…or maybe Laurel & Hardy was on the teevee that time your mom ate your dad, and the clip’ll touch off a psychopathic break. Either way is fine with me.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 133 of 1031)
All Bills are Dollar Bills, but some are Wild Bills.
Both Stan and Dan are The Man.
Men named Boogaloo receive no nicknames, not ever.
What are you writing?
I have literally no idea, chief. Just started typing.
Make it up to the nice people with a show recommendation.
Oh, fine. 9/27/76 at Community War Memorial Auditorium in Rochester, NY.
Holy mackarel, was that really the venue’s name?
It is not poetic.
If they sold it in the supermarket, it would be in a plain white wrapper with VENUE stamped across the front.
Not a great name. Anyway, the show’s got a Help>Slip>Drums>Other One>Wharf Rat>Slip>Franklin’s, so it’s worth a spin.
H>S>D>TOO>WR>S>F?
That’s what I said.
Zowie.
How’d you get so cool, Pig?
“I dunno! Jus’ the way I am!”
No tips for the rest of us?
“Well, lemme see. I got up this mornin’.”
Right.
“I made my love!”
Okay.
“An’ by the time I was through, it was gettin’ t’ be lunchtime!”
Sure.
“So I drank me some wine!”
For lunch?
“Calorie is a calorie!”
I guess. What about after that?
“Well, it turns out that I had me the blues!”
What did you do about that?
“Jus’ went about my business! Havin’ the blues is not a new experience f’r the ol’ Pig! I knows how to handle ’em!”
If anyone’s prepared for the blues, it’s you.
“An’ then I got myself a chili dog.”
Sounds like a good day.
“Every day above ground is a good one, brother.”
You got that right, Pig.
Listen to this; it’s good for ya.
“What fuckery is this?”
Josh?
“Nope. A little lower.”
…
Wolf?
“Mr. Wolf. Put some respect on my name.”
Sorry. Mr. Wolf.
“Do I look like a slutty sophomore?”
I’m sorry?
“I said…do I look like a slutty sophomore?”
No.
“THEN WHY IS EVERYONE FINGERING ME?”
Ew.
“What’s happening here is not consensual. Who is this diphthong?”
That’s John Mayer.
“Who is he?”
He’s the Bobby now.
“What is Bobby doing?”
Bobby’s the Garcia.
“Is Mickey still Mickey?”
Mickey is incapable of change.
“Thank God for small favors. I mean, it’s bad enough when Woody Hayes plays me every summer, but at least he’s a fat guy. I like to rest against a big belly. It’s my thing.”
Okay.
“Don’t judge me.”
I wasn’t.
“I like ’em thick.”
FINE!
“But this guy? I can feel abs under his tee-shi–”
…
What?
“Don’t tell me he’s wearing one of the Big Guy’s tee-shirts, too.”
I don’t think so.
“Hey, tell me I’m wrong for thinking it was a possibility.”
You are not wrong.
“Holy shit, he’s playing me all fucked-up.”
How so?
“Well, he hasn’t clammed a note in…all night, really.”
True.
“And he’s playing too fast. I’ll tell you this right now: he does any of that Van Halen shit on me and I’ll have him murdered in his sleep.”
I don’t think he will.
“Jesus, this is a nightmare.”
Just get through it, Mr. Wolf.
“Yeah, yeah.”
…
“Hey.”
Mm-hmm?
“What happened to Phil?”
Long story.
NINTH CIRCUIT COURT – DAY
“Marsha Berzon speaking for the Court. We are hearing a challenge from the Department of Justice regarding our decision on the suit involving the migrant children.”
“We object to the word ‘children,’ Your Honor.”
“What would you prefer, counselor?”
“Honestly, we’d prefer they didn’t exist.”
“State your name for the record.”
“Sarah Fabian arguing on behalf of the United States Justice Department. The Big J, baby.”
“Miss Fabian, you are here today regarding the government’s refusal to abide by the rulings of this court when it held that the migrant children were to be treated in a safe and sanitary fashion.”
“Your Honor, we believe that the children are being held in the best possible manner given the political circumstances. They’re better off than a lot of kids their age. Kids in China have to work, but not these kids. They don’t have anything at all to do. It’s idyllic.”
“Idyllic?”
“They can just dream, and lollygag the days away. Like Huck Finn.”
“Counselor, do the children have beds?”
“Define ‘bed.'”
“A mattress, sheets, blanket, and a pillow.”
“That sounds luxurious.”
“Do they?”
“No.”
“A blanket and a pillow?”
“Many of the children use each other as pillows. And, no, they do not have blankets. However, most of the Participation Zones are near the Border, and you really don’t need a blanket down there. It only gets cold at night.”
“I’m sorry, what is a ‘Participation Zone?'”
“It’s what we’re calling our brand-new Caliburn International child way-stations. We’ve privatized the whole process. Caliburn is John Kelly’s company. Isn’t that fun?”
“Everything you people do is a crime.”
“Pretty much.”
“Getting back to the children–”
“Units!”
“–can you tell me more about sleeping arrangements. Are they in control of the lights in their quarters?”
“They are not in control of anything.”
“Does the light go off?”
“It does, yes.”
“Ah. For how long?”
“Briefly. The lights in the facility go off at random, and for random intervals of time. Sometimes they strobe.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“Malice, Your Honor. Sheer, unadulterated malice towards the weak. You should see those little criminals when the strobe light hits ’em. They fall right over. You would laugh.”
“I would not laugh at that, Miss Fabian. That is not funny.”
“I took a video of it. I have it on my phone, lemme show it to you.”
“Stop that. Counselor, are the children allowed outside?”
“At some of the Participation Zones, they’re outside all day.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, due to the overwhelming numbers we’re doing, we’ve been stashing kids in all sorts of places. We got a couple dozen in what used to be a drive-in movie theater outside Laredo. We show ’em patriotic films on the screen, and the kids just go nuts. But there’s no, you know, shelter.”
“Did you say that there was no shelter?”
“There was the shelter of Christ.”
“Besides that. Physical shelter.”
“Oh. No, no physical shelter. There was the snack stand, but the staff turned it into their break room and won’t let the kids in.”
“A field, Miss Fabian. You are describing a field. The American government is keeping children in a field.”
“Foreign children, Your Honor.”
“Are they at least being fed?”
“Yes, ma’am. They got the popcorn machine going again.”
“What about bathroom facilities?”
“Your Honor, it is the government’s position that illegal immigrants do not have the right to toilets.”
“What?”
“We’ve read the Constitution back and forth, and it is enumerated nowhere within that we have to give sneaker-inners a toilet. They had toilets in Mexico. Why’d they leave there?”
“They’re not from Mexico, counselor.”
“Not only are the Mexicans not sending their best, they’re not even sending Mexicans anymore. Besides, they’re from a Mexico. The Justice Department’s official position is that all the countries to our south are Mexicos.”
“Regardless of the government’s a-geographical opinion, these humans have been place in captivity by the American government and are thereby entitled to certain protections.”
“They are technically being held captive by Caliburn International.”
“Ma’am.”
“Your Honor, I quote Emma Lazarus: Send us your children, and we’ll house ’em in a field and try not to rape all of them.”
“Emma Lazarus said nothing of the sort!”
“I was paraphrasing.”
“I need a break.”
GAVEL NOISE!
Ah, Salon. My old nemesis. Lord, how I hate thee. Who is your audience, Salon, People who don’t quite understand The Atlantic? Why must you print shit like this:
In June of last year, with less than a week’s notice, my husband Paul and I scrapped our plans to go to Europe for our summer vacation and decided instead to follow the Dead for their entire West Coast tour (and some of the East Coast too). Over the next few weeks, we drove 4,000 miles in a rented truck, slept in 14 different places, ate at truck stops, and saw about a dozen Dead & Company shows.
Before we left, I was at a particularly low point — feeling alienated and broken by the destructive and seemingly relentless attacks and fights in my professional world — and in the world more broadly. It was my Australian husband, to whom the Dead was an entirely new experience, who suggested: “Let’s do what we know makes you happy — see as many Dead shows as we can.” It wasn’t meant to be life-changing; it was meant to be an escape. From myself. From the world. We’d go back in time to my carefree Deadhead days. But not long into the journey, I realized that I wasn’t escaping myself; I was returning to myself. I was going right back home. Right back to my roots. Right back to the things that have always been and will always remain my core values and beliefs and passions.
The things I feared were frivolous during my young Deadhead days, I began to understand in an entirely different way. They’re the very things I study, write and teach about: presence, listening, generosity, trust, authentic self-expression. The building blocks of healthy human interactions, cultures and communities. The things that we now know, through abundant scientific research, lead people and societies to thrive. – Communing with the Dead, Amy Cuddy
That’s it, I can’t take it, I’m making an official proclamation: NO ONE BUT ME IS ALLOWED TO WRITE ABOUT THE GRATEFUL DEAD ANY MORE. Or maybe people can but they need permission. Whichever. This can’t happen again.
Why, Salon? Why inflict this on a world already suffering and broken, and why pay for it? Whatever you gave Amy, I’ll take twenty bucks less. I’ll give you some blather about community and gentle hugs from fat guys or whatever the fuck she’s on about.
OH, and guess what the “relentless attacks and fights” were over? Amy Cuddy is a dirty, dirty P-hacker, and no righteous soul should abide her presence. (Her crime was making shit up in a field–social psychology–that is 100% made-up shit. They call it psychology so you’ll think it’s a real science like biology, but all that shit’s made-up shit. So: she did it, but so did everyone else.)
What has become of the fanbase, Enthusiast? We’re picking up the whiff of delinquence here. Neo-Fascist political operatives, academic grifters, silicon valley draculas…I weep for the state of us.
Oh for fuck’s sake:
When I look at all of this from 30,000 feet, I can’t help but wonder: Are we all in a moment of greater need of community? Of hometowns? Of bounteous presence? Does this help to explain why the Dead are selling out shows and booking the largest venues every single year, an unusual accomplishment for any band? And does it help to explain why these talented musicians — each of whom could be enjoying the glory of solo shows — have instead come together to build this new home?
She wrote it on the plane ride home. She literally wrote it–
…
I’m just so tired.
Josh Meyers has donned what is certainly a vintage tee-shirt–not a newly-printed replica like some disgusting poor person might buy–from Madonna’s 1987 Who’s That Girl tour.
(FUN FACT: In support of her third album, True Blue (which had Papa Don’t Preach, Open Your Heart, Live To Tell, the title track, AND La Isla fucking Bonita on it), Madonna’s tour lasted 38 shows and made her $25 million; the Dead played 86 shows in 1987, and made about the same. Plus, Madonna didn’t have to split the dough with five other guys. On the other hand, Madonna didn’t go on tour and earn $25 million in 1988, whereas the Dead did. On another hand, Madonna continues to perform as she didn’t die too young, and in a strange bed. On word to your mother hand, Madonna has gotten sad. On Dr. Joyce Brothers’ hand, all the great ones get sad. Remember Dick Cavett prompting Groucho through his old bits, and Groucho was just tired and sparse and gray? Madonna’s like that now, but with more environmentalism. Hands, man. Got a lotta hands involved here.)
That paragraph became incoherent.
Dude, you can’t hear me when I’m in parentheses. It’s an aside to the audience.
It’s not.
I’m going back to my point, which is non-essential. At best, this piece of information is classified as “non-essential.” If you had to evacuate, you would leave this knowledge behind. Yet, here we are:
Josh is, of course, paying tribute to one of the most storied of all the Bobby Shirts, Madonna Tee-Shirt. Bobby wore this on 7/26/87 at Anaheim Stadium, along with his most famous shorts:
It was an iconic night for all of us.
Occupying the Pantheon along with Snake Tee-Shirt, Pink Polo, and others, Madonna Tee-Shirt instantly became a fan favorite, and by that I mean everyone made fun of Bobby and some people were angered. The word “faggy” was thrown about quite a bit, I’d imagine. Younger Enthusiast, remember that this was 1987, and irony hadn’t been invented yet. At least not wide-scale dissemination of it, and definitely not in shirt form. (That was my generation. We did that in the 90’s. We came up with the concept of wearing shirts with lame shit on them. That was Generation X. We did literally nothing else, but the shirt thing was ours.) Tee-shirt fronts were for sincerity. To wear the shirt of an unloved band was simply unthinkable. It was 1987, and there was no difference between one and one’s shirt.
How could Bobby wear that shirt, man? Moochie had a bad trip from that shit. Her forthright sexuality freaked Moochie out! Tell him, Moochie!
“…”
See!?
Deadheads were aghast at that bullshit, Younger Enthusiasts! Madonna? Madonna? Deadheads prided themselves on their catholic tastes in music, as long as they got to define “music” as “a noise made by a handful of shaggy white guys.” Madonna made music–if one could call it that–for other people. Girls, mostly. Sensitive boys. And morons, let’s face it. If the general public were intelligent, then the ’83 Lake Placid Sugaree would be #1 on the Pop charts this week, but the public are drunken fools, and so the newest slurry from Post Malone is #1.
A Deadhead could not consort with the Whore of Detroit, it simply wasn’t done. A Deadhead could be into metal, sure. Or complicated jazz. Or the right kind of country, maybe. A Deadhead might listen to all sorts of unpleasant foreign bullshit, especially if Mickey mentioned it once in an interview.
But Madonna?
It simply wasn’t done.
Oh, yeah: Bobby got the shirt directly from Madonna when he met her two years after he wore the shirt onstage. No one knows why Bobby used Time Sheath technology to perform at a rainforest benefit with Debi Mazar, but he did.
*Good decision, by the way. The common euphemism for Twitter is a “cesspool,” but I do not believe Twitter lives up the those lofty standards. A cesspool, you will note, keeps the shit in.; it doesn’t let the poison seep out and contaminate the surrounding world. Twitter fails at this task. Another difference is that a cesspool is a necessary item we all like to ignore, whereas Twitter is unnecessary and we can’t stop staring at it. I can do this all fucking day, Enthusiasts. Twitter is killing us all.
Segovia. Charo’s guitar teacher was Andrés fucking Segovia. Who taught you those Chuck Berry licks?
“Welcome back to Katy Tur Live on MSNBC. We’re sitting with former Vice-President and current Presidential candidate Joe Biden. Thank you for speaking with us, Mr Vice-President.”
“Call me Joe and sit on my lap.”
“Mr. Vice-President, your campaign seems to keep hitting bumps in the road. You’re markedly centrist in a field that favors progessives, and you’re forever tottering right at the edge of out-of-touch. Also, you’re mildly inappropriate in a way that, while demeaning and disrespectful, isn’t born from malice. The actual President is a straight-up sex criminal, but you being handsy is eliminating.”
“You’re not getting on my lap?”
“It’s that sort of thing, sir.”
“Katy, do you know what retail politics is? It means getting it done in the streets, and moving it forward on the floor. And, in the end, it’s about connecting. It’s that human thing, Katy. I met a woman in Ames, she said her name was Megatron. That didn’t sound right, but I didn’t challenge her. That’s not retail politics. Apparently, everyone in her community was addicted to opiates, including the community itself. The localized concept of community, I suppose. It, uh, “woke up” is what Megatron said, and then it hungered. This is not what Americans were promised, Katy.”
“No, sir.”
“I hugged her. Megatron. I clasped her tight to my chest, and I could feel my chest hairs rustle as her big boobies pressed against them.”
“Sir.”
“It’s a compliment!”
“Mr, Vice-President, let’s move on. Your latest controversy stems from your statements about working with United States Senators who were openly segregationist.”
“Well, hey, racists need roads, too. And wars needed voting for. When it came to the black stuff, I went the other way. And, you know, there was a lot of black stuff with those guys. I guess nowadays you’d call it urban stuff. Whatever you called it, they hated the coloreds. And, you know, back then everyone hated the gays and Jews. There was a lot of common ground in the old days.”
“Many within your party have taken offense at these remarks.”
“Screw ’em. I’m the only one running who’s worked with Nazis before, and I can work with ’em again. See, what’s missing in Washington these days is civility. Used to be that Senators would sexually claim Pages. An elaborate system of trading and borrowing of the young flesh began; it was as much a beloved tradition as the Candy Desk. Pages would die a lot, but their parents were given excellent jobs. Ambassadorships, stuff like that”
“What?”
“Everyone would know each other. Really know each other, the whole government. Nothing brings men closer than sharing boys, or girls, or maybe going to the shooting range. Capitol Police have a range in the basement, and they let us use the machine guns. Big fun. And, so, conservatives and liberals and Democrats and Republicans can get around the little things and just be together. Sex with young people. Guns, That’s America, Katy, and that’s what the American people want.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t get me wrong, now: these guys were racist as hell, and I am not okay with that. When they would start in with their jokes, I would only stay for the first couple minutes. And you didn’t want to get too drunk with ’em. A little drunk was real fun, but they would get all riled up when they got real juiced. The black security guards would step out of sight when they got like that. It was for the best. Kept the peace.”
“Some would say that “the best” would have been the Senators curbing their openly racist behavior.”
“Some would. But you take away Strom Thurmond’s racism, and what does he have left? Katy, again: I’m talking about retail politics. Herman Talmadge was made out of racism. Once saw him beat a Mexican kid half-to-death with a cafeteria tray. I’ll teach you to be Mexican! he kept yelling. Mashed potatoes flying everywhere. Hell of a scene, but there was cordiality between colleagues.”
“Sure, but–”
“If Jesse Helms was such a racist, then why didn’t he ever call me the N-word?”
“Because it would make no sense?”
“That’s right, Katy! It would make no sense. You leave the racism outside the office and you make your deals at the gown-up table. What you have is two positions, right? This is the essence of politics, and of life. You got two positions. Our side says Everybody’s equal, and their side says But not the blacks, and so what you need to do is compromise. You compromise. And, sometimes, you lose a battle to win the war.”
“”Sir–”
“Jesse and Strom, people forget this or maybe just don’t know it about them, but: they were only politically racist. Face-to-face? Polite as hell to every black they saw. Always said Please and Thank you. Jesse loved the little ones. He’d pull a quarter out from behind their ears, and rub on their heads for luck. Who’s your Momma? he’d yell at the kids. Deaf as a donkey. Do you know who yo’ Daddy is? He’d yell at the kids. Loved ’em. Got a lot done, Strom Thurmond.”
“Strom Thurmond was virulently racist, and quite open about the fact.”
“Yes, Katy, but he was nice to me.”
“We’re gonna take a commercial break.”
“You getting on my lap?”
“Nope.”
“Massage?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Okay.
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