Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: john mayer (Page 3 of 42)

Hard, Men

September 23, 2019 / / 1 Comment

Why are you being so stand-offish? Get in there, fucker. That’s your Bobby.

“I’m being appropriate.”

Fuck that. That man saved your career.

“DID NOT!”

You get in his sweaty nook. Nuzzle in, douchewad.

“This is fine.”

How’s Sammy?

“Good. The usual.”

What does that mean?

“He keeps yelling WOO! and asking if we could play Three Lock Box.”

3LB is a slapper, Josh.

“Don’t call me that. We’re not doing Three Lock Box.”

What about There’s Only One Way to Rock?

“I don’t know that one.”

You could figure it out. We’re not talking about The Black Page.

“Bob and Sam are coming out for one number. Fire on the Mountain. That’s it”

Did Sammy bring any rum?

“Like, five cases worth. Sammy Hagar is like a Boy Scout, but for partying.”

He’s prepared.

“That’s what I’m saying.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Dude, we were getting along so well.”

I know. But this is how the bit works.

“Such a hack.

I know.

…

“You’re on with John.”

“Son, this is the President.”

“Oh. Hey, Mr. President. I’m just glad you’re not Miles Davis.”

“Nasty business, that man. Fabulous horn player, no one would deny that, but as a man he’s trouble. As a man. And he is, from my experience, the type of man that riles up others, uh, of his kind. His fellows. They see his attitude, and they mimic him. I’ve told Hoover to look into him several times, but Hoover says that his agents are scared of him. Heavily-armed and unreasonable, they report.”

“That is an accurate report on Miles Davis, sure.”

“He’s not like Sam. Sam Davis, Jr. There’s a negro that should be looked up to by any young man, whatever the color.”

“I guess.”

“Friendly, hard-working, can take a joke. It’s not always about race with him. And his pronunciation! My God, you would think you were talking to a Princetonian, for all that’s worth. On the phone, you cannot tell. You simply cannot tell.”

“Mr. President, please stop discussing race relations. Why are you in a hard hat?”

“Meeting with the Teamsters. Many people have, uh, forgotten just how mobbed-up I was.”

“I just assumed.”

“You want to keep your hands clean, go into the priesthood. Politics is for men, son.”

“But we’re a nation of laws.”

“Written by men. The laws were written by men. Remember that, and you’re halfway home before you begin.”

Hand Sam His Old Guitar

September 21, 2019 / / 2 Comments

Seriously, why did Sammy not get a guitar? Fire on the Mountain has two chords in it. There’s not even a bridge with a bonus third chord. There’s a B, and there’s an A. That’s it. I Can’t Drive 55? SEVEN CHORDS! Sammy could’ve handled FOTM. Shit, you don’t even have to turn him up in the house. Just give him something to hold on to, for fuck’s sake.

I Fought The Chaw, And The Chaw Won

September 16, 2019 / / 7 Comments

Everyone needs to put some damn shoes on.

“Oh, no. Shoes are the foot-killer; I shall not wear them. I will let trips to Foot Locker pass over me like a wave, and when they are gone only my tootsies shall remain.”

Nicely done.

“Besides, I was talking to Josh, and it turns out that sneakers are, like, two grand a pair nowadays.”

Not normal sneakers. Just his  handmade limited-edition bullshit. You can get a pair of Adidas for $65.

“Huh.”

One other thing.

“You want some Fret-Eeze?”

No. What’s with the chewing tobacco?

“I enjoy a good dip. See, what you do is–”

I know how it works.

“–you put a pinch between your cheek and gums.”

Yes.

“Mm, what flavor.”

Chewing tobacco is absolutely the most disgusting way of ingesting nicotine. And least cool.

“I don’t know about that. How about that thing that looks like you’re sucking on a robot’s dick?”

Vaping.

“That scene is not for me.”

Good call. But the dipping has to stop.

“I’m gonna keep doing whatever the hell I want.”

Good. We’re agreed.

And Co-Starring Katy Perry As Pepper Potts

July 22, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Why are you Iron Man, Josh Meyers?

“Someone has to be. Plus, an Iron Man suit is literally the most expensive outfit in the world.”

True.

“I have pants that cost twenty grand, but these suckers are seven figures a pop.”

Do you get concierge service with that?

“It’s extra, but it’s available. I recommend it.”

Is it comfortable?

“It makes terrycloth feels like canvas. The only word is ‘sumptuous.’ Plus, I can take out a major city with it.”

Don’t do that. Are you gonna wear that on Dead & Co’s next tour?

“No. I wore it at a soundcheck, and Billy kept sticking fridge magnets to me. Really explicit ones, too.”

Sounds right.

CELL PHONE NOISE

Cell phone?

“Yeah. I can’t get the suit’s Bluetooth to shake hands with my phone.”

The perils of the modern world.

…

“You’re on with John.

“Ah, good boy. You’ve acquired the, uh, weapon.”

“The Iron Man suit is more than a weapon, Mr. President. Why are you pointing at Cambodia?”

“I want you to blow it up for me, son. Blow up Cambodia for Nixon.”

“No.”

“These are the hills within which the rebels, the Communist rebels, led by Ho Chi Minh are hiding. Right here about a hundred clicks east of Phnom Penh. Hills are crawling with rebels. We want you to take them out.”

“I’m not taking out any rebels, sir.”

“Not the rebels, son: the hills. You, uh, deny the enemy ground upon which to stand, and you eliminate his fighting ability. The entire landscape has to go: hills, valley, lakes, rivers. Take it all down to the bare grain. The Cambodians will cease to be a problem once there’s no Cambodia. That’s realpolitik, son. Ugly, yes, but it provides for the long-term peace. Cambodia must die so Laos can live.”

“How did Laos get into this?”

“How does Laos get into anything? Via the Great Game. We all play it. You, for example, didn’t read the owner’s agreement of that suit, which clearly states that the Sokovian Accords are in effect for purchasers. This, uh, grants me the authority to order you around. Now put your helmet on and obliterate Cambodia for America.”

“Goddammit.”

A Challenge To John Mayer

June 30, 2019 / / 12 Comments

Dear John,

Hi. How are you? I’m fine. It is very hot here, and there are iguanas everywhere. The animals will not take to befriendment. If you’ve ever met an iguana, you know what I mean!

Anyhoo.

You’re a coward, Meyers. You’re a toe-dippin’ son of a bitch. You fear the depths, my butt-chinned friend, and instead float atop the waters. It’s a low quality in a man. It’s the reason Steve Aoki doesn’t return your texts. He can smell a dilettante a mile away; everyone knows that about Aoki. You dabble. You’re a nibbler. Dude, you’re Cliff’s notes.

You think wearing Madonna Tee-Shirt makes your bones, Meyers? Not on my watch. Not even on your stupidly-expensive watch. You wanna impress us?

You go Full Bobby, or you got no balls, Meyers. Do it. You wanna. You know you wanna. You’re dying to do it, so do it. Release him. Release all of him. Go Full Bobby.

Only then, can you truly become New Bobby.

Sincerely,
ToTD, DDS

Caution

June 29, 2019 / / 1 Comment

“Why are you doing Superman chest?”

“I like to. Makes me look powerful. I may have gotten old, but I can still kick your ass.”

“I know, Parish.”

“Not talking about the general ‘you,’ either. I meant you. If anything happens to Wolf, I’ll put you in hospice.”

“Jesus, man.”

“You would skip the hospital and go straight to the hospice. The violence would be overwhelming in both speed and breadth. I would be everywhere, and all at once.”

“Y’know, I do a bit of MMA training.”

“John, kid, I like you a lot. You’re family now, man. You’re helping to keep Garcia’s music alive, and I love that. But it would be like a polar bear raping a kitten.”

“Jesus, man.”

“And take all that shit off your right wrist, and shift your belt buckle around to the side.”

“Hold up now, buddy–

BOPPIN’ JOSH ON THE HEAD NOISE!

“Did you just Little Bunny Foo Foo me?”

“Yup.”

“Ow!”

“Be careful with the guitar.”

“I’m beginning to hate this deal.”

“Pray I don’t Little Bunny Foo Foo you any further.”

Never Rub Another Man’s Rhubarb

June 24, 2019 / / 0 Comments

“What fuckery is this?”

Josh?

“Nope. A little lower.”

…

Wolf?

“Mr. Wolf. Put some respect on my name.”

Sorry. Mr. Wolf.

“Do I look like a slutty sophomore?”

I’m sorry?

“I said…do I look like a slutty sophomore?”

No.

“THEN WHY IS EVERYONE FINGERING ME?”

Ew.

“What’s happening here is not consensual. Who is this diphthong?”

That’s John Mayer.

“Who is he?”

He’s the Bobby now.

“What is Bobby doing?”

Bobby’s the Garcia.

“Is Mickey still Mickey?”

Mickey is incapable of change.

“Thank God for small favors. I mean, it’s bad enough when Woody Hayes plays me every summer, but at least he’s a fat guy. I like to rest against a big belly. It’s my thing.”

Okay.

“Don’t judge me.”

I wasn’t.

“I like ’em thick.”

FINE!

“But this guy? I can feel abs under his tee-shi–”

…

What?

“Don’t tell me he’s wearing one of the Big Guy’s tee-shirts, too.”

I don’t think so.

“Hey, tell me I’m wrong for thinking it was a possibility.”

You are not wrong.

“Holy shit, he’s playing me all fucked-up.”

How so?

“Well, he hasn’t clammed a note in…all night, really.”

True.

“And he’s playing too fast. I’ll tell you this right now: he does any of that Van Halen shit on me and I’ll have him murdered in his sleep.”

I don’t think he will.

“Jesus, this is a nightmare.”

Just get through it, Mr. Wolf.

“Yeah, yeah.”

…

“Hey.”

Mm-hmm?

“What happened to Phil?”

Long story.

For The Enthusiasts Not On Twitter*

June 22, 2019 / / 4 Comments

Josh Meyers has donned what is certainly a vintage tee-shirt–not a newly-printed replica like some disgusting poor person might buy–from Madonna’s 1987 Who’s That Girl tour.

(FUN FACT: In support of her third album, True Blue (which had Papa Don’t Preach, Open Your Heart, Live To Tell, the title track, AND La Isla fucking Bonita on it), Madonna’s tour lasted 38 shows and made her $25 million; the Dead played 86 shows in 1987, and made about the same. Plus, Madonna didn’t have to split the dough with five other guys. On the other hand, Madonna didn’t go on tour and earn $25 million in 1988, whereas the Dead did. On another hand, Madonna continues to perform as she didn’t die too young, and in a strange bed. On word to your mother hand, Madonna has gotten sad. On Dr. Joyce Brothers’ hand, all the great ones get sad. Remember Dick Cavett prompting Groucho through his old bits, and Groucho was just tired and sparse and gray? Madonna’s like that now, but with more environmentalism. Hands, man. Got a lotta hands involved here.)

That paragraph became incoherent.

Dude, you can’t hear me when I’m in parentheses. It’s an aside to the audience.

It’s not. 

I’m going back to my point, which is non-essential. At best, this piece of information is classified as “non-essential.” If you had to evacuate, you would leave this knowledge behind. Yet, here we are:

Josh is, of course, paying tribute to one of the most storied of all the Bobby Shirts, Madonna Tee-Shirt. Bobby wore this on 7/26/87 at Anaheim Stadium, along with his most famous shorts:

It was an iconic night for all of us.

Occupying the Pantheon along with Snake Tee-Shirt, Pink Polo, and others, Madonna Tee-Shirt instantly became a fan favorite, and by that I mean everyone made fun of Bobby and some people were angered. The word “faggy” was thrown about quite a bit, I’d imagine. Younger Enthusiast, remember that this was 1987, and irony hadn’t been invented yet. At least not wide-scale dissemination of it, and definitely not in shirt form. (That was my generation. We did that in the 90’s. We came up with the concept of wearing shirts with lame shit on them. That was Generation X. We did literally nothing else, but the shirt thing was ours.) Tee-shirt fronts were for sincerity. To wear the shirt of an unloved band was simply unthinkable. It was 1987, and there was no difference between one and one’s shirt.

How could Bobby wear that shirt, man? Moochie had a bad trip from that shit. Her forthright sexuality freaked Moochie out! Tell him, Moochie!

“…”

See!?

Deadheads were aghast at that bullshit, Younger Enthusiasts! Madonna? Madonna? Deadheads prided themselves on their catholic tastes in music, as long as they got to define “music” as “a noise made by a handful of shaggy white guys.” Madonna made music–if one could call it that–for other people. Girls, mostly. Sensitive boys. And morons, let’s face it. If the general public were intelligent, then the ’83 Lake Placid Sugaree would be #1 on the Pop charts this week, but the public are drunken fools, and so the newest slurry from Post Malone is #1.

A Deadhead could not consort with the Whore of Detroit, it simply wasn’t done. A Deadhead could be into metal, sure. Or complicated jazz. Or the right kind of country, maybe. A Deadhead might listen to all sorts of unpleasant foreign bullshit, especially if Mickey mentioned it once in an interview.

But Madonna?

It simply wasn’t done.

 

 

Oh, yeah: Bobby got the shirt directly from Madonna when he met her two years after he wore the shirt onstage. No one knows why Bobby used Time Sheath technology to perform at a rainforest benefit with Debi Mazar, but he did.

 

 

*Good decision, by the way. The common euphemism for Twitter is a “cesspool,” but I do not believe Twitter lives up the those lofty standards. A cesspool, you will note, keeps the shit in.; it doesn’t let the poison seep out and contaminate the surrounding world. Twitter fails at this task. Another difference is that a cesspool is a necessary item we all like to ignore, whereas Twitter is unnecessary and we can’t stop staring at it. I can do this all fucking day, Enthusiasts. Twitter is killing us all.

Tangential To The Line

June 17, 2019 / / 1 Comment

Aren’t those things supposed to have pedals?

“Yeah, but they’re tricky. I’m just faking it over here.”

Is that a Dusenberg Pomona 6?

“You had nothing better to do than to find out where I bought my steel guitar?”

No. Jesus, look at this website. It’s the digital equivalent of the Champagne Room at the Porsche dealership.

“There is no Champagne Room at the Porsche dealership. They’ll take you into the break room and tongue you for a while, but there’s no ‘Champagne Room.’ The GM will usually tug at you, too, if you seem receptive. That’s not abnormal for us.”

Us?

“The rich.”

Ah.

“Almost all of our services come with a tugger attached. At the very least. Sometimes you’ll get more, or even way more, but you’ll always get a tugger. I buy a watch for a million? I expect free shipping, and I demand to be worked off.”

Capitalism is scary.

OR

Okay, this is absurd:

And there’s no prices. My father warned me about that. Everyone’s fathers warned them about that.

Jesus Christ. Look here:

SHOW ME YOUR BUTTHOLE.

Stop it.

I feel home within buttholes. THERE IS MUSIC IN YOUR BUTTHOLE.

You barely even wrote 200 words, and lost control in the curve. Why can’t you concentrate?

Boo, you’re the worst. Anyway, it turns out that Duesenberg’s aren’t as ferociously expensive as they might be: you can get a used Pomona 6 for $2,300, cash on the barrel, which seems about right for a fancy guitar. Duesenberg guitars are not made by intolerable hipsters–

–but by clueless foreigners. Try and read that paragraph without a comically German accent. Duesenberg ist DREI MACHT STEPPEN! Also: Dieter Golsdorf? Here he is:

Because everything is a circle, maaaaaan.

« Older posts Newer posts »

The Stacks

Follow Us

Google Verification

Follow Us

Follow me on Twitter

© 2025 Thoughts On The Dead

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑