Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Women–hot ones, with perfect titty-balls and asses that went woobblewobblewobble when struck (consensually) with a belt–would line up to blow these dudes. Sometimes, the women would blow other, uglier, men to get to these paragons of masculinity. Your dongs, the women would wail; We need them!
What I’m saying is that you should learn how to play guitar.
“You sure this is the way to the stage?”
“Yes, sahib.”
“Usually, you know, Parish takes me.”
“Yes, sahib. Barish.”
“Parish, man.”
“Is no ‘P’ sound in Arabic, sahib.”
“Huh.”
…
“Seriously, man, I don’t see a stage.”
“Camel knows way.”
“This is almost as bad as playing Florida, man.”
“Is not as humid.”
“Yeah, okay.”
On the campaign trail, John Kerry never brought up his brother, whose Christian name was Robert but everybody called Rooster.
OR
There’s two types of junkies: short-sleeve boys and long-sleeve men.
OR
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Where’d you get the parachute?
“Stole it from an elementary school.”
Sure.
A reminder: Never wear your boots like that unless OSHA demands that you do so.
A further reminder: “Body Positivity” is a scam invented to sell products–some cheese-covered, some not–to fat people.
A farther reminder: Nick Paumgarten fucking loves mountains. Climbing ’em, sliding down ’em, getting drunk with rich fuckers at the base of ’em: the man’s a catholic slopist.
A father’s reminder: Get your hair cut and tell your mother you love her.
A farmer’s reminder: The Grange meeting is Tuesday night.
A Farnsworth reminder: I INVENTED TEEVEE, YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARDS!
Wake up and get to work. Break only for a light lunch or at the urging of your bowels. When it gets dark, drink and fuck.
Or lay in. Molest yourself a few times. Open up the Times to the crossword, yell towards the basement “GOOD ONE, WILLY!” (You should have Will Shortz gagged and bound down there, obviously.) Doodle a bit. Sand some scrap wood. Improvise weaponry. Cultivate grudges. Ruin the carpeting. Breed recklessly. Foster confusion. Nap like the wind.
Or meditate. Buddhism is always an option for the middle-class, college-educated White. Get a mantra, do some tantra.
You could go back to school. Or stay in school. Hell, shoot one up. You could do something involving school, that’s the point here.
It’s not too late to go pro. Trust me on this one; don’t listen to the haters. It’s not too late to go pro.
Do whatever you want, but it’s later than you think.
Precarious.
“Yo.”
I’m speechless.
“Here’s what you gotta understand about that strap: that’s professional-grade canvas.”
Which means what?
“Everything.”
Sure. Did the giant speaker need to be placed directly above Garcia?
“I would argue your adverb. That speaker is mostly above Garcia. It would clip him, at best.”
Still bad.
“The man’s got quicker reflexes than you’d think.”
It’s like the Sword of Damocles.
“Nah. It’s fine.”
What if there’s wind?
“There shouldn’t be any wind.”
…
That statement could be taken two ways.
“Choose one. Free country, man.”
BOOTY.
Stop that.
THICC.
I told you to stop it.
Like two fine hams making love under an ugly blanket.
Why won’t you knock it off?
Because the Enthusiasts demand the content that Jambase and Live4LiveMusic won’t provide.
Yelling nonsense words about a dead man’s tushee?
Precisely. Won’t get this shit from Pitchfork, either.
Everything. Everything is wrong about this. Questions include:
The rarest of all possible Phils: playing a Fender in the Jerry Band. This was 6/26/81 at the Warfield, and this (and the previous night) were the only gigs that Phil did with Jerry Band; John Kahn was absent, and Corey from Lost Live Dead may know why. (Don’t worry: the band did have a drug dealer amongst its members even without Kahn’s presence.)
It sounded like this:
…Mustache Garcia is the worst Garcia. Sweatpants Garcia was the saddest Garcia, and Clean-Shaven Garcia was the most unsettling Garcia, but Mustache Garcia was awful in every way.
…Billy’s beginner’s paunch is adorable.
…No favors are done by Ramrod’s hair. Grow that shit out, Ramrod. You look like one of those naked holy babies in the Sistine Chapel
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