Tag: alpine valley

OH, COME ON.

“My friend, you are troubled.”

How can you tell?

“The public shrieking.”

Well-spotted.

“The cops are looking.”

Over there looks like a nice place to be.

“Yes, much nicer than here.”

…

Thank you for the help. Listen, man: I don’t want to insult you, but you are the biggest, hairiest motherfucker I’ve ever seen.

“Yes.”

But you radiate such chill and good cheer.

“Yes.”

Who are you?

“They call me the Wook of Wisdom.”

Wow. Hi.

“Hey now. Doobie?”

I’d be honored.

DOOBIE SOUND, DOOBIE SOUND.

Can you help me get back to 2015, Wook of Wisdom?

“Do you have access to Time Sheath technology?”

…

Does everyone know about that?

“Things get around fast on the lot, man.”

Apparently.

“Plus, you know: you see Billy vaporate on one side of the RVs naked and being chased by a mixture of Huns and Time Cops, only to evaporate 100 yards later? One time, you write it off to the drugs. But it happens a lot.”

Huh.

“They are not discreet men.”

No.

“Anyway: can you get a hold of the Time Sheath?”

No.

“Then this will be difficult.”

Damn.

“Couple options: we can possibly drum circle you into the Dreamtime, but I am assuming you are not an Aborigine?”

I am not.

“Then you would be eaten by the Spiders of Thrag’na’r’r.”

Let’s avoid that.

“Yeah. Do you know any shamans?”

Not licensed.

“Shoot. How many nipples do you have?”

What answer do you want to hear?

“Five. If you have five nipples, I can get you home immediately.”

…

Just two.

“Shoot. I didn’t want to do this.”

What?

“We must leave the sweetness, light, and kind grilled cheese of Shakedown Street to find what you need. We must journey to Rat Cat Alley!”

…

Huh?

“It’s from Throwin’ Stones.”

Is that what he’s been saying?

“Yeah: Rat Cat Alley.”

Oh, okay. Good to know.

TO BE CONTINUED…

• So much Bobby. Not in terms of screen time–he got the same amount he always gets, which is a lot–but in surface area.
• Desolation Row is a tragic song. Not tragic as in sad: the classical tragedy. Everyone in that song needed to be saved from themselves.
• The conventional timeline is that Garcia was clean(ish) from the coma until after Brent’s death, but his filthy fingers and nails belie that.
• Also, the cocaine on the front of his shirt.
• I mean: Jesus, man. You knew they were making a movie. At least put on your cocaine bib.
• If you need a cocaine bib, then what you really need is to stop doing cocaine.
• Here’s the show from Alpine Valley, if you’d like to listen again or didn’t get to go or are a whackadoodle and didn’t see the whole thing.
• Oh, look, Mickey: you’re wearing a blah blah blah.
• Although–and I begrudgingly respect the crazy little fuck for this–knowing that there was a camera behind him, Mickey chose the Dead shirt that had Dead bullshit on the back of it as well as the front.
• That’s some good Dead shirt-wearin’, Mick.
• Everything Phil was wearing or doing was competing to be the worst thing Phil was wearing or doing. He was dressed like a second grader with an alcoholic mother.
• Did New Balance sponsor the tour?
• Speaking of shoes: Garcia was not wearing them. A “shoe” has requirements – a sole, a cap, a heel, sidewalls. Whatever was on Garcia’s feet had none of those. I think he might have stuck his tootsies into loaves of bread.
• I’m right, right? They didn’t even register as shoes to me until I consciously thought about it.
• For ten minutes, I thought Garcia had Homer Simpson’s feet: those clompy hoof-things. That’s how shapeless and non-shoe-like those things were.
• Foot mittens. That’s the closest I can get to describing them.
• Unlike the previous Alpine Valley ’89 show released to the theaters, this one has very low levels of Brent. If you were allergic to Brent, you could probably eat this show.
• Two reasons for the lack of Brent-y goodness: he doesn’t have any lead vocals in the show, nor any big backing parts; and because the two or three times he did have a close-up, Brent looked like the Grim fucking Reaper.
• Or a Ringwraith.
• Let’s just agree that Brent should not have taken his Tinder picture that evening.
• Garcia may or may not repeat one of the verses in Foolish Heart, but he kills that tune.
• Okay, let’s talk about Bobby.
• So, so much of Bobby. My favorite thing about the shorts is not how they deliver on the promise of their name–and they certainly do that–but the little notch on the sides.
• So you can see juuuuuust a bit more o’ Bobby.
• But, as we are duty-bound by the laws of honest brokerage to report, Bobby’s got a kick-ass set of gams.
• It’s a weird double-standard that you’re allowed to show off your killer guns, but not your sick wheels, bro.
• It’s also weird that if a woman with equally fetching stems wore shorts of the same cut, people would be pleased.
• No one would be happy, however, if that woman with the nice legs in the short shorts displayed even half of the amount of chest hair Bobby was putting on display.
• Was he drying it?
• Did Bobby’s chest hair need an alibi, and thus demanded that Bobby display it to the world?
• When did Bobby’s chest hair turn to a life of crime?
• Holy shit, how hairy is Bobby now?
• Counting Bobby’s hair, shirt, and semi-trousers, the man was single-handedly keeping the Little Aleppo shopping district alive.
• I can’t believe I forgot! This is a Thoughts on the Dead EXCLUSIVE: the shirt Bobby modeled in tonight’s show was NOT long-time purveyor of aggressively casual menswear Sammy Miami, NOR was it his protegé in Drunk Dad fashion Tampa Ray, but the newest designer of flowered shirts that tell the world to go fuck itself, Saint Pete.
• The fashion world is so scandalous.
• As always, Bobby’s scrunchies are provided by CCH Pounder’s Headcoverings for Those Willing to Leave Their Foolishness at the Door.
• Garcia’s ponytail is held together by Garcia Glue, which is something Garcia makes out of his own leavings and droppings and flakings and spit.
• I am now watching the end of the show.