Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Walton is now in the band.
Also, when Bill Walton plays a portable xylophone, he plays that sumbitch. Look at the concentration. Trombonist behind him is fucking around on her phone; Bill Walton is having his sweaty way with the moment. Bill Walton makes love to life.
Be like Bill Walton. (Not the injuries. Kid behind Bill was like Bill Walton in the bad way; don’t do that. Just be joyful and open to experience.)
Remember the house in your hometown that went apeshit for Christmas? Wired up the house to a nuclear reactor and lit the sucker up so bright pilots were blinded miles away? There were snowmen, and snowwomen, and snowchildren (which obviously implies snowfucking, but that’s a different topic) on the lawn and Rudolph’s nose was a diode the size of a basketball focused through a neon-copper gain medium. (Funny science story: turns out that’s a death ray.)
You loved that house, and so did all the visitors, and so did all the news crews who liked to use the lights for some instant production value.
The neighbors, though? If they had a tenth of a chance, they’d nuke that place from orbit. No one wants to live next to other people’s’ fun.
It’s nice to have a good Most Famous Fan. The Yankees have Billy Crystal, who is an oily nostalgist, but the Dead gets Bill Walton, who just gave his play-by-play guy a bottle of air from Chicago and told him not to open it around children.
I didn’t make that up: Bill Walton gives no fucks. In fact, history has recorded the moment he stopped. It was during practice in the UCLA gym.
“Bill?”
“Yes, Coach Wooden?”
“You still giving fucks?”
“I am, Coach.”
“Knock that off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man.”
And that was it for Bill Walton’s fucks.
(Sharper-eyed Enthusiasts will note that unless Bill Walton has been granted access to the Time Sheath, that air might not actually be from the Farewell Shoes.)
The best part of college basketball season is my Twitter feed.
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Chewbacca?
“No, it’s me. Bill Walton.”
Oh, thank God. I thought someone had shaved a Wookiee.
“No, this is how I look. Y’know, I auditioned for that part, Chewie, for the original film.”
Really? Why didn’t you get it?
“Shattered my left tibia putting on the costume.”
You truly were hampered by injuries.
“I’m more machine than man, now.”
Sure. Mrs. Donna Jean, you look lovely.
“A woman’s beauty is God’s gift to the world.”
What about ugly women?
“They are the Devil’s bear trap.”
Good talk. Hi, Trix–
“Restraining order says you can’t have conversations with photographs of me.”
Seems kind of meta to put in a legal document.
“And, yet: here we are.”
Hey, Bill Walton. Whatcha doing?
“Being excited about life and living it to the fullest!”
I know, right? You’re the best.
“Well, thanks. I’m excited to be in China! I packed my most formal tie-dyes!”
You do you, Bill Walton. Where are you?
“China!”
Right. Specifically, I meant.
“This is Shanghai. It is amazing! World-class city. Biggest Chinatown you ever saw: been here a week and haven’t gotten out of it.”
Sure. Question: what is that surrounding the buildings behind you?
“Oh, it’s funny you mention that. I need a new translator because he keeps telling me that’s air, and then I tell him that air doesn’t make you dirty, and then he threatens me in Cantonese. It is not an ideal working relationship.”
Do people actually breathe that?
“Most of them choose to filter the air through a lit cigarette. Big smokers, the Chinese.”
Sure.
“Hands up on defense,” Coach Wooden taught Bill Walton so many years ago, but he never said when Bill Walton could put his hands down.
The only bright spot on Twitter last night was Bill Walton’s Excellent Adventure through China. He was there to announce a basketball game of some sort and between the jet lag and foreign food, not to mention the distress of missing tour, Bill may have gone a bit stream of consciousness.
Assorted Quotes from Walton at Last Night’s College Basketball Game in China:
It’s tough to see, but Bill Walton is wearing a t-shirt with his own picture on it.
Mickey was overheard as saying, “How have I not been doing this for twenty years?”
Hey, Bill Walton.
“Oh, hey. Noticed that the kids these days are eating each others’ butts like there’s no tomorrow.”
Butts are big.
“Eating ass!”
Right.
“Munching away. NOMNOMNOMASSASSASS.”
Please, Bill Walton: never make those noises again in public.
“It’s wild, my friend. Do you know that when I began my career at UCLA under the great Coach Wooden, doggy-style hadn’t been invented yet?”
That’s not true.
“My junior year, I ate some shrooms with Elvin Bishop and he told me how it worked. And now everyone’s wearing each others’ asses as catcher’s masks. Weird world.”
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“Later, I’m gonna chow down on Rapunzel here’s back porch like a set-break taco.”
We’re done.
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