There is something in a man that hates a wall.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Author: Thoughts On The Dead (Page 97 of 1031)
“Luke, my son, you are the glory of my loins, and you give me proper praise, like Telemachus unto Odysseus. You honor me, boy. You honor me.”
“Uh-huh. How long you and Uncle Mickey been hanging out, Dad?”
“Since 1974. And also all day.”
“All day?”
“It’s Mushroom Monday, Lukey. We’ve been pounding boomers since dawn. We snacked on that shit!”
“Dad.”
“Chowed down like it was Chinatown. Throwing that yunka back like popcorn.”
“Dad.”
“I go hard on Tour, Lukey.”
…
“I gotta go coach my team.”
“You make me proud to be an American. I mean, many things do that, but you’re one of them.”
“Is Uncle Mickey okay?”
“He will be!”
“See you after the game, Dad.”
“They called him the Angel of Anchorage.”
Hey, Bobby. What?
“This was a, uh, bigfooted creature. Logically, there must have been more of his kind, but he was the only one that regularly interacted with people.”
What the fuck are you talking about?
“The ’80 run up to Alaska. I think we played in a grade school cafeteria.”
It was a high school gym.
“A hormonal-smelling building. I recall that quite clearly. Anyway, we went out gallivanting in between shows. It was me, Parish, Precarious, Billy and Brent, some other folks. So, as you might imagine, a bunch of snow machines got stolen.”
You stole snowmobiles?
“They got stolen. And, uh, they’re called snow machines. Mobile’s a city in Alabama, and it doesn’t snow there.”
Uh-huh.
“That’s what Alaskans say to you when you call snow machines ‘snowmobiles.’ The line about Alabama.”
Alaskans are known for their folksy sayings. Wait, you guys played Anchorage in June. You can’t ride snowmobiles–
“Machines.”
–in June.
“No, you can. It just makes ’em catch fire a little bit.”
That’s no good.
“Not at all. Especially since they were in a liquor store. Not all of ’em, just the ones Billy and Brent were driving.”
Why did Billy and Brent drive their snow machines into a liquor store?
“They were thirsty.”
Sure.
“And, you know: Billy does Billy shit.”
He does. What about Brent?
“He got swept up in stuff real easy. Excitable boy, we all said.”
And what does this have to do with bigfoots?
“I was getting there. So, uh, the fire’s raging, and me and Parish and Precarious are outside on the sidewalk. Maybe not ‘raging.’ There was a good crackle going, I guess. Not quite a roar.”
Were Billy and Brent trapped in there?
“No, they could’ve gotten out. Everybody who was in the store ran out pretty easy.”
But…?
“They were stealing booze.”
Sounds right.
“And then they had a booze-fight.”
What’s that?
“It’s a game Billy used to play a lot where he’d hurl a liquor bottle at you. Or, uh, wallop you with one. Bottles could be deployed as either ranged or melee weapons in a booze-fight.”
That is a terrible game.
“You need to be in a real specific mood to wanna play. Or, uh, be Billy. He was always up for a round. So, anyway: Billy and Brent are hucking fifths at each other and the bottles are breaking and the hooch is getting everywhere, and here’s the thing about that: alcohol is flammable. Or inflammable. Which one means non-fireproof?”
Both.
“Now they’re stuck in there behind a curtain of flames. So, uh, Parish and Precarious and I did the only thing we could.”
Which was?
“Heckled.”
Right.
“And from out of nowhere came a great white beast. He wasn’t shaped quite like a man, but he wasn’t a gorilla, and not a bear, either. Covered with a thick fur. He looked like he had my beard on his whole body. This was clearly an abdominal yoda.”
You’re mashing up two different cryptids, and getting them both wrong.
“Winter-squatch. They’re the spirit of the blizzard, y’know.”
I didn’t know that.
“The creature snatched up Billy with one great paw, and Brent with the other, and deposited the two of ’em on the sidewalk out of harm’s way. Quick as hell, too. Got up to full-speed in two steps. That’s called first burst, and it can’t be taught. I don’t understand why the NFL wasn’t scouting the hell out of this guy.”
Uh-huh.
“Turns out that the big fella was known to the Anchorage community, and much-beloved. He pulled cars off people after wrecks, and caught kids jumping out of windows cuz their houses caught fire. So, you know: the Angel of Anchorage.”
Anchorage has a superhero who is also a bigfoot?
“In my experience, yes.”
Can’t argue with that.
OPIATES
- Must be prescribed by a doctor, and guys nicknamed “Doc” do not count.
- Can’t lie to the doctor
- Gotta get ’em from a pharmacy.
- Pills are not to be snorted, shot, or boofed.
- No refills.
Follow these simple rules, and you can have the occasional lovely afternoon without spiraling downward into addiction.
FACES SONGS
- Nothing too complicated.
- If the tune is not explicitly a cover, it must be an obvious swipe.
- Every song ends in a rave-up, even the ballads.
I do apologize for the lack of japery and fiction, semi or otherwise, this week; I’ve spent every day visiting doctors and dentists up and down the Palm Coast. (Thanks, Obama!) Soon, I will be healthy and will get back to whatever the fuck it is I do around here.
Until then, rediscover The Faces.
Hey, Josh. Love your costume.
“I’m not wearing a costume.”
No? I thought you were Guy With Terrible Friends.
“I didn’t miss talking to you.”
Well, you’re back on tour with the Dead (Or What’s Left Of ‘Em) and so now we have to chat more regularly. Does Jimmy Fallon smell like scotch?
“No.”
Tequila?
“Yeah.”
Figured.
“Hey, man: alcoholism is not funny.”
Makes it perfect for Jimmy, then.
“Are you this relentlessly negative about everyone?”
I’m nice to your friends that don’t suck. Which in this group, ironically, is the gay guy.
“Stop it.”
I’m pretty sure all your Santa has in his bag is herpes.
“He’s not a Santa.”
He looks like if a yoga studio were homeless. Andy Cohen tripping? Those people love their drugs.
“What? That’s just homophobic, man.”
I didn’t mean gays love drugs. I meant “rich Hollywood Jews at Dead shows” love their drugs.
“Oh.”
Although, throwing “gay” in there doesn’t make it less true. He candyflipping?
“I don’t know what that is.”
Hobodosing?
“Hobodosing?”
It’s like Robodosing, but you have a homeless guy buy the cough syrup.
“He’s not doing that.”
Roofie-boofing?
“No.”
Andy Cohen boofing the roofs?
“You’re making these things up.”
Some toot for his snoot?
“Stop it with your rhyming lies!”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Oh, thank God. Wait. This isn’t Kim Jong-Un, is it? I know he’s been calling around lately.”
It’s not Kim Jong-Un.
“Promise.”
Yeah. It’s much more annoying.
“Fuck.”
…
“You’re on with John.”
“Josh, how do you like your kebab?”
“Mickey, for the ninth time: I do not want kebabs from a truck.”
“I’m here! It’s kebab time!”
“Pass. Pass on the street food, Mick.”
“Ask Johnny Carson and Paul Lynde.”
“Their names are Jimmy Fallon and Andy Cohen, and neither of them want kebabs.”
“What about bibimbap? The guy also does Korean.”
“Do not bring me ethnic food from a rando in a van, Mickey.”
“I’ll buy some extra churros.”
“Slasher, you’re a mess. Let me buy you a hooker to vomit on.”
“I’m fine, Bob.”
“You’re better than fine, baby: you’re high-caliber and long-stemmed. God ain’t makin’ ’em like you any more, and this town knows it. Have you ever thought about acting?”
“I’ve played myself a couple times, and I’m not real good at it.”
“Bullshit! Never let me hear you say that! Acting is just lying while handsome. Any schmuck could do it. Hell, I did.”
“Sure, maybe.”
“I see you as a modern-day Bob Hope. Can you dance?”
“Not even a little.”
“This is not a problem. We can fix that in post. Tremendous talent, Hope. The skits, the soft-shoe, the whole schmear. And pussy. No one got more pussy than Bob Hope. That’s why he golfed. Man loved holes.”
“It’s weird to think of Bob Hope that way.”
“Bali, Morocco, Rio; pussy, pussy, pussy. That was Hope, and that’s Hollywood! The whole business is built on pussy, Slasher, and don’t you forget it. Who’s got it, who wants it, and who’s gettin’ it! It’s all a game, but it’s deadly serious, too. Man’s gotta measure himself, so how does he do it? Pussy. And Oscars. Some say family. Y’know who says family? Losers say family. We know, don’t we? Pussy and Oscars, Slasher.”
“Uh-huh. You holding?”
“Not personally, but my English butler, Kippers, has an entire pharmacy sewn into the lining of his morning coat. Kippers!”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“I gotta take this, Bob.”
“If it’s Coppola, tell him to go fuck himself.”
“Sure.”
…
“This is Slash.”
“Slasher! You talk pussy?”
“How do you know what we were talking about?”
“Put Bobby Evan on phone. Am big fan.”
“No.”
“He stay in picture so good.”
“Yuh-huh. Is there a reason for this call?”
“I join band. Kim Jong-Un have squeezebox, Only Korea no sleep at night.”
“There’s no accordion parts in any of my songs.”
“Patience.”
“No.”
“Pretty sure.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Agree disagree.”
“No!”
DIAL TONE NOISE BECAUSE ONLY KOREAN PHONES STILL DO THAT
…
“Who was that, Slasher?”
“You wouldn’t believe me, Bob.”
“Kid, I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. Richard Pryor on fire off the shoulder of Mulholland. Valerie Bertinelli glittering by the Paramount Gate. Now all those spectacular, only-in-Hollywood moments have been lost. Like cocaine in the rain.”
“What?”
“If it’s even cloudy outside, bring your coke in the house. Hard lesson!”
“Yeah, okay, sounds good. That was Kim Jong-Un.”
“Why didn’t you let me talk to him!?”
“You want to talk to Kim Jong-Un?”
“I want to talk to anyone with an entire country’s treasury at his disposal!”
I was gonna make fun of this, but it’s glorious.
This is gonna be a regular thing, huh?
“You have no idea how comfortable kilts are. Loose in the thigh.”
Sure.
“Calves are free and easy.”
Like a poorly-run cattle ranch.
“Not your best simile.”
No.
“And, uh, as I’ve mentioned–”
Your balls.
“–my balls are swinging. Like London in the 60’s. Although, obviously, the kilt is the garment of those oppressed by London. So, uh, I guess neither of us is doing real good with analogies tonight.”
Some people on the internet are saying that you wore the kilt in honor of Hunter.
“That young man’s caught up in some shady business.”
Not Hunter Biden, Bobby. Robert Hunter.
“That would make more sense.”
Yeah.
“Hunter loved his kilts. And, uh, his bagpipes. Composed Row Jimmy on ’em. Course, his version was called Blow Jimmy. Jer changed it around a little, because he thought people would get ideas.”
Good call. What did the rest of the band think of your fashion choice?
“Well, Billy called me precisely what you’d imagine he would. Mickey was concerned, though.”
Why?
“He thought someone yoinked my pants.”
Makes sense.
“Josh pretended not to like it, but I overheard him and some of his fashion friends talking about where they could order some.”
Also sounds right. What about Oteil and Jeff Chimenti?
“Who?”
…
Branford and New Brent.
“Ah. Well, here’s the thing: contractually, neither of them are allowed to have opinions.”
Man, Irving Azoff is a canny negotiator.
“Steal your residuals right off your head.”
Better piano-based coda than Layla. I said it, and I stand by it.
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