Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
“Hi, Will.”
“Lilian Monster! Nice to see you.”
“JEWS START THE WARS!”
“How are you?”
“Good, good. Saw you were doing Daytona.”
“THE IRISH ARE SECRET BLACKS!”
“Yeah! Had a little wreck.”
“Gotta shake and bake, Lil.”
“EVERYONE’S GETTING RAPED BY JIGABOOS!”
“I need me a John C. Reilly.”
“Everyone needs a John C. Reilly.”
“OBAMA DID 9/11!”
“Do you hear something?”
“I do not, no.”
“POLACKS COME FROM MARS!”
“Good seeing you.”
“Same, same.”
EXT. TWIN PEAKS – NIGHT
Fog.
Jazz.
White actors.
White viewers.
INT. TWIN PEAKS DINER
Whathisface eats pie, and everyone’s like “OH MY GOD, THEY BROUGHT PIE BACK!”
And then he drinks coffee, and all the white people’s heads explode.
CUT TO: COMPLETELY INEXPLICABLE INTRO CREDITS.
SOUND CUE: SHITTY JAZZ
INT. SOMEONE’S HOUSE
A fragile, pretty white lady in 40’s drag is dead. Or maybe she’s not. No one fucking knows.
DREAM SEQUENCE #1
Midget talks backwards.
EXT. BASEBALL FIELD – DAY
Incredibly unattractive and untalented actor enters, says lines that make no sense in a monotone while holding a “weird” object.
DREAM SEQUENCE #2
Oh my God, the baby is a monster!
INT. MALL – DAY
Everybody’s got a doppelgänger!
DREAM SEQUENCE #3
Log!
SOUND CUE: MORE SHITTY JAZZ
FADE TO BLACK, ALL VIEWERS BEGIN WRITING THINK PIECES.
This is the first paragraph, and I’ll do two things in it: establish my credentials as a hip and self-aware arbiter of musical taste, and make note of the fact that the Grateful Dead are giant suckbags and their fans should be rounded up, bathed, and shot. Maybe I’ll even be self-referential about it, who knows? I, the Working Music Critic, have been listening to neo-boxwave, soundtracks to Italian horror movies, and Kendrick Lamar. The Dead? [INSERT SENTENCE CONTAINING ONE ORE MORE OF THE FOLLOWING WORDS/PHRASES: 60’s, hippies, Baby Boomer, smelly, acid, tie-dye, jam.]
A joke about how long the songs were goes here.
But now–and hold your hats–I shall reveal that even though my ear is perfectly attuned to the cool and that my record collection (vinyl or die, yo) is impeccably curated, I do enjoy the Dead. My older brother/cousin/buddy from marching band played me Europe ’72, and I’ve seen multiple iterations of the post-Garcia touring diaspora, and read several books about or by the band. Still, though: Dead suck and all their fans suck.
Here’s where I try to throw a little context at you: Nixon and Reagan usually get mentioned, and so the whole Rock scene of the 70’s, too. Probably going to quote from a book or two, pad out the word count. Capsule bio of the band? Could be. Nitrous reference? If we have time.
And now we get to the meat of the article, which is a review of the latest piece of Dead-related content that requires reviewing in the omni-ouroboros of today’s media ecology. Someone does a thing, and then someone writes about the thing, and then someone comments on the writing, and then someone gets outraged, and then someone writes a thing about the outrage. It all goes around, like morons in a clothes dryer.
In this paragraph, I apologize for enjoying the [movie/CD/book] and list the reasons why even you, a sane and righteous person who naturally despises the Grateful Dead, might enjoy the [movie/CD/book].
The National will be mentioned somewhere around here.
In conclusion, please check out the Grateful Dead, even though they are an embarrassment to the human race and also my favorite band.
p.s. Sorry that I like the Dead
Hey, Oteil. Whatcha doing?
“Singing! And playing bass. But the singing is the headline. Gonna take lead this summer.”
Good for you. What songs?
“It’s a surprise.”
Boo. You know all the words?
“Of course I do.”
Well, forget about a quarter of them. You’re a Grateful Dead, dammit. There are standards and precedents.
“Nope. Gonna kill it.”
You’re a positive man, Oteil.
“What’s there not to be positive about? Playing music I love for huge crowds, making lots of money, flying on private jets, my kid’s healthy, and I got a mohawk. I’m a happy man.”
You’re awesome.
“Right back atcha.”
Nice.
…
…
…
“I know you see me, asshole.”
Hello, Red Metal Stool.
“You’re a hater.
No I just hate you. Your actions and behavior and statements have caused me to hate you. Not a free-floating hater.
“Jealous.”
Of what?
“You want Bobby to sit on you.”
I truly do not.
“Plop right down.”
Is this gonna be all summer with you?
“Yeah, I’m thinking about evolving my character into a more antagonistic-type deal.”
Wonderful.
“Hey, tell Chris Robinson to suck my red metal dick.”
I am not in contact with any of the Black Crowes.
“He looks like hippie Slender Man.”
Granted, but I don’t speak with him.
“Tour, baby!”
Everything about this year is worse than everything about last year, and last year was the worst year.
“Really? ‘Everything?’ The ‘worst?’ You sound like him now. This year is worse than 1920?”
Yes.
“Five percent of the world’s population died from the flu.”
Fuck ’em. I am distracted by the news. This is worse.
“You’re a monster.”
You’re a stool.
“Touché.”
Are you there, God? It’s me, TotD.
Blessed art Thou, Holy art Thou; Perfect art Thou. How art Thou? It is getting very summerish where I live, but I suppose You know that.
I do not pray often, Lord, and when I do it is to give thanks or beg forgiveness: a prayer is not transactional, but desperate times call for desperate measures and so now I come to You on my knees–if you want a beej for doing this, I will give You one; this is absolutely worth it–pleading with you, O Creator of everything and Fullingness of the Filament, You who Are and Am and Will Be. You who require so many Capital Letters.
This I pray:
Don’t let Trump embarrass us (too much).
I am a patriot, Lord. America is where my parents fucked, and I’m proud of that. After that, they stayed here and raised me, and I’m proud of that, too. You know this, O Lord: TotD is more American than French toast with Canadian bacon in a Greek diner cooked by a Mexican guy. I was born on the Fourth of July, if you have a defective calendar.
The occultists give their energy to a spell via their fluids, Lord, and the frenetic manipulation of themselves. So, then what gives energy to a prayer? It must be love. Vicious and childlike and unreasonable love, and this is my patriotism, O Lord. I know that America is a just a continent-wide heap of nitwits, slapdicks, and assholes that likes bombing the rest of the world, but love isn’t about Knowing. I love my country, Lord.
Please don’t let that unhinged taint embarrass us (too much).
Perhaps, Lord, you’ve noticed the parenthetical phrase I’ve appended to my plea. Let’s get this straight: I am not asking for perfect. Perfect is just not doable. Presidents have fucked up on foreign trips before. The first Bush threw up on the Prime Minister of Japan, and his son got a shoe thrown at him. Neither of those are really the men’s fault, but they were both funny.
(And to give the devil his due: Dubya was one shoe-dodging motherfucker. He avoided those Nikes like he had been practicing the move. Before the guy throws the second one, Dubya doesn’t commit: he’s on the balls of his feet and ready to go in any direction. The man was graceful. If the only things he did in his presidency was avoid those shoes and throw that strike at Yankee Stadium after 9/11, he would be the Best President EVAR. Throw in the speech he made into the bullhorn with his arm around the firefighter’s shoulder, and I’d vote to put him on the money, and not one bill: all of them. You’d be able to tell the denomination by Dubya’s mood: $1’s are thoughtful; $5’s are serious; $10’s are tranquil; $20’s are playful but aware of his role in the history of his great nation; $100’s are happy.)
When Ford fell down the steps, it was in Austria, Lord. That wasn’t a great look. Did you push him down the stairs? If so: good job, Lord. Fucker pardoned Nixon. A good stairing is the least he deserved.
But these were all forgivable blunders and goofs. None of these men were capable of what Basketball Head is capable of.
Please don’t let that orange dumbfuck embarrass us (too much), O Lord.
You can do it, Lord. I mean, how bad could it be?
Sweet Christ, we’re all gonna die. There’s no fucking way. Rick Steves couldn’t keep up a smile on this schedule? Who booked this? Are they trying to kill him, because this looks like it might do it; the man is 70, fat, and riddled with psychological and emotional maladies. The pace here is frantic for any human; it looks like the plot to It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World 2. I’d blow my brains out by Brussels.
Really: who the fuck did this? The more I look at it, the madder I get: they are setting this unstable lump of diseased chicken carcasses up for failure. This cannot end well. Shit, I bet it won’t even start well.
And so I pray, for in You all things are possible.
O Lord,
Let him not make a joke about revealing an Israeli intelligence source while standing right the fuck in front of Netanyahu at a press conference.
O Lord,
Keep him from improvising.
O Lord,
Get his aides to tell him that his data plan doesn’t work in the Middle East or Europe to keep him from tweeting during meetings.
O Lord,
May he misidentify the country he’s in only once or twice.
O Lord,
The fucker shouldn’t talk politics in Israel, like, at all; it’s dangerous to do that when you know what you’re talking about.
O Lord,
(And this is the big one.)
Don’t let this thieving, soulless maniac pull his handshake bullshit on the Pope.
The future lies in Your hands, Lord, omnipotent and timeless. We quiver beneath You. All praise is due to the Creator; all fault lies with His creation. We are weak, but only because You made us so, Lord. Give us this one, O Lord. It’s been a rough year.
Amen.
Hey, Amir Bar-Lev. Whatcha doing?
“Premieres, my man. Schmoozing. Going to parties sponsored by start-up vodka-delivery apps.”
We’re coming up on another tech bubble, aren’t we?
“Big time.”
Is this how white men dress now?
“We seem to have reached a consensus, yeah.”
I’m trying to decide which is more rebellious: the sweater on the sweaty guy, or the blue sneaks on beardface.
“Well spotted. Those two are the wild men of the group.”
Amir, I gotta say that you sound a more…how do I put this?
“Sane?”
That’s how I would put it. Sane, yes.
“It’s done. I’m done. The movie’s out there and there’s nothing left to edit and there’s no one left to kidnap. When it first screened, my mind just…you know how you’re going around the turn on a roller coaster and your stomach isn’t where it’s supposed to be, and then the car straightens out and your guts slap back into place?”
Yeah.
“Like that. But instead of my stomach, it was my sanity.”
Congratulations.
“I got a little out there.”
It was worrisome.
“Can’t go back to the library.”
Why?
“I had this idea that certain ideas were ‘hot’ and other ideas were ‘cold,’ and I started really thinking about that, and then I was awake for four days straight, and I went to the library and doused all the books with the ‘hot’ ideas with a fire extinguisher.”
Ooh, that’s not good.
“And several patrons.”
Did you think they were “hot?”
“No, I just wanted to spray old people with a fire extinguisher.”
That’s the first non-crazy part of this story.
“Right? You must be tempted to.”
Constantly. Or a potato gun to the chest.
“Sure. Oh, and then because there ‘cold’ books in the library–”
You set it on fire.
“–I set it on fire. How’d you know?”
Intimately familiar with insanity’s florid logic.
“But I’m all better now. Little vacation with the family. Seeing old friends on the publicity tour. Bought myself a blue shirt.”
It’s a nice shirt.
“Thank you. Listen, I’m glad we’re talking. You’re an incredibly gifted man, and I want you to write the screenplay for my next film.”
What? Really? Sure, I’d like to do that. Let me just–
…
Am I talking to the real Amir Bar-Lev or the semi-fictional one?
“Second guy.”
Dammit. No, I do not want to collaborate with a documentarian that doesn’t technically exist.
“We’ll do great things together. And I can pay you.”
With what?
“Money.”
Real money?
“No.”
Knock it off. Who are these bozos?
“Tall guy on the left is Giovanni Thant. Owns all the Burger Kings in Düsseldorf.”
Okay.
“Next is the third Weinstein brother, Marvin.”
I didn’t know there was a third one of those.
“He’s usually not allowed out. Weird case of sleep-induced Tourette’s. Just the filthiest stuff imaginable.”
What’s the problem? He’s not anywhere near asleep.
“Narcoleptic.”
Ah.
“Marvin’s conditions react in a sort of amplifying wave. Very unfortunate combination.”
I’ll say.
“Marvin is also a biter.”
He sounds great.
“Solid citizen. On my left is Cassius Hammersmith, a 18th-century sea-captain with many problems.”
That’s Justin Kreutzmann.
“No. Troubled sea-captain.”
Amir.
“How do explain the shanties?”
Amir.
“He means to make for the Horn, but the weather bedevils his e’ery move.”
…
“It could also be Justin.”
Who’s rocking the sweater?
“Eric Eisner.”
The fashion designer’s husband?
“Yeah.”
Cool. The other three?
“Randos.”
Dude! You got your own randos?
“Past three or four weeks? Boom: randos everywhere.”
You deserve it, man. You’re a Grateful Dead now.
“Yeah, uh-huh, but: I don’t like it.”
No one told you to make the monster, Doc.
“You turned my shit around on me.”
I did.
HIGH FIVE
This was nice. I’m glad you’re not crazy any more.
“My lawyers aren’t. Gave them a lot of work.”
Fuck lawyers.
“True.”
“Thank you, yes, great, the best. It’s a pleasure to welcome El Presidente Guacamole or whatever to the White House, which is where I live because I’m the president. Guacamole is from Colombia. Hey, I live in the District of Columbia now, sometimes. How about that? Anyway, the whole country is a drug pit full of bad hombres. The worst hombres you’ve ever seen. Together, we must confront the danger of cocaine by using attack helicopters. Later, Attorney General Sessions is gonna announce that we’re putting everyone who ever did cocaine in jail for the rest of their lives. We’re gonna make Colombia pay for it. Great deal.
“We have ICE, which stands for something. Tremendous guys over there, just tremendous. MS-13 is here. Horrible, horrible, large gang. Mexican, but also probably some Colombians. Mexican enough. They come into our schools with bombs and cocaine and they rape. They rape. El Presidente, they rape.”
“Si, rape.”
“This guy gets it. We also discussed Valenzuela. Terrible, terrible thing going on down there in Valenzuela. Is Hillary Clinton in charge down there? That’s how bad it is! Our hemisphere is the best, everyone knows this, even all the other hemispheres. And in this hemisphere, we all want to be free. Very important, freedom. Not to mention the humanitarian, which is awful. What’s going on right now in Valenzuela as far as the humanitarian? Maybe the worst ever. Maybe ever.
“We had meetings, me and El Presidente. He assured me on three separate occasions that I was not under investigation, and I thanked him for that. Good guy, even though I’m having ICE tackle him in about ten minutes.”
“¿Que?”
“Okay, yeah, questions? You the fat one.”
“Thank you, sir. Mr. President, I’d like to get your reaction to Deputy Attorney General Rod Rosenstein’s decision to appoint a special counsel to investigate the Russian interference in the campaign. Was this the right move, or is this part of a ‘witch hunt?'”
“That’s my phrase. I made that up, witch hunt.”
“I don’t know about that, sir.”
“There might be no one alive who has made up as many really, really great phrases as me. ‘Bought the farm.’ I did that, everyone agrees.”
“Sir, please concentrate.”
“Why haven’t Hillary Clinton, who shot someone just the other night, and Barack Obama, who is a black, been court-martialed yet?”
“What?”
“This is a witch hunt. Never in the history of America has there been a bigger witch hunt. A lot of it is jealousy. The Democrats are very, very jealous and they cry and they lash out. They’re violent people, the left, very violent. And the press takes shots at me, too. No president has ever had this many shots taken at him. Okay, next question. Peter. No Russia, no Russia, no Russia.”
“A question about Russia, sir.”
“Dammit. No Russia. And if there was Russia, then it would be legal for me to do. The president can do it because he’s the president and I’m the president.”
“Sir, did you ask James Comey to abandon the investigation into your campaign’s alleged collusion with Russia?”
“No. Next question, Amber.”
“Same question as Peter.”
“No. Next question. Franklin.”
“Same question as Amber.”
“No. Old-fashioned car horn.”
“AhhhROOOOOOgaaaa!”
“There’s no Russia. How could I ask James Comey, who I am taller than, to drop an investigation that doesn’t exist because Russia doesn’t exist? This is all the press, who are liars and should be impaled with sticks, trying to lie and failing because they are all failing very, very bigly. They want to divide the country. I am trying to bring people together, which is why I’m building a wall to keep people out. It’s all gonna be so great, but first we have to get over this fake news and this Russia nonsense.
“Comey comes out for that hearing, and is so, so, so poor. Just very poor. Not a solid performance, and everyone hates him and many people have told me he is illiterate. So those can’t be his memos. Fake memos! My tapes are real, though. Brian?”
“Sir, did you just admit to having tapes of your conversation with James Comey?”
“No tapes, but they’re real. No tapes. Real tapes, but no tapes. Our FBI is the best FBI in the whole world. Even criminals say this, everybody says this. I cherish them. I take the FBI, I hold them to my bosom. And Comey was weak. Embarrassed the agency during the Clinton campaign, and my much more successful campaign. Look at this map:
MAP HOLDING-UP NOISE
“Red is Trump. I’m the red, see all the red? That’s me. Hillary? Blue. Not a lot of blue. This means I have a sacred duty to the FBI to uphold its sanctity. The FBI is so beautiful. So pure. I have been to many, many countries but our FBI is the absolute best. They deserve a leader who isn’t very, very weak. The Deputy AG came out with a letter that was very, very strong, but I ignored it and fired him because I wanted him to stop with all the Russia.
“Next question. Marcus.”
“Mr. President., this week–”
“Swear your loyalty to me.”
“–it was…what?”
“Swear it!”
“No, sir. This week it was revealed that Michael Flynn directly interfered with a military operation involving a country for whom he had been working as an unlicensed contractor.”
“So?”
“Really?”
“Michal Flynn. Great guy. You will never find a better man. Well, me, but other than that: Mike. Just a terrific, terrific, great guy. Knows the family. Been to Mar-A-Lago many times, and always gave me the nicest compliments about it. I’ll tell you this: Mike Flynn knows football better than anyone you’ve ever met. He could be the head coach of an NFL team today. Today, believe me. Just an outstanding guy, and very, very, very loyal to me, which I appreciate.”
“And as to the ties to other countries?”
“Mike is a very friendly guy. Lots of people want to be his friend. I understand it. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine, sir.”
“It’s fine. Next question. Terrance?”
“It’s totally not fine.”
“It’s fine. Siobhan?”
“As you look back over the past six months or year, have you had any recollection where you’ve wondered if anything you have done has been something that might be worthy of criminal charges in these investigations or impeachment, as some on the left are implying?”
“I’m doing the best job. No other president has had the first 100 days that I’ve had. Everyone thinks so. Jobs are coming back. The stock market is through the roof except for the days when Hillary fixes it like she fixed the Democratic primaries. No expected me to win, and now everyone is saying what a great job I’m doing. Obamacare is about to collapse, and what we’re gonna have is gonna be the best health care and everyone will be happy.
“Business owners say to me, ‘Stop making America great so fast, Mr. President.’ Our businesses are now growing so fast that they can’t add enough workers. Everyone has a job now, the best job. The military is very strong, and I’m gonna cut taxes. No one will have taxes and the biggest military in the world, and there’s no collusion. Even the Russians, who I colluded with, have said there’s no collusion.
“Thank you, great, okay”
Commentaries
Outtakes
Bobby’s line is “These rosary beads?” But he says “These rosary bleeds?” and Natasha Monster can’t stop laughing.
Behind-the-scenes featurettes
Gag reel
Amir Bar-Lev snaps Steve Silberman’s suspenders, and Steve says, “Why did you do that? to which Amir replies “We’re doing a gag reel,” and Steve says “Oh I can’t wait to see it. Don’t do that,” and Amir was like, ‘Okay, amigo.”
Plus twenty minutes of Billy showing a hotel lobby his fruit salad. (Fruit salad is not potato salad, though they are made of the same substance. Fruit salad is produced via tucking your genitals in between your legs and bending over, slightly, to reveal your magnificence to the world, or the hotel lobby. The tip of your cock and balls jibble back and forth, juicy and spherical, much like berries in a fruit salad: hence, the name.)
Alternates
Alternate endings: Garcia lives.
Bobby.
“Heya.”
Sammy.
“WOO!”
Bobby, why is there so much touching?
“Sammy’s blind.”
No.
“Oh, yeah. Blind as a Batman.”
That’s not right, either.
“Since birth. Started out as Little Sammy Hagar. Played harmonica.”
You’re talking about Stevie Wonder, Bobby.
“Not enough people talk about Stevie Wonder.”
True. What is this all about?
“Charity thing. Acoustic dealie. Whole bunch of folks coming out for a good cause.”
What cause?
“No idea.”
Sure.
“Sammy called and asked. And, you know, I said ‘Sam, you don’t have to ask,’ and he said, ‘But how would you know about the show if I didn’t ask?’ and I said, “Ah.'”
This is a fascinating story.
“And, uh, he continued, ‘And obviously I’m not gonna tell you to do to the show,’ and I said, ‘Yeah, no, that would be rude,’ and Sammy asked what I had for lunch. ‘What did you have for lunch?’ he said, and I said–”
Bobby, please stop recounting your conversation with Sammy Hagar.
“So, now I’m here.”
Cool. Who else is on the bill?
“Those, uh, longhaired young men from Boo Boo and the Jammers.”
The Foo Fighters.
“All right. The guy who played Chewbacca is on drums.”
Nope. That’s Mick Fleetwood, but wow I totally see the resemblance now.
“Sammy Hagar’s here.”
Yes.
“Who’s the fellow who plays too fast and wears fancy trousers?”
Steve Vai.
“He’s here. The girl with the high voice and the sad dogs.”
…
Sarah McLachlan.
“They should warn you before that commercial comes on.”
Mood-killer.
“I’ve been, you know, getting frisky with my wife–”
Natasha Monster.
“–and that damned dog dirge comes on and, you know, everyone put your boners away. Oh, and an Eagle is here.”
Joe Walsh?
“Nope.”
I don’t care.
“And Sammy Hagar’s here.”
You’ve said that twice already.
“I’m really happy to see him.”
Okay.
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