follow-up question.

“Shoot”

If your band was all gay, would you blow dudes once a year or so?

“Okay.”

What if they were all Italian? Would you lose wars just to make them laugh?

“We’re done.”

I just worry about you sometime, Bruce Hornsby. You’re very susceptible to peer pressure, apparently.

“Stop talking to me and my son.”

That’s your son?

“Brice Hornsby.”

Sure.

« Older posts Newer posts »

The Stacks

Follow Us

Google Verification

Follow Us

Follow me on Twitter

© 2026 Thoughts On The Dead

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑