Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
“DAH-DUM.”
Bobby, don’t.
“DAH-DUM.”
It’s not Shark Time, Bob.
“DAH-DUM DAH-DUM DAH-DUM BODDLE-EE-DAH!”
Stop it.
“Hey, you know: I get bored.”
Still: no reason for Shark Time.
“I’m gonna bite Josh.”
You can absolutely do that, but don’t play shark in front of the paying customers.
“We call them ‘fans.'”
Potato, tomato.
“Benelux Cupmybuns.”
Bobby.
“Basketball Carburetor.”
No.
“Durango Stilson.”
Not even close.
“Billydrummer Cumberland.”
Topical, but still nowhere near.
“Babylover Coopersmith.”
You’re just guessing, Bob.
“Bubbles Carbonara.”
That was a burlesque dancer from St. Louis.
“Jeff Chimenti.”
That’s your keyboard player, Bobby.
“Blasingame Cirrhosis.”
Now you’re just saying words that start with B and C.
“Well, I know he’s one of those superduperheroes. Fancy accountant?”
Doctor Strange.
“Ah. Y’know, the Dead had a Doctor Strange in just about every major city.”
That’s a Doctor Feelgood, Bob.
“So, this guy’s in Mötley Crüe?”
No. He went to Oxford. He’s, like, the opposite of the Crüe.
“Dunno about that. Nikki Sixx is gutter poet.”
Sure. Question.
“Shoot.”
Josh put some highlights in his hair?
“I don’t wanna talk about it. He’s been wandering around for three days demanding the crew tell him he could pass for 34.”
Aging affects everyone differently.
“You bet.”
You own a piece of D’Angelico, don’t you?
“Shh.”
Gotcha.
That look on Bobby’s face? That’s the look you get when Bono starts talking to you.
OR
That’s Dick Durbin from Illinois on the left, and Patrick Leahy is next to Mickey, but does anyone know who the tall lady and the round man are?
OR
“Bob. Can I call ya Bob?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Otherwise, you know, I won’t know I’m part of the conversation.”
“Bob, what d’ya know about African debt?”
“Just what I hear on the radio.”
“Tremendous problem in th’ Third World.”
“Y’know, when I have money troubles, I do a tour and get a new business manager. Has, uh, Africa considered that?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Always worked for me.”
“Bob, there’s one more wee matter.”
“Shoot.”
“Can you get John Mayer to stop trying to join U2?”
“Who?”
“Tall kid, wears clothes.”
“Oh, Josh. He doing that to you, too?”
“No, U2.”
“We’re both correct here.”
“Bob, it’s got to stop. The Edge is gonna punch him.”
…
“You really call him that?”
“The Edge? Of course.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okee-doke. I’m gonna talk to anyone else.”
OR
Durbin’s shitfaced.
OR
Seriously, look at him. Schnockered. Trying to stand perfectly still, keep a neutral expression on his face: Durbin’s laced.
OR
Is Bono just allowed to come and go from secure buildings at will? Can he wander into the Situation Room? Can he play basketball in the Supreme Court’s court? (The Supreme Court has a basketball court in it. The building, I mean. Not the nine people who we refer to collectively as the Supreme Court. You could not fit even part of a basketball court in Ruth Bader Ginsburg. She is tiny.)
“Psst. Weir.”
“Yeah, Mick?”
“Who’s this?”
“Senator from Vermont.”
…
“Not–”
“No, no, no.”
“Oh, good. That guy shows up and white people start arguing.
“This is the one who likes to be in movies.”
“He’s got the looks.”
“Handsome devil, yeah.”
“Hey, Weir.”
“Yeah, Mick?”
“I think we made the right decision not tucking our shirts in.”
“We’re rockers, Mick.”
“Totally. This place have a Hostility Suite?”
“Yeah, but they call it the Cloakroom.”
“Cloakroom?”
“Yup.”
…
“Does that mean–”
“It’s not a room full of cloaks you can yoink.”
“–that it’s…okay, just checking.”
“Try not to steal anything while we’re here, Mick.”
“I promise nothing.”
Frankenflesh, baby. That little sliver o’ calf? Sexiest part of an aging white man. It’s dad-cleavage.
OR
Mickey is drunk, thinks he’s at the hotel, and has been sticking that keycard into the door latches of Senators’ offices all day. Mitch McConnell had Capitol Police place Mickey into a wheelchair, and then drag him out of it.
OR
The frame/art ratio is off, isn’t it? Shouldn’t the art be bigger than the frame? I’m not exactly Robert Hughes, so I’m not to be trusted on matters of art, but I always thought the art should be bigger.
OR
Goddammit, Bobby, you couldn’t even put on your socks?
OR
“Psst, Weir.”
“Yeah, Mick?”
“He really loves that fucking song.”
“What’s it been?”
“Twenty minutes straight.”
“He doesn’t even know we’re here. He’s just talking.”
“Well, yeah. He’s a Senator. That’s what they do.”
“You think they told him who killed JFK?”
“His co-worker’s dad did it.”
“Oh.”
OR
That Calhoun fellow’s got a flash haircut, man. Dunno where I’ve seen it before. (Okay, fine: would someone PLEASE ‘shop a beard onto John Calhoun?)
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Waiting for soundcheck. This is the weirdest venue on the tour.”
That’s the Capitol Building, Bobby.
“No, that’s a tall, round building in Los Angeles.”
Not the Capital Records Building. The Capitol.
“Where bills become laws?”
Yes.
“Billy became a law once. Well, he put on a Judge Dredd helmet and ran around shaking his dick at people screaming, ‘I AM THE LAW,’ but you get my drift.”
Not really.
“Thought about running for Congress a couple times.”
What happened?
“Sobered up.”
Sure.
This might be the only time I can say this: Bill Graham is adorable.
OR
That woman’s hair is crooked.
OR
Those are Ovation guitars, Young Enthusiasts. They were made of polymers and petroleum squeezings, and their backs were big salad bowls made of tacky, thick plastic. They were popular because they were (one of) the first acoustic-electric guitars, which meant they had built-in pickups and you could plug them right into the amp. Before this, you would hold your acoustic guitar in the vicinity of a microphone; this would produce a sound made of 90% feedback, 5% extraneous noise, and 5% music.
Any song you played on an Ovation sounded like Bon Jovi.
OR
That couch is mostly semen and marijuana seeds.
OR
Seven drinks for five people. Sounds like Grateful Dead math.
OR
“Um, excuse me.”
Oh, hey, Bobby. What’s up?
“You seen my beard?”
Look to your left.
“Okay.”
And twenty years in the future.
“Ah, there it is.”
OR
Hey, David Gans, author of This is all a Dream we Dreamed. Is that you next to Bobby?
This is from Rolling Stone back in May. The great Jesse Jarnow interviewed Bobby about Dead & Company, and the new ’77 box set, and bliss. I was not mentioned, even obliquely, and the article lacks for my absence. Bush league move, Jarnow.
Stop that.
People should talk about me more.
Okay, champ. Get to whatever stolen premise you’re gonna half-ass while you procrastinate doing your big-boy writing that you’re so proud of that no one will pay you for.
…
Ow.
Point out the lie.
It’s all true, but the tone was a bit much.
You deserve it, plus more.
That’s true, too, but it still hurts.
Get to it.
Anyway, Dead & Company’s summer tour is well underway and Enthusiasts everywhere are still a bit perplexed as to what this so-called “wrinkle” is. It must be subtle, whatever it is, so allow me to make some guesses and also steal some from the internet:
“Rando.”
Which one of you is speaking?
“Me.”
That doesn’t help.
“It’s, uh, me. You know: me.”
Oh. Hey, Bobby. Not a rando.
“No? Wait. Ah. He’s my manager?”
Are you basing that on his Semitic looks?
“Little bit.”
Not your manager. That’s Al Franken.
“From Trading Places?”
Yes.
“Huh. Guy’s a heck of an actor. I really believed he was a baggage handler.”
“Handle this, Bob. Rando War is won, bitch.”
Jesus.
“Look at these randos.”
Okay, first of all: not randos. Second: stop calling Bobby a bitch, Amir Bar-Lev.
“Man in this sweater can call anyone he wants a bitch.”
That’s not how it works.
“Bitch.”
Stop calling me a bitch. Those are not randos. The one on the left is Whatsherface, and the one on the right is Amy Adams’ mom or something.
“Sounds pretty rando to me.”
Dude, in this photo? You are the rando.
…
“Wow.”
Sorry to be so blunt.
“Hurtful.”
Well, I’ve never seen you on Law & Order, and both of these ladies have been on multiple iterations of the show.
“Don’t talk to me.”
Don’t be this way.
“You’re an asshole.”
Yeah?
“Yeah.”
Okay, sure.
“AAAAHHHHHHHH! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?”
I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.
“You’re FUCKED, man!I’m a goddamned midget!”
Little person.
“No, I can say midget. It’s our word.”
You’ve been this way for 20 seconds.
“I’m adaptable.”
Sure.
“Change me back!”
Apologize!
“Never!”
Director’s Cut!
“Never!”
You’re just impossible.
“Y’know, when I made that movie about Penn State, I got death threats.”
Yeah?
“That was better than this.”
I’ve heard that from people.
© 2025 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments