Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: dead50 (Page 3 of 7)

Street Tassel

July 18, 2015 / / 0 Comments

MangoGirlPastiesFareTheeWellDidn’t I post you already?

“As if? You post me? Shah. If you did, it’s because you like my nose?”

I do like your nose.

“And my boob?”

Well, both of them.

“You didn’t let me finish?”

Sorry.

“And my other boob?”

There you are.

“So, you’re a pervtard? And your name’s Peter? Because when people see you, they’re like, “Oh: tool?”

I don’t understand the attacks.

“You are zero? I am keeping it one hundred?”

One hundred what?

“You are totes not my goats?”

Is this still English?

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

Well, yeah, obviously.

“Why are you a rapist?”

I’m going to talk to Billy or someone else who’s not crazy.

“Follow me on Instagram?”

Okay.

Even The Guy Behind Her Knows…

July 17, 2015 / / 0 Comments

fucku paymeA shiny quarter for anyone who can explain the precise melange of cray going on here. I recognize the “all rights reserved” and “sovereign authority” from one of the more pathetic conspiracy theories* out there, but is she demanding to be paid by the Dead? Is the Fuck You, Pay Me coming from the Dead? I’d like to know the specific reasons I’d never want to have a conversation with this lady.

To her credit, most insane people don’t let you know from 50 paces. This is thoughtful of her.

* I think that this yammerjammer has something to do with the “Sovereign Citizen” foolishness, which I despise: if you’re going to be a conspiracy theory for nutjobs, at least be interesting. Don’t bring maritime law into it and pay your damn taxes.

Hat, Trick

July 17, 2015 / / 0 Comments

maxresdefault
Um.

“Ya’cobui.”

You can’t be here. This area needs to be clear for Mickey’s drums and bullshit.

“Am Mickey.”

What.

“Me Mickey. Am to Mickey.”

Still not getting it.

“Mickey buy.”

…

Godammit, he bought another dwarf.

“Ya’cobui.”

Is that your name or “please don’t hurt me?” Never mind. It doesn’t matter.

“I am to Mickey now. Mickey play.”

Is he treating you well, at least?

“Food. Bed. Sun. Drum. Mickey play.”

…

“Mickey dog chase.”

MICKEY! A WORD!

mickey official“Hi, how are you?”

This is the least trustworthy you’ve ever looked.

“That hurts me, man. Why this aggressive stance and posture and emotion and, you know…just the feeling of everything that–

You need to stop petering out.

“Sure. So, what’s up?”

Did you buy a human being?

“Legally, he belongs to the drum. But I bought the drum, yeah.”

Where’d you even find him?

“San Mateo.”

Okay. You have to set him free.

…

“But I get such a good sound out of him.”

You’re actually playing the little fucker?

“Soft mallets only.”

Okay, listen: something else I need to talk to you about.

“Those sea-lion carcasses that keep showing up in schools?”

What?

…

“What did you want to talk about?”

Three guesses.

“Greece.”

That was such a bad guess that I won’t count it.

“The primal thaumaturgy that was Drums?”

No.

“Want the number for a good thumb-piano guy?”

Nope.

“I don’t have any extra dead shirts, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Mickey_SailorNo, I don’t want any Dead shirts.

…

“Yeah?”

Nothing weird about that pic?

“Hate to keep talking about Dead shirts, but I am not wearing one. That’s pretty weird.”

This is how you want to play this?

“That may be a Photoshop.”

What about this one?

TBZ6FPX“That is a kufi: I converted to Islam during the set break.”

Nuh-uh. That is a sailor’s cap which, it should be noted, you are wearing incorrectly; you have donned it for Bobby’s song Lost Sailor because you do not like that song and felt it necessary to editorialize the fact while you were half-heartedly playing the tune.

“You can’t know that for certain.’

Billy threw you under Furthur.

IMG_1911
“Fuckin’ Billy.”

Benjy, too.

“Fuckin’ Benjy.”

Yeah. I mean, Jesus, Mick: did you bring that hat all the way from California.

“Heh.”

Here’s more evidence of your foul deed. LOOK AT IT:

1aDy3QX“Heh.”

With malice aforethought, Mickey. And, how do you not know how to wear a sailor’s cap?

“I was in the Air Force.”

Right.

This Is Not Ibiza

July 17, 2015 / / 0 Comments

2A3E3DD400000578-3149912-image-m-50_1436091288289“Muffy?”

“Pussy?”

“Remind me again what all of this is.”

“The event of the weekend, apparently, Puss. In all of America, this is the place to be.”

“Tout le monde.”

“So I was informed.”

“Has America always been this dreary?”

“Yes.”

“And hairy?”

“That’s recent, I believe.”

“Plus ça change.”

“Mm.”

…

“Muff?”

“Puss?”

“When is the drop?”

“The drop?”

“Yes.”

“No drop. I believe they have peaks.”

“You seem to know so much about these mongrels and their little jingles.”

“I had taken a “Deadhead” as a lover during my time in Goa; he fell from a tree and died.”

“You do such interesting things.”

“Tout le monde.”

…

“Oh, look: the little gnomes in the back are banging on things.”

“Animalistic.”

“Mm.”

“Brutal.”

“Mmm.”

“Muff?”

“Puss?”

“Slumming?”

“You have such interesting thoughts.”

“Let’s find some illiterate beardmonsters.”

“God save the Queen.”

“And her distant cousins.”

“Them especially, yes.”

Cubs Of The Damned

July 17, 2015 / / 0 Comments

bearschicagoDidn’t Walton kill the two of you?

Not mortal.

Not flesh.

…

You guys are freaking me out.

Dance with us.

Do you hear the music playing?

We will dance forever.

Forever.

I don’t want to be here anymore.

Then come with us.

Come dancing.

…

…

…

Did you scare yourself?

I did.

Wanna watch cat videos for a while?

Are the cats going to knock stuff off tables?

Yes.

And not be demonic furries from an evil pocket dimension here to eat my soul?

No.

…

I would also like to enjoy some pornography.

Knock yourself out.

Third Set

July 16, 2015 / / 24 Comments
  • This is where we were sitting.
  • IMG_1839
  • Now I am sitting on my couch.
  • Holy Roman Emperors couldn’t do this type of thing
  • Shakedown Street had to be the opener because it was the Fourth of July and the Dead don’t have any songs that usually open shows that also mention the holiday.
  • Maybe in 37 more years, Deadheads will come to a consensus about what beat the WOO in Shakedown is on.
  • Killin’ It Now: Bobby, who is a sea-captain.
  • Things we now know about Jeff Chimenti: he is married.
  • Things we can now speculate about Jeff Chimenti: he prefers to make love to his wife in tandem with Bruce, as well.
  • Mickey is not–I repeat, NOT–wearing a Dead shirt.
  • But he puts one on for the second set, and it’s still a drumming shirt he’s got on, and Billy’s wearing a Dead shirt, so you know: don’t worry.
  • Not only is Billy covering the “guy wearing the shirt of the band he’s currently in” base, but it’s a bitchin’ shirt.
  • CJm_EKHWsAADpXB
  • This is the shirt, but this is not Billy.
  • “Hey, guys: what do you like best about America?”
  • “Freedom.”
  • “Liberty.”
  • “Being left alone.”
  • “Well, that song’s written.”
  • ‘Wait, don’t put your pen down: does the chorus have a chord that’s wrong?”
  • “It does now!”
  • Out of all the songs from Chicago, this was the one that got in my head.
  • That wasn’t funny.
  • Killin’ It Now: Bruce.
  • I’ve never claimed to be Deadier-than-thou and this song is no exception: I do not know it very well.
  • It’s not a particularly good song
  • I guess that Hunter thought freedom and liberty were self-explanatorily good things, but I prefer a reasoned argument for rugged individualism in my choogly-type songs.
  • Oh, by the way: next motherfucker that steals “choogly” is getting bitten.
  • I will give you human bites on your torso.
  • Mickey just reached out for the towel that was not there and gave his Benjy a look of withering death.
  • Ah.
  • Right.
  • Dammit.
  • We come, Enthusiasts, to the first hiccup of the night: Standing on the Moon.
  • No problem with the tune: it’s a strong, if a bit underdone, addition to the roster of Garcia Weepers.
  • No problem with the performance: Troubadour Arglebargle’s untrained wisp of a voice has a lot in common with Garcia’s reedy tenor and he sings and plays well.
  • Also, he does not update the lyrics and change El Salvador to Afghanistan or some bullshit like that.
  • No, the problem is that it’s still light out, man.
  • Maaaaaan.
  • IT;S ABOUT THE MOON.
  • It’s not really even a metaphor: the narrator’s literally standing on the moon looking down at Earth.
  • LET THE MOON COME OUT BEFORE YOU SING THE MOON SONG.
  • However, the temptation to project, like, Garcia faces all over the place when the line about being with you came around was avoided and that is a good thing.
  • Killin’ It Now: Fuckin’ Treyvon, broham.
  • Do not question; back the fuck up; let the man and his rock and roll balls go through.
  • HE’S DOING THE FANNING THING.
  • THIS GUY IS DOING THE THING THE OTHER GUY DID.
  • I LOVE THAT THING AND HE DID THE THING.
  • blimp view saturday
  • It’s about this dark now.
  • How do you blow the moon thing?
  • Anyway, I love Me and My Uncle and sang along with it at the top of my lungs, and so did a lot of other folks.
  • Billy continues to hate Bobby’s cowboy songs and have an awful poker face.
  • Bobby is now singing Tennessee Jed, but now Bruce is singing Tennessee Jed.
  • Has Bruce always sounded like a mystical hobo from New Orleans?
  • When Bobby sings the line about the law coming to getcha, he mimes a cop pulling his collar.
  • Did he always want to do that?
  • Like, every time Garcia sang the line, he was thinking, “If I ever get my shot, this is how Bobby’d do it.”
  • Sure, the tempo could be faster.
  • Lots of things could be lots of things, man.
  • Phil’s having the time of his crazy life.
  • Just smiling and grinning and happy to be out of the restaurant.
  • Trey and Bruce should do stuff together: their voices blend and they seem to be always trying to catch each other’s eye onstage, except there’s 80 feet in between
  • Music stuff.
  • Gay stuff if they want, and they’re upfront with their wives and families about their desires, and each other with their boundaries.
  • Fun fact: Both of their safe words is “Benjy.”
  • This Jed is being rampaged upon.
  • Bite the curb, Jed.
  • I told you to bite the fucking curb, Jed.
  • CUMBERLAND!
  • ONE-THIRD OF THE WAY TO SIX!
  • Seriously: why?
  • I mean, I love Cumberland as much as the next guy, as long as the next guy is mostly all right with Cumberland.
  • Plus, they did it in Santa Clara.
  • Oh, God, are they trying to do an Americana set?
  • Godammit, Grateful Dead: you are outrunning your coverage.
  • Millionaires in a stadium dedicated to soldiers singing a song about impoverished miners to PTA members.
  • There are great shots of the crowd taken by the Wallenda-Cam.
  • That’s not its real name; I don’t know what the thing is called; I mean the robot camera suspended from the parapets of the stadium by four cables.
  • You saw them at football games starting five years ago or so and now I guess they’re for everything and they ZIIIIIP and zzzzzzOOOOM around the playing field, but forty feet up or so, which in some intangible way now extends the playing field upwards and makes the whole shebang a much more dramatic deal.
  • It is not, though, a drone.
  • Robot, sure, but not a drone.
  • They’re coming, though: give it five years before those jabberwhatnots are flitting around the stadium getting every possible angle.
  • Until the fans in Philadelphia start throwing D batteries at them, knocking them from the sky, and amputating the faces of several innocent children and Phanatics.
  • In Oakland, several unemployed crystal meth dealers hurled themselves off the mezzanine at the drones, bringing them down in the ways of the Sky People, and lighting revel fires where the technofucks crashed and died.
  • In Arlington, when the drones launched at the first Cowboy game of the year, the fans began to worship the drones, thinking them to be many small Jesuses.
  • Little Red Rooster would have been a lot tougher to get through if I didn’t have my friend Imagination.
  • Friend of the Devil was always one of my favorite Phil songs, and Truffleoil shoves a pen in the ear of the solo.
  • I like the fast version of this song, and I also like the slow one.
  • I might like Lyle Lovett’s the best, but don’t tell anyone.
  • This version always reminded me of the suits men wore in the Old West.
  • Starched collars and wool and formality while the land got stolen and the rivers started to die.
  • Plus cello.
  • Cellos make anything seem solemn and ethereal.
  • I may or may not have muted Phil of the Devil to listen to Lyle Lovett, but I’m back now for the set-ending Deal.
  • Singers have certain keys they like – it’s not that they can;t hit the notes in some keys, but their voices don’t sound right.
  • Deal is in the right key for Treyvon and Bruce.
  • I would like to see those two in a a reality show.
  • Trustfund has several faces that he enjoys making at crowds: we’ll get to the others, but his Rocking Face is passable.
  • Oh, but now he’s doing some sort of thing with his mouth that is quite unsettling.
  • He is also Garcianating all over the stage
  • “I AM THE GARCIA!”
  • Adorable Dead Nonsense #3,911: if you’re a classical musician–in the symphony, orchestra, any of that shit–and you turn your head at a fellow musician’s mistake, you might as well pack your oboe case.
  • Firable offense and one of the most massive breaches of etiquette you can make.
  • It’s up there with fucking a guy’s tuba.
  • You don’t turn around when someone clams, and you don’t fuck strangers’ brass instruments.
  • No matter how bad that slutty tuba is asking for it.
  • Bobby, on the other hand, stares at people and throws up his hands, which is both adorable and nonsense.
  • Dude, set ended ten minutes ago.
  • I was on a roll.

So Much To Ask?

July 16, 2015 / / 26 Comments

….

Are you pouting?

It might be described that way, but I would disagree with the wording.

Sulking?

Closer.

Brooding.

Yes, like Batman. That is what I’m doing.

The video situation?

I feel unappreciated.

Oh, God.

Tell me I’m special.

For one definition of the word “special,” yeah.

All I asked for is for hundreds of man-hours of work and millions of dollars in intellectual property to be provided to me for free and on the specific platform I desire. And for the owners of said work and investors of said dollars to let me do it, even though it would explicitly weaken their claim on the copyright.

That’s not so much.

I would also like it right the fuck now.

This world breaks butterflies like you on the wheel, doesn’t it?

It does. Sometimes I think I have the most feelings of anyone in the world.

You’re unbearable.

I got a haircut and wrote a poem about it: wanna hear it?

…

We need to keep things on a professional level from now on.

Right. So: waiting on the innertubes to come through. It’s always doing great things for sick children, so I–

Don’t do this.

–invite Enthusiasts to picture me a a small, pale, bald child who–

Nope, nope, nope.

STEPSTEPSTEP doorSLAMM

kaCHuck

kaCHuck

kaCHuuuuuAHHHHHHGGAHOGGAHOGGAGOGGA

vrOOOOm krSREEEEEEEEEEECHBOOMANDBANG

SPRANG! CLATTER! SPLAT! Shplunk.

…

Was that a motorcycle?

Yeah.

Pulled out and got hit by an 18-wheeler?

Uh-huh.

…

You hurt?

I am not.

So, you’re Unbreakable?

Apparently. I cannot die.

Okay.

Nor can I leave.

Being semi-fictional has its ups and downs.

Stuck here forever?

Forever enough, I suppose.

Might be called Hell.

Perspective.

Didn’t this start out as a place to make fun of Billy?

Evolved a little.

Yeah.

You having a bit of a crisis, or can I finish haranguing the readers for their paltry tribute?

Please don’t phrase it that way.

Oh, I won’t.

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