Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
We have SOLD OUT, Enthusiasts! The full run of Wall of Sound for President 2016 t-shirts has SOLD OUT! The shirts will begin production on the 23rd, and –even though they’re SOLD OUT–you can still buy one until then, because SOLD OUT apparently doesn’t mean anything anymore.
So: thank you to all, and there’s more coming.
I hate to be all “only five left” on you, but there’s only five left, and then they’re gone, forever; never to be sold again unless people ask nicely.
“Bob, I’d like to go home. Or leave this place. I don’t understand it.”
“Yeah, sure. Lotta people are like that at first. Chimenti hates it in here. Gives him the heebie-jeebies. Meyers loves it, though. Kid likes being looked at.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Semi-fictionality.”
“Stop saying that word that isn’t a word.”
“Coop–”
“Don’t call me that.”
“–there’s more to the real world than there seems. No. Wait. The real world is exactly like it seems. That’s why it’s the real world. It’s just that there’s other realities.”
“Bob.”
“Just because a reality isn’t official doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist is what I’m getting at.”
“Bob.”
“And your reality–that’s the official one I was talking about–got a bit shanghaied by a fictional one. But you’re still Bradley Cooper–”
“Close enough.”
“–and maintain the essential character thereof. Thus: semi-fictionality.”
“You mean fan-fiction?”
It’s not fan-fiction, you shallow jackass!
“WHO THE FUCK WAS THAT?”
“The narrator. Ignore him.”
…
“Okay. Okay. I am clearly either having a psychotic break or a very vivid dream; either way, I’m gonna go with it.”
“Great idea. Much smoother that way.”
“How did I get in here?”
“My best guess is you got swept up in that rando glitch. Time stopped being linear, and got a little quadrilinear.”
“What does that mean?”
“It went in four directions.”
“Obviously.”
“And, you know: things get tangled like that, it has repercussions down the line. Innocent people get involved, and they usually are very confused.”
“Count me as one of them. So: we are in a ‘rando glitch’ and time has stopped working right? Is that what you’re saying to me?”
“Well, I said it better, but: yeah, mostly. No worries, though. Got a guy on the way.”
“A guy? To do what?”
“Listen, Coop: what I’m about to say is going to sound strange–”
“What you’re about to say?”
“–but the Dead kinda has a time machine. A sheath, if we’re being accurate.”
“A time sheath.”
“It’s capitalized.”
“A Time Sheath.”
“Yeah.”
“What does it look like? I’m having trouble picturing it.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Fine. But this whatever-it-is can fix whatever-this-is?”
“If it can’t, then nothing can.”
“That’s a bit of a deus ex machina, isn’t it, Bob?”
“No, no. Not at all. It’s just a machine with godly powers that alters the plot at will.”
“Right. And where is it?”
“Warehouse in Marin. Well, it was. On the way as we speak.”
“That’s great. I mean, I still think I’m dreaming, but that’s great. Four, five-hour flight? Great.”
“Oh, no. No flying. Can’t take a Time Sheath on a plane.”
“Why not?”
“Afraid of heights.”
…
“The Time Sheath is sentient.”
“Of course it is.”
“But it’ll be here soon. Organization’s best man is behind the wheel.”
“Driving? That’ll take forever!”
“He knows a shortcut.”
Holy shit: Garcia was born in the past. This shit is the past right here. There was a cholera outbreak ten feet out of frame; everything is made out of wood and prejudice. Men’s hair doesn’t even do that anymore, the wavy thing: hair just doesn’t grow like that now. (Probably the antibiotics in the feed chain.)
But they’re not old, are they? The Garcias: in this picture, they’re at least ten years younger than I am now. People in the past were more grown-up than today; if they weren’t they would die. Life was tougher. At the moment this picture was taken, literally the entire world was at war. Always remember: the past was terrible.
That city they’re standing in? just 36 years before, it had shaken and burned. (Now, sure: San Francisco will be destroyed any day now, but we have the innertubes; those of us not in San Francisco when the Big One happens will be able to keep updated on the carnage; that is much better, at least for us. For the people in the city, it will be the exact same experience as 1906.)
Also: Garcia is about to get Lion Kinged.
The legendary band may have bid a farewell last July, but their cofounder has never been busier – and he doesn’t even need the money
That is the subhead on this interview with Bobby from The Guardian, and that subhead was chosen because The Guardian is a Commie fucking rag that writes about Lena Dunham and soccer; it is also still printed on paper for some reason, which is adorable. It felt the need to bring up money because The Guardian hates people with money, and doesn’t discriminate between people who got their money through rapacious business dealings and people who got their money by, you know: playing Milwaukee. We shouldn’t begrudge the few rich musicians: we should bemoan the number of poor musicians.
It’s a decent read, but if you don’t have time, here are the highlights:
You think I don’t care, Enthusiasts; you couldn’t be more wrong. When Dead & Company announced their free show at the Fillmore Monday night, I was both in a rush and–because of this afternoon’s thunder–covered in my own fear-doody. (TotD responds to thunder much the same way a golden retriever does.) Yet, I posted the news of the show as soon as I heard; I felt a responsibility to let you know.
And what do I get?
Abuse.
Derision.
Nitpickery. And y’know what?
Please don’t–
I ‘J’ACCUSE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS OF THINGS.
—j’accuse the readers of…dammit.
It’s their fault! They brought this on themselves! Look at what they’re wearing!
A t-shirt they purchased from you right before you started yelling at them?
Possibly!
…
How you doing, slugger?
I do not like thunder at all.
It was like seven hours ago.
Well, I’m apparently still a little jumpy, aren’t I?
Concentrate. Tell the nice people–
Bastards.
—about the free show. It’s very exciting.
It’s thrilling. Well, wait: it is actually cool. When tickets go up for grabs tomorrow at 12 PST, there’s a limit of two, plus you have to present the credit card you bought them with at the door; they’re non-transferable, so the audience is gonna be Deadheads. And it’s a much smaller place than D&C have played before, plus it is free, after all.
(The real hip kids in the crowd will hide in the bathroom after the show and remain in the building until the next night, when New Jersey’s own Titus Andronicus will surely be destroying the joint.)
Finally: you know there is no bigger fan of Jeff Chimenti than I. Or me, whichever is grammatically correct. It doesn’t matter; my love for Jeff Chimenti is like the love of a butterfly for a southerly breeze, or a cloud of a rainbow: it makes no sense upon examination. Is it a coincidence that Jeff Chimenti shares initials with Jesus Christ? And even if it is a coincidence, what if it weren’t?
But there was a memo. Oteil wore shoes, and Oteil declared it summer a month ago and broke out his flippity-flops. Not even sandals: flippity-damn-flops, and you know my feelings on those. (You lose the right to feet. Like cutting off a thief’s hand. Wear flippity-flops; state takes your feet.)
…
WHAT THE FUCK, OTEIL? I DEFENDED YOU. And then I scrolled back to the picture and MOTHERFUCKING FLIPPITY-FLOPS.
I stood up for you two slapdicks. “Let Oteil and Jeff Chimenti be in the pictures,” I said. AND THIS IS HOW YOU BEHAVE? Shorts and flippity-flops? No. Fuck this: I will not be treated this way. Both of you have lost your photo privileges; back to the old arrangement of old guys and pretty guy.
You did this to yourselves.
We’re back to this, huh?
I have a legitimate grievance this time.
Sure you do, buddy.
Yes, Mickey. We know: you have randos, too. All Grateful Deads have randos.
“There aren’t randos. This is my secret family.”
…
…
…
Oh?
“They’re great. Well: not great. Good. If they were great, they’d be my real family.”
Sure. I’m going to walk away from this conversation.
“Remember: it’s a secret.”
Mum’s the word, Mick.
“Hey! Ass! I got randos, too.”
That’s not Bill Irwin?
“Who?”
Forget it. Wait: that’s Rick Nielsen without his hat.
“Who?”
Nothing. Aw, look: it’s Benjy. I miss him.
“Who?”
Good talk, Billy.
Go get in line: tickets go on sale tomorrow at noon for Monday the 23rd, but not “on sale” because they’re free.
Also: can someone please come to my house and hold me? It is thundering so hard and I am so scared.
Great shirt, man.
“Thanks. You know, since purchasing this quality Wall of Sound ’16 shirt, I’ve joined the pro tennis circuit?”
Really?
“I’ve thrown three matches this week!”
Good for you.
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