Thoughts On The Dead

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

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What’s Beneath Bush League?

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Call me French cuisine, ’cause I’m feeling saucy.”

“Wonderful, sir.”

“It’s as though life itself were tickling my bottom.”

“Good for you, sir.”

“And the balls. Gentle tickling of the balls. Just enough to know you’re loved.”

“May I ask what’s led to this optimistic mood, sir?”

“Cocaine, Jenkins.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Call me Lane Sniffen.”

“No, sir.”

“King Tootankhamun.”

“No, sir.”

“Chief of Surgery at the Yeyo Clinic.”

“Sir, what have we said about cocaine?”

“Positive things, I hope. Mustn’t insult the cocaine. Get over here, Jenkins. Put your snoot in this.”

“I don’t need any, sir.”

“Snoot up.”

“Sir.”

“You a narc, Jenkins?”

PISTOL COCKING NOISE

“Where’d you get the gun from, sir?”

“It came with the cocaine. What’s the point of doing blow unless you have a gun to wave around?”

“Give me the gun, sir.”

“Let’s go shoot a mailman, Jenkins.”

“The gun, sir.”

GUN HANDING-OVER NOISE

“You can have it back at the end of the day.”

“That’s what you said about my Slinky.”

“Sir, we really need to work.”

“You really need to snoot up.”

“No, sir.”

“More for me.”

SCHNORF

“Tootski!”

“Sir, the poster.”

“Poster!”

“The band will be playing Washington, D.C., so I thought a patriotic theme would do.”

“No, no. Trump. Put our president on the poster. Give him muscles and a cock like a felled log. Show him using that cock to fuck America back into shape. And I want a lot of detail on America’s butthole. That cock’s gonna do some damage.”

“I have no response to your suggestion, sir.”

“It’s trolling, Jenkins. I learned about this recently. You act in a way to anger a stranger.”

“What does that accomplish, sir?”

“You anger a stranger.”

“Why would you want to do that, sir?”

“Because fuck that guy.”

“Sir, let’s not troll.”

“Oh, fine. I truly don’t care. Call the artist that did the last one.”

“He has been accused of sexual harassment, sir.”

“Bad news for Johnny Drawsalot. What about the artist that did the one before that?”

“Also been accused of sexual harassment.”

“How many artists–”

“All of them, sir.”

“–have been accused…dammit! All the problems started when we gave women the vote, Jenkins. Nothing’s been right since.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do we have anyone left in the stable?”

“Blind Stumpy Forbrush.”

“Is he any good?”

“No, sir. As you may have divined from his name, Blind Stumpy is both blind and has stumps for hands.”

“Well, is he any good relatively?”

“No, sir. That’s the miraculous part. The art is actually worse than you’d expect given the insanely low expectations.”

“Outstanding. Hire him at once.”

“Yes, sir. Any notes on what he should draw?”

“A bear, terribly. A car, also terribly. Some photos of D.C. buildings stolen from google. And some other bullshit. I’m calling a Dealer’s Choice on the other bullshit. Just make sure it’s terrible.”

“Yes, sir. The color?”

“Blurple.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else?”

“Misspell the name of the venue.”

“On it, sir.”

“Get on this Scott Yayo.”

“No, sir.”

“Snoot some chachi, Jenkins.”

“You can have your gun back at the end of the day, sir.”

“I’ve got more.”

Pedophilia: An FAQ

Should I pedophilia?

Do not pedophilia.

Just a little?

Not even a little.

What if it’s by accident? 

Are you gonna be a putz all your life, or are you gonna ask something intelligent?

Why exactly are we discussing this subject?

Because Republicans are now backing a pedophile in a Senate race.

 

We should define our terms. 

You should define my veiny salami.

Ignoring you. Pedophile refers to sexual relations with a child, so I think the word you want–

JAZZ SLAP!

Thank you, Mr. Davis.

“I don’t like that boldface motherfucker.”

Yes sir. We’ll keep it down. Listen, I know people like to throw that hebrewphile (hezbollahphile? ephraimzimbalistjrphile?) bullshit around, but those people are pedants and perverts. Words drift. Decimate doesn’t mean killing a tenth of your legions anymore. Pedophilia means any sexual acts between adults and non-adults, the line between being 18 years old.

Each state sets its own age of consent and–

Eighteen.

Years.

Old.

You feel strongly about this.

As should we all. This is America: we drive on the right, and we don’t fuck children.

Succinct. Who are we talking about?

Roy Moore. Was there a sheriff in Porky’s?

Even if there wasn’t, I know who you’re talking about.

Well, imagine the sheriff’s a judge. He’s so bad at his job he gets removed from the bench twice.

How is that even possible?

Alabama.

Sure.

That’s beside the point. The pedophilia is beside the point that the man is completely unqualified for the job and has made statements and issued opinions that should get him chased back into his vermin hole. This is beside the racism and homo-hating. This beside the years-long fight he made the state pay for after installing a giant Ten Commandments sculpture on his courthouse lawn, then refusing to remove it after higher courts said, “Are you kidding me with this?” We’re just here for the pedophilia.

Can you stop saying that word?

I could say “child-fucking.”

Oh, no, that’s worse.

The Anglo-Saxon vocabulary is a blunter one than the Greek.

What did this guy do?

Trolled malls for teenieboppers. Once, he yoinked a kid out of the courthouse’s lobby.

That’s no good.

Not even a little.

How do we know these facts?

The magical power of journalism.

So he hasn’t been found guilty in a court of law? Why are you liberals always so anxious to ram your salty cocks into our nothingburgers?

I think you mixed up a few right-wing memes there, buddy.

I’ve been drinking.

Sure. This is not about legal proceedings. This is a political campaign. Two women have come forward to tell stories about this man assaulting them as teens. Others have corroborated. More are coming. His denials have been confused, contradictory, and equivocating. He did it. People knew about it. He was “Teenfuckin’ Roy.” Motherfucker got banned from the mall.

Why hasn’t he dropped out of the race?

Because shameless people have no shame.

Does he still have supporters?

Oh, yes.

What kind of just God would allow 2017 to happen?

Excellent question.

Who is still backing a pedophile?

Two camps: the deniers and the dissemblers. The deniers have stuck their fingers in their ears and sung Dixie at the top of their lungs, punctuated by the occasional whoop of “Fake News!”

I’m always amazed at what human beings have the capacity to deny.

There are people who don’t think the Dark Ages happened, and Charlemagne was made up.

I can’t believe we’re allowed to be in charge of ourselves.

Many of us are not right in the head.

What about the dissemblers?

This group has several avenues of argument. They are:

  1. Democrats are worse than pedophiles.
  2. Tax Reform is worth electing a pedophile to the Senate.
  3. It was just light pedophilia.
  4. And it was white girls.
  5. Not…
  6. …you know.
  7. Hey, look: Al Franken.

Those arguments are monstrous and evince a complete lack of morality or decency.

Yes.

We’re through the looking-glass here, aren’t we?

There is no looking-glass. It broke. We broke the looking-glass and left it about 900 miles behind us. The looking-glass no longer has any relevance on our current situation. Pedophilia was the third rail. There’s an old saying that Social Security is the third rail of American politics, but it was really pedophilia. But I guess they switched the power off, because the White House and the Republican Party of Alabama are holding on tight to that sucker.

In their defense, the national party and the Senate leadership has come out strongly against Moore. Wait. The White House?

Basketball Head waded into the debacle today.

Did he help?

As much as always. He said that he believed Moore’s denials.

It’s weird whose denials he chooses to believe.

Pedophiles, Nazis, and Putin.

Weird.

Weird.

So pedophilia’s okay now?

We’re gonna let the people of Alabama decide.

In Which, Through Fits And Starts, A Twist, Undreamt Of By The Typist ‘Fore His Sitting, Occurs

I don’t even know what to say to you at this point.

“How about ‘What a splendid toppermost, John?'”

No. Definitely not that.

“I like to look on the outside how I feel on the inside, and today I feel like an Albuquerque dentist’s office in 1978.”

Nailed it.

“Thank you. Honestly, man? I don’t know what I love most about clothes: buying them, wearing them, or washing them. But, you know, if you think about it: those three things are intertwined. I have a really involved metaphor comparing tee-shirts to the Holy Trinity, if you’d like to hear it.”

I would not. Seriously, what the fuck is that garment?

“I can’t keep telling you this. It is called a toppermost. It’s neither a kimono nor a robe, and it’s certainly not a coat.”

You can’t define words that way.

“Just watch me.”

Got me there.

“The toppermost is one of several articles of clothing that poor people don’t know about. Like footkerchiefs.”

Are those like handkerchiefs?

“Sort of.”

What else?

“An aglellon.”

What is that?

“It’s like a hat for your neck.”

You’re making this all up.

“I will send you a video of my aglellon closet. I’ll edit it into a trying-on-outfits montage like in chick flicks.”

I would like to see that. Hey, speaking of chicks: you have to make it to the end of this tour without getting accused of anything.

“It’s like a feeding frenzy.”

Just gotta make it to the end of the tour. You know that we’ve all grown fond of you, but if drag the Dead into the Problem Attic with you, Deadhead assassins will be dispatched.

“Deadhead assassins?”

Yeah. They’re not the best. Far more dangerous to themselves than to you. But you’ll be in a very odd state of existence forevermore: nonstop attempts on your life, but all of them doomed to fail.

“Dude, it’ll be fine. And nothing’s happening this tour, anyway. I’ve settled down.”

Oh, God.

“Bitch, who you talking to?”

“No one important, Daddy.”

“I forgot my fucking robe. Gimme your toppermost.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I simply do not know what’s going on here.

“It’s called love, you simple motherfucker. Bitch was respectful, educated. Learned how to cook my food right. Asshole real tight. Talked too fucking much, but I trained that out of him. Moved him in to the house in the City.”

You’re gay now?

BANG!

Saw that coming.

“Miles fucking Davis ain’t a fucking sissy. Nothing gay about fucking a man. Getting fucked by a man? That’s some gay-ass shit.”

I don’t think that’s how it works.

“No one asked your opinion on my fucking love life.”

Love?

“Yeah. I didn’t see it coming. Surprised me.”

Me, too.

“Thinking about letting him get gay married to me.”

“It would just be married, Daddy.”

JAZZ SLAP!

“What the fuck did I tell you about correcting me in public?”

“That you appreciated constructive criticism?”

JAZZ SLAP!

“That was in private, you dumb bitch.”

“Oh! Right! I got them confused. I thought ‘Speak up in public and be quiet in private’ but now that I think about it, it just makes no sense. I’m a scatterbrain.”

JAZZ PUNCH!

“Not in the face, Daddy! I need that!”

Please, Miles Davis, stop beating your fiance, John Mayer.

“When he stops needing a fucking beating.”

This is getting truly dark.

“Shouldn’t have fucking brought me here, you didn’t want me to be myself.”

None of this is my fault.

“Now fuck off. We going aglellon shopping.”

Sure.

Everybody Got To Go In Little Aleppo

“Whatchoo got to be scared of, Little Aleppo? Disease. Spiders. Yourself. Smart move to be a bit scared of yourself. You don’t know what you’re capable of. What else is there? Draculas and werewolfs and the zombified? You know they ain’t real. The boogerman in the closet and the shadow’s shrike under the bed. Those are just for the kiddies, right? You’re grown. A man said that there was nothing to fear but fear itself, but I bet that man was petrified of stairs, ha ha ha.

“Easy to trust your eyes when the sun’s up. It’s 8:19 in the morning here on KHAY–Hey!–and you’re not worried. Only thing to be scared about at 8:19 in the morning is the next eight hours, right? Scared of the boss man, scared of lunch meats, other folk’s sweat at the gym. That ain’t scared. That’s anxious. That sort of thing produces stress. Not fear. Stress and fear are different animals. Marathon runner versus a sprinter. One erodes, the other explodes.

“Nothing to fear but monsters, ain’t that right?

“Little Aleppo’s had some monsters.

“Seems like they came with the territory. Ever read Doc Wallop’s First Years in the Valley? Doc got here in 1853, set up shop at the end of the Main Drag, which wasn’t even called that yet. Turnaway Lode was bringing ’em in, man. Dozen men a day. Lot of gold in those hills, and gold creates need. The mine needed men to work it, and the men needed other men to take their money. Everyone a stranger to each other, and most a stranger to himself. The promised land, cats and kittens. No one ever said what the promise was, just that one was made, ha ha ha.

“Lots of need. Sometimes, there comes along a person got a real specific need.

“Clappy Strothers. A miner. He was the first one who disappeared. Last week of March in ’58. Didn’t have a lot of friends, so no one noticed for a few days. Left his bedroll in the tent camp, though. Someone stole it. People figured he went up into the hills when he was drunk. Bad idea going up in those hills alone back then. Fall into a gulch, slip down a gully. If you’re lucky. More than just the terrain up there back then, cats and kittens. No one worried too much about Clappy. Gold to mine. Shovels and whiskey to sell.

“And then a fellow everybody called Alabama, No one knew his real name, so when they dug his body out of that shallow grave in the wooded glen that made up the south of the neighborhood and reburied him in Foole’s Yard, the wooden marker at his head just had Alabama on it. A drunken preacher named Franklin Farthing went missing, but they did not find his corpse with the others, so he might have actually gotten eaten by a squatch or a puma. Leo West was a gambler. Bad one. Used to play faro in the Wayside Inn. ‘Faro’ is Old West for ‘sucker.’

“Except that Leo was a funny guy, according to Doc Wallop. Charming. Bit of a dandy, even when he was down on his luck. Not like you can sell costume jewelry.

“And then that Norwegian family’s son.

“Neighborhood got antsy after that one. Adults might scamper off in the middle of the night back to America, but kiddies stay where they are until someone moves ’em.

“Now you got fear. Rumors started up. Loudmouth named Henry Bales starts spouting off about a Chinaman he saw acting suspicious the night the Norwegian boy vanished. Add some whiskey.

“And that’s what happened to Little Aleppo’s first Chinatown, cats and kittens. The Doc’s book says around 40 died, but some eggheads from Harper College brought a GPR machine over to the Verdance. Ground Penetrating Radar. Like an ultrasound for Mother Earth, ha ha ha. Those eggheads put the number of bodies around 75.

“Week or so later, a little fellow called Johnny Bender walked into the Wayside for a drink. Miss Valentine–you know Miss Valentine–well, she served Johnny his drink and noticed he had one of Leo West’s fake rings on. Couple of her men asked Johnny some questions. They must have asked him too hard, cuz nobody saw Johnny after that night. Maybe he scampered off somewhere, ha ha ha.

“That was a conversation that stayed in the Wayside. Wasn’t gonna bring the Chinamen back, Miss Valentine figured.

“You been up Mt. Faith? Spent a little time with the Sebastianites? That monastery of theirs wasn’t always so holy. Used to be the Sanitarium du Lom.  We’d call it a health spa today. The word sanitarium’s like the word tyrant: they used to mean positive things.

“This was the 1890’s. Gilded Age, right? Robber Barons and whatnot, rich folks all over America with too much money, and you know that rich people never feel right. Always something paining them. But it was the 1890’s, so medicine hadn’t really been invented yet. I mean, they had a little bit, but you didn’t want it, ha ha ha.

“Quacks prospered.

“Parfait Lom said he came from Paris. It would later come out that he was from Minneapolis, but he fooled folks that had property there, so he must have done his homework. They never quite figured out whether he was a real doctor or not. Had all kinds of theories on nutrition. The phlegmatic should only eat green foods, the bilious should stick to red. He was real tall and imperious. Stuff that would sound dumb coming from a nervous schlub makes sense when someone real tall and imperious says it.

“Rich folks flocked to thew Sanitarium du Lom. Magazines used to write about him. Town Fathers gave him a commendation for putting Little Aleppo on the map.

“This is the part where I tell you that Parfait Lom was killing those rich folks, right? Nah. Doctor Lom was smarter than that, Rich folks get missed! Rich folks get looked for!

“But not sanitarium attendants.

“He used to put ads in the papers Back East. Change of scenery, and high wages. No one missed them. No one looked for them. Doctor Lom had theories about medicine beyond nutrition. Stuff that ain’t fit for the morning radio. The doctor tested his theories.

“Cops never found any corpses, not a one. Found a closet full of sulfuric acid, but no corpses.

“He’d been at it for seven years.

“You can kill a lot people as long as you kill the right people.

“Between 1930 and 1937, eleven women disappeared. All the same type, short and blonde and a little chubby. They looked like your old pal Frankie Nickels, ha ha ha. They’d find the bodies up in the hills. Most of the bodies, anyway. The Cenotaph called him the Blonde Butcher. Cops had a million leads, so did the peanut gallery at the Mourning Tavern. No one ever got arrested.

“Last girl went missing in March of ’37. Student at Harper College named Jeannie Goodman. She was studying economics. Her head turned up the next month halfway up Mt. Charity.

“And then no more. Fear turned into memory turned into ghost story.

“All sorts of competing stories about the Butcher’s identity. The reputable historians say it was a guy named Bill Gull who owned an art framing shop. Died in the summer of ’37. The weird ones say it was a time-shifted dinosaur, or Fatty Arbuckle on one last tear.

“Chicken Hirsch. You remember Chicken Hirsch, cats and kittens. How could you not? Practically a cottage industry at this point.

“Called himself the Sword of Satan in those notes he sent. Can you imagine that? A man named Chicken being the Sword of Satan?

“Well, we believed it. Shot that couple, the Bergens, in the Verdance on their second anniversary. Snuck into that house on Varbiner Street and sliced that family’s throats. Marsha Bowles, she was an old lady all the way on the Upside. Family came over on the Mayflower. I won’t tell you what he did to her. You don’t wanna know.

“And all the while, sending those notes. To the cops, to the paper. Sent one in code. They deciphered it after they cleared the bodies out of the library. He had walked in on a Tuesday morning and shot everyone inside. Two librarians, and five patrons. Turns out he was calling his shot: the note read ‘I’m going to shoot everyone in the library on Tuesday morning.’

“Chicken screwed up, though. Shot a woman named Nancy Briggs twice. Should have shot her three times. She gave the cops a good description. Cops went out and violated the hell out of the neighborhood’s civil rights. They found Chicken, though. He lived to see trial, ain’t that amazing? Lucky for him. He got to give all those interviews. Spread his wisdom over all those journalists. The one that wrote that book, the other one who made that movie.

“He’s still kicking. Still keeping up with his correspondence. A girlfriend of mine used to write him as a goof. She showed me the letters. For a serial killer, he’s got lovely penmanship.

“Go on out and be yourself, Little Aleppo. Take the day by the horns, seize the bull.

“Don’t you worry about monsters. You’ll never see ’em coming, anyways.

“Ha ha ha.

“You up for some music, cats and kittens? Yeah, me too. How about the one about the midnight rambler? The one you’ve never seen before?

“You’re listening to the Frankie Nickels show on KHAY-Hey!–and, honey, it’s no rock and roll show.”

The Briefcase of Infinite Felonies Lands Safely

Oh, holy shit, Garcia.

“What now, man?”

Did you and Brent just take a helicopter to 2009?

“No.”

Okay.

“We took the Time Sheath to 2009. We took the helicopter to the Alameda county fair.”

Why?

“Alameda does fairs right, man. The kids show off their cows, corn dogs. It’s just tits, man.”

Sure, right. But why did you need to go to the one in 2009?

“I like to mix it up.”

And why did you need to take the helicopter?

“Traffic, man.”

OR

For at least one flight, that helicopter pilot was a drug smuggler.

Death In The Family

You never hear about unsuccessful cult leaders. Struggling cult leaders living paycheck-to-paycheck. Guys with two or three followers who keep arguing with him and keep eating his lunch–clearly marked LEADER–out of the cult fridge.

“Number 47, did you eat my egg salad, again?”

“Why do you keep calling me Number 47? There are three of us, Stan.”

“I demand you call me God.”

“Absolutely not. Listen, me and Phil took a vote and–”

“There’s no voting! There’s no voting in cults!”

And so on.

Charles Manson was a successful cult leader, Younger Enthusiasts. You may not know about him other than his name and his swastikated forehead, but that’s okay. There are more important things to learn. The Krebs cycle, the Battle of Agincourt, the slope intercept formula: these are subjects fit for education. You learn about politicians and generals in school, not cult leaders.

He belonged to the Post-War Era, which we are no longer in even though no one’s noticed, and he belongs to the past, when you could get away with almost anything right up until the moment you took your dick out on the Main Drag. It was easier to go off the grid, as the grid had barely been invented and was sparse in most places. Forget about the internet, a lot of places didn’t have phones. No cameras on the streets. Paid cash for your groceries, or guns, and the register into which your money was deposited was not hooked up to any database at all, not one. You could get away with anything right up until the moment you stabbed a pregnant movie star to death.

Half his life in prison for stealing cars and stabbing men and pimping women. California lets him out in ’67, and he’s been reading. Dianetics and occult bullshit and the Bible: all the nutrients the growing cult leader needs. Insinuates himself into the Berkeley scene and begins amassing followers, generally women. They buy a bus and take a road trip, because no Baby Boomer story is complete without a road trip on a bus. The Manson Family (they’ve got a name by now) settle in Los Angeles and Charlie tries to get a record deal. (His songs, which are terrible, would go on to be covered by all sorts of artists trying to appear edgy.) Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys becomes involved.

(Dennis was the Donald, Jr., of the Wilson boys. Brian had better judgement, and that man shits in a sandbox. I know he says it’s for his piano, but I know he shits in there like a giant kitty.)

They move to Spahn Ranch. There, they take too much acid and listen to Charlie rant about the upcoming race war, which he had been informed of by the Beatles’ White Album.  (Younger Enthusiasts, I swear I am not making this up.) To hasten this race war, several members of the Family brutally murder a house full of people, including the previously mentioned pregnant movie star. The next night, they kill another couple. It’s not a great plan, from a practical standpoint.

Cops got ’em a few months later. These were amateurs on acid; they must have left evidence everywhere. But this was the past, and so there was no method to read the evidence. So it took a few months. All the fancy folks in Los Angeles bought guns.

That was it for Charlie. Back to jail, where he always belonged, to be feted by reporters for the noble act of killing someone who mattered. Green River Killer only killed whores, so no one cares about him, but Charlie was a social-climber and so he had his own section in Hot Topic.

And now he’s dead.

Cried The Joker To The Chief

No, Bobby.

“I’m, uh, the Chief.”

I know your nickname is Chief, Bobby. But you’re gonna make people mad at you.

“Where are they?”

The internet.

“I don’t care.”

Excellent choice.

“Besides, uh, we got a thing going on here.”

What?

“It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Stop talking to me like 14-year-old Henry Hill when he gets caught selling stolen cigarettes.

“All right, but you can’t say anything.”

Promise.

“This whole sensual harassment thing?”

Sexual.

“I do it sensually.”

Sure.

“Anyway, this whole ongoing kerfluffle? Well, uh, the RRS are getting a pass.”

RRS?

“Remaining Rock Stars.”

Ah.

“After 2016, everyone’s just happy to have any of us left, so we’re on the cuff as far as getting accused of anything. Grandfather clause, kinda.”

That’s great news.

“Billy’s thrilled.”

I would imagine. How about you?

“Couldn’t care less. Never harassed anyone in my life. When I took it out, everyone in the room was happy. Sometimes, you know, it would get taken out for me.”

Nice when they do that.

“Shows they’re team players. But, yeah, harassment is when the chick doesn’t want it to happen. Girls used to break into buildings to meet us. Well, me.”

So you’re covered? I can’t read about any of you in the Times or the Post. They’re alternating pervert stories every day lately.

“You’re good. You all caught up on that?”

Got my daily fix today, yes.

“Pete Rose, huh?”

Charlie Rose.

“The guy with the table?”

Yeah.

“Ah.”

“I could see Pete Rose being one of those, though.”

Oh, hell, yes. Pete Rose has been grabbing at every tit he’s seen for six decades.

“Maybe it’s his turn next.”

Who can tell the future?

Badman And Robin

“Fucking exhausting.”

What?

“Being a genius.”

Tell me about it.

BANG!

“Don’t you ever compare yourself to me.”

You’re right. I apologize.

“I did some acting. Went down to Miami. Did that cop show. What was that shit called? The No Sock-Wearing Motherfuckers Hour?”

Miami Vice.

“Yeah, right. These motherfuckers call me up. I’m out on Long Island. Swimming every day. Hip feels good. I’m strong. I’m masculine. They tell me how great I am. Want me to be on their show. Got one question. Could I act?”

What did you say?

“I flew down to Miami, found the motherfucker said that dumb shit to me, and punched him in his Jew nose. Might have been an Italian nose. Maybe Greek. Big motherfucker. Then I pissed on him in front of his coworkers. You can’t take no shit from these Hollywood motherfuckers.”

Good advice.

“They got me playing a pimp. Got a cane and shit. I asked the producer why I couldn’t be playing a doctor. Father was a fucking dentist, I can’t be a doctor? I became angry.”

Did you hit him with the cane?

“I did.”

Yeah. Other than that, how’d it go?

“Shit, acting is fucking easy. It’s just lying.”

And standing in the right place.

“They’re obsessed with that shit. Wanna thank you for hooking me up with your boy. We getting along.”

Josh? Oh, no. You two are friends now? And going on adventures?

“We ain’t friends. We have a relationship.”

What?”

“Bitch!”

“Yes, Daddy?”

Oh, no. What’s happened here?

“You may answer, bitch.”

“I have been turned out.”

Oh, this is not what I wanted to happen.”

“And yet it did. Miles Da–”

“What the fuck you call me?”

“–Daddy has claimed me as his bitch and is now earning off my ass.”

I’m sorry, buddy. Why are you dressed like that?

“Did you know there were Furry marathoners?”

I didn’t.

“There are. And nine of them just jerked off on me.”

“And paid you for it! Bring me my fucking money.”

I didn’t intend this.

“Help me.”

No.

And His Sidekick, Colonel Waitlist

This, Younger Enthusiasts, is what was called General Admission. Clubs and small theaters without seats still use it, and fly-by-night festivals, but promoters who didn’t buy their insurance from Antoine’s House of Chicken and Indemnity try to break the crowd into smaller pieces now. Three or four paddocks on either side going back. This keeps your audience safe. (Or controlled, however you want to think of it.) Otherwise, the audience surges towards the stage when the band starts and doesn’t stop until everybody’s favorite fun game, Take A Step Back.

That’s how shitty free-for-all GA was: it went wrong so often that a song (kinda) was named after it. There are famous Take A Step Backs, for fuck’s sake. The band couldn’t have enjoyed doing that, either. How can you choogle when you’re watching a 15-year-old in a tube top get crushed against a police barrier? It also killed people, making GA the equivalent of Communism: an idea so bad it’s lethal. Eleven kids at a Who concert in ’79, three at an AC/DC show in Utah in ’91, two at Donnington during Guns n’ Roses’ set.

Younger Enthusiasts will also notice that there are no Superluxe Esteemed Guest Praetor’s Suite boxes upfront.

Keen-eyed Enthusiasts will note the ultra-rare sight of Phil playing a normal bass guitar.

Keener-eyed Enthusiasts will spot the chick in the black tank top standing next to the tall guy and know that Bobby was making eyes at her the whole set.

All Enthusiasts will notice the loose wires all over the goddamned stage and know who was responsible.

One If By Land, Two If By Seastones

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Do you remember laughter?”

“Of course, sir.”

“What about Vera Lynn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rock and roll radio?”

“Also a yes, sir.”

“Well, then, classic rock has no more unanswered questions. We’re heroes, Jenkins.”

“We could be.”

“Have I been accused of sexual harassment yet?”

CHECKING TWITTER NOISE

“Not yet, sir.”

“Dammit, I’m tired of waiting. Get over here.”

“No, sir.”

“Watch me make love to myself.”

“No, sir.”

UNZIPPING NOISE

“Look at it!”

“I will not, sir.”

“No, there’s this growth I want you to see.”

“Oh, okay.”

“You should see a doctor, sir.”

“I did! He got mad at me for showing it to him!”

“Was it the–”

“It was the dentist, yes.”

“–dentist again? Oh, sir. I keep telling you: they’re just for teeth.”

“Then they shouldn’t be called doctor, dammit! If you want to be called doctor, then you need to be available to look at my penis. Those are the rules, Jenkins.”

“Can we discuss the poster, sir?”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir. This show is in Boston.”

“Foul burg. A dinky little place, Jenkins. And stinky. Boston dinks and stinks. And they’re pompous. ‘Legal Seafood.’ Seafood’s legal everywhere. They’re not special.”

“The town does have a high estimation of itself.”

“Have you heard what they do to the English language? The only thing Bostonians hate more than the letter R is the thought of negros learning math next to their Kevins and Margarets.”

“They did not take to busing, sir.”

“Do you know a Bostonian engaged in sexy talk would be speaking erotically and a-rhotically?”

“Well done, sir.”

“Shouldn’t mix Irishmen and college students, Jenkins. Or Irishmen and Italians. Or Irishmen and anyone. I guess that’s why God put them on an island.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Let’s do something different this time, Jenkins.”

“Create something beautiful?”

“No, steal all the petty cash and head to Mexico.”

“The petty cash won’t last that long, sir.”

“It will. I have a plan. We’re going to convert it into Zimdollars first. There’s like 600 bucks in petty cash, so that means we’ll have…”

“14 quintillion Zim.”

“We’ll be kings, Jenkins. No. I’ll be a king, Jenkins. And you’ll be my Jenkins. Imagine that. Being a king’s Jenkins. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Sir, you’re not quite grasping how currency exchange works.”

“And then we’ll trade in that massive amount of money for pesos and Mexico will open herself up to us. Like a slutty clam.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“I’m going to be a gentleman farmer. Grow refried beans. In the evenings, I will stroll through the plaza with Conchita and our young son Machismo.”

“You already have a family, sir.”

“They suck.”

“Poster.”

“Poster! Let’s talk color. I’m thinking ‘If autumn could take a shit.'”

“Yes, sir. And the image?”

“Who’s that guy who got shot? Crispy Hatrack?”

“Crispus Attucks, sir.”

“He was no saint, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Him and Ted Williams doing it.”

“No, sir.”

“Doing it hard. Teddy Ballgame is calling his shots.”

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“Homophobe.”

“No, sir. It is not homophobic to refrain from portraying Crispus Attucks and Ted Williams having sex on a Dead & Company poster.”

“You’re worse than Hitler, Hitler.”

“Stop that.”

“Fine. No humping. How about Mayor Menino’s speech impediment?”

“How do you draw that?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we hire an artist, Jenkins.”

“No, sir.”

“Jenkins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call down to the front desk and ask them to look in the Lost & Found.”

“For what, sir?”

“My will to live. Fuck it. Do Paul Revere, but–”

“He’s a bear.”

“–he’s a bear, and then sprinkle–”

“Dead bullshit all over it.”

“–Dead bullshit all over it.”

“Yes, sir. On it.”

“Anything about the harassment?”

TWITTER CHECKING NOISE

“Still no, sir.”

“The waiting is killing me.”

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