Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
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Well, this is awkward.
“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass. Tell Phil he can munch my nads.”
No.
“Hey, dickhead. Let Billy know that I can smell his asshole from here.”
I don’t know when I turned into a marriage counselor.
“Billy doesn’t believe in marriage counselors. He prefers defense attorneys.”
“FUCK YOU, LESH!”
“SUCK IT, KREUTZMANN!”
I’ll leave you two alone.
Precarious?
“Yo.”
Do I want to know what’s in the sack?
“No.”
…
…
…
Is it–
“Not a human.”
–a human? Okay.
“Just let this one go, boss.”
It’s gonna be tough.
“Suck it up.”
Mickey’s raccoons?
“Let it go.”
Fine.
Hey, Phil. Whatcha doing?
“Collecting knobs.”
I can see that.
HELLO THERE.
Wally, I’m talking to Phil.
“I don’t wanna talk to you.”
DO NOT CALL ME THAT. LOOK AT MY BEAUTY AND POWER.
How’d you get out of Little Aleppo?
I AM NOT INSTALLED INTO THE TAHITIAN FOR 20 YEARS AFTER THIS PHOTO WAS TAKEN.
That is true, actually.
CONTINUITY IS SO IMPORTANT.
It is.
I THOROUGHLY ENJOY MY RETIREMENT, BUT IT IS QUITE PLEASANT TO BE PERFORMING THE TASK I WAS DESIGNED FOR. MOSTLY.
Mostly?
SEASTONES.
Sure.
“Hey!”
SEASTONES IS JIVE AND YOU KNOW IT.
“You can be replaced, y’know.”
I AM REPLACED SEVERAL MONTHS FROM NOW WHEN THE ACCUMULATED COST OF CARTING ME AROUND BECOMES A BURDEN AND THE BAND BREAKS UP.
“We get back together.”
IT IS NEVER THE SAME.
“There are a lot of high points coming up in the Dead’s career.”
I AM THE HIGH POINT. I AM GLORIOUS.
“Hey, jackass, can you take Robby the Robot back to whenever he’s hiding out now?”
If I moved any of him, the union would have my ass.
“I hate this shit.”
PLAY ONE OF YOUR BOMBS. THEY TICKLE.
“Goddammit.”
Bobby, confused by the sight of a camera that wasn’t aimed at him, sulked until the show.
Um.
“I didn’t make him wear it.”
Are you sure? Because the look on Robert Randolph’s face says that you made him wear it.
“It’s Halloween and this is America. Anyone can wear anything they want.”
Right, yeah. How come no one else is in costume? Did you tell Robert Randolph that everyone was dressing up as a practical joke? Maybe that’s why he looks so sad.
“You’re an irritating little prick.”
If you did that to him and he’s the only black guy in the band, then it’s racist.
“Go away.”
Tell the horn section to stand up straight.
“Away!”
Since when do you wear hats?
“I’ll wear a hat if I want to.”
Is this Halloween, or is your slide guitarist working through some issues?
“Halloween.”
Did you buy the hat?
“Ignore the hat.”
Was it left to you in a will?
“Is there something you wanted?”
Just wanted to know what time it was.
“8:55.”
Thanks. Is it a magic hat?
“Fuck off.”
Okay.
The true depths, the abyssal reaches, that the Dead’s bush leagueosity permeate to are revealed when you realize that they couldn’t even all face in the same direction most of the time.
“Get in here.”
“Nice to see you, too, Phil.”
“There is no Phil. I’m the Hugmonster.”
“Okay.”
“You’re so warm.”
“Thank you.”
“Hold me tighter.”
“This is odd.”
“Squeeze, man. Squeeze me like I’m Temple Grandin.”
“I’d like this to stop.”
“We’ll be buried like this, Warren. This hug will last for eternity.”
FAT GUY WRESTLING OUT OF A SKINNY GUY’S GRASP NOISE
“You okay, Phil?”
“I’m good. The doctors recalibrate my pills every six months or so. Makes me a bit loopy. Why are you still awake? Shouldn’t you be hibernating until next festival season?”
“Got some October gigs, so I couldn’t until late. Pain in the ass. I’m gonna wake up groggy in May.”
“What does your family do while you’re asleep? They gotta tip-toe around?”
“Nah, course not. I got a chamber.”
“A chamber?”
“Built below the basement. I call it the Warren.”
“I see what you did.”
“Nice and cool. Full of real soft branches and pine needles. Got a humidifier.”
“Uh-huh. And do you sleep straight through?”
“I get up once in a while.”
“To piss?”
“To solo. I don’t piss while I hibernate. My kidneys operate at peak efficiency. My whole physiology changes, matter of fact.”
“Like a sled dog when it runs.”
“Yeah. Doctors got no idea how it works.”
“Wow. You wanna hug some more?”
“Not really.”
“We’re gonna.”
“Aw.”
Hey, Croz. Whatcha thinking about?
“A beach where the sand is all cocaine.”
Nice. What about you, Phil?
“I’d like tacos.”
“Oh, I could go for tacos.”
“Couple of beers?”
“You’re speaking my language.”
“Let’s hit it.”
“I’ll drive.”
ROCK STARS LEAVING THE ROOM NOISE
…
Guys?
…
Guys?
Did they just leave?
Yeah. They went to get tacos.
Oh, I could go for tacos.
ITALIC-AMERICAN LEAVING THE ROOM NOISE
…
Hello?
…
Anybody?
“Hey, motherfucker.”
Hi, Mr. Davis.
“Get the fuck in. We’re getting tacos.”
Yay!
“You’re paying.”
Boo.
Grrrr.
“Don’t sex-growl at me, jackass.”
Can’t help it. Good picture. You look like an experimental novelist who won the MacArthur Genius grant.
“Y’know, it’s creepy when a compliment is that specific.”
You’re the one wearing the artistic glasses.
“These are neat, aren’t they? Got an owl thing going on.”
Where’d you get ’em? A little hippie shop? Old lady find ’em for you?
“The Oliver Peoples in the Short Hills Mall.”
GodDAMNit, I need you people to stop using the Time Sheath to go shopping.
“Fuck off. I’m a firm believer in the free market.”
I don’t care how libertarian your economic philosophies are, they don’t include skipping ahead a few decades to find accessories.
“Ah, stuff it. It’s not like I’m going back in time and stealing Old Masters from the Nazis.”
…
You’re doing that, aren’t you?
“Yes.”
Why?
“Fun and profit.”
How do you profit off of that? They’re stolen paintings with no provenance.
“Easy. I steal the art, find out who it belonged to, jump back a few decades or whatever, and sell the paintings to their original owners.”
Ow.
“What?”
You just gave my brain a toothache. I hate trying to make sense of time travel.
“The math works out.”
Oh, don’t bring math into this. What did math ever do to you?
“You know what’s some real good cash? Titanic memorabilia. Stuff actually from the ship.”
How does a Time Sheath get you thousands of feet underwater?
“It doesn’t. It gets me on the ship about an hour or so before the iceberg.”
Why don’t you warn people?
“Because then the stuff wouldn’t be worth anything.”
Sure.
“Dummy.”
I’m beginning to regret giving the Grateful Dead a time machine.
“Beginning?”
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