Is it humid?
“Yeah, man. It’s fucking humid. Leave it alone.”
You look like Rob Tyner.
“I told you to leave it.”
Is that Steve Winwood?
Is it humid?
“Yeah, man. It’s fucking humid. Leave it alone.”
You look like Rob Tyner.
“I told you to leave it.”
Is that Steve Winwood?
For your literary and historical pleasure, Enthusiasts, TotD presents a reading list designed to edify, educate, and entertain. First up because it deserves to be first is an always-welcome new post on Hooterollin’ Around that details the Dead’s whereabouts in the first half of 1968. Adventures! Business ownership! Flatbed trucks! A guy named Toody! This one’s got everything, ladies and gents.
Well, almost everything. At one point, Corry–he writes the damn thing, you know Corry, he’s a good egg–relates the story of Garcia and Bobby (with Bobby on bass!) playing a protest gig outside of San Quentin; he alludes to a picture of the event, but does not post it.
I helped. I am a historian now. I have credibility.
So, yeah: in 1968, rock bands were allowed to set up outside maximum-security prisons and jam. This was a regular occurrence; it was in protest of the death penalty in California. Enthusiasts will note that there is now no death penalty in California. Ipso facto: the Grateful Dead brought down the death penalty via the power of rock and roll. I would like to present this opinion as an academic paper at next year’s Dead Scholars conference.
This picture can also be used to give paper cuts to, or jam up the ass of, any of those little ticks that say, “The Dead weren’t a political band, maaaaaaaan.”
(Can you imagine if a band tried this bullshit today? Like if Run The Jewels set up outside Leavenworth? The cops would shoot them in their faces before the first chorus, and then the gold-plated tin dictator would cheer. “They were disrespecting our jails, which are just like the troops. Cops did their job! Flag!” For all the talk about The Man back in the old days, you were allowed to get away with an astonishing amount of foolishness.)
This next one isn’t so much an article as it is a picture, so I’ll just show it to you and cut out the middle man:
That is a Slingerland Songster, Enthusiasts, and that–not the “log” guitar made by Les Paul–was the first commercially-available solidbody electric guitar. It kind of looks like Peanut, Garcia’s short-lived experimental Alembic from ’71, and there is another point of comparison. Like Garcia’s guitars, this sucker was pricey. Slingerland sold the axe, a hard case, and a little amplifier for $150 in 1939. Which means it cost $2,500. Unsurprisingly, the Songster failed to catch on.
Finally: the story of the monkey and the engineer,
Australian South African style. Trust me.
I’m about to blow your minds, Enthusiasts. You need to put on your imagination pants for this one, because it’s a big ask. Ready? Here we go.
Imagine if Trump were handsome.
Told you it was a big ask.
Still, though: do it. Picture Donny with the same facial features, but arranged in a more propitious fashion. Picture him trim and with a human’s tan that came from being outside. Full head of hair.
Got it? Can you see him? Hold that image in your head and scroll down to see that if Trump were handsome, he’d be…
…the shortest-lived James Bond, George Lazenby.
As I told you yesterday, Enthusiasts, the instantly irreplaceable documentary Long, Strange Trip will be coming back to theaters for limited runs in New York and Los Angeles; I did not mention the reason. The spectacular film and its heroic director, FoTotD Amir Bar-Lev, are up for some prizes. The Critics’ Choice Documentary Awards has an illustrious history stretching all the way back to 2016, when trolley cars ruled the avenues and baseball was still segregated. So the critics have a chance to see the flicks before voting, they’re all screened in a theater before the show.
Literally none of that is true. You made all of that up.
Who gives a shit?
History. History will care, and history will judge you for your intellectual malfeasance.
Explain to me what intellectual malfeasance is, and I’ll tell you why you’re wrong.
Just try to get information correct.
That is most assuredly not my job around here, bucko.
The awards ceremony is being held November 2nd; the Los Angeles run isn’t until the 3rd.
There might be Time Sheath technology at play here.
There is not. You made up the thing about why LST is going back to theaters. You saw there was an awards show and you conflated the two ideas in your head without thinking about it any further.
Get your shit together.
I’m ignoring you.
The world’s ignoring you.
Anyway, the movie’s up for Best Music Documentary and Amir’s up for Best Director. The betting door at Offtrack Betting on the Dead (OtBotD) is now open.
Though I have seen only one of these films, I can confidently say that the one I saw was the best. Not a strong field of horses here, if we handicap with an objective eye, and no eye is more objective than mine, as not only have I not seen these films, I have not heard of them. Even with this paucity of facts, I’d hesitate to place money on LST in this one. Very tough to beat the Eagles of Death Metal in this one. On the other hand, I would still pony up a bet as the lead singer of EODM is a repugnant man who managed to make himself unsympathetic despite having been the target of a terrorist attack. You have to be an immense asshole to pull that one off, and Guy Who Isn’t Josh Homme is just that kind of asshole. This might split the vote, enabling a third movie to win with a plurality.
Rumble is about the role of Native Americans in rock and roll. I called him Morgan is about a trumpeter who shoots his wife. Contemporary Color is 90 minutes of color guards throwing flags around while Ad-Rock raps. The Grateful Dead is better than all of these things, especially that color guard bullshit. The Indian movie sounds interesting, but no one in the Grateful Dead fell victim to a series of plagues in the 16th and 17th century, so that makes them the winner.
Nobody in the Grateful Dead ever shot anyone, let alone their wives, so it beats the trumpet movie.
Why the pause?
I had to stop and think about whether anyone ever got shot.
Yeah, okay. It’s like: someone should have gotten shot.
By accident, at least. Mickey should have shot a teenager in the foot while yoinking merch. Or Garcia winging Rock in that basement they hid in.
It’s a miracle they made it out alive.
A lot of them didn’t.
True. What about the Clive Davis movie?
I think they’re making movies now for the sole purpose of padding out Netflix.
That means you’ll watch it.
Of course. I’m currently reading a memoir written by the drummer from the Spiders from Mars. I have a problem. Let’s get off of me. The topic is LST‘s odds, and OtBotD sets the line at 3-1. Gonna be tough to climb over all those dead French kids.
What? I’m talking about gambling. I’m being hard-boiled.
You’re being wicked. You’re a devil-person with wrong thoughts and you shouldn’t share them with the nice people.
May I continue?
To hell. You may continue on the path to hell.
Thank you. The other category we (this is now a communal undertaking) have a nod in is Best Director. Let’s see who we got:
First of all, Critics’ Choice Documentary Awards, this is too many people. You should have eliminated Morrison, Nichol, and Orlowski right off the bat for having boring names. In a similar but opposed fashion, Agnés Varda & JR are disqualified for having too interesting a name. Evgeny Afineevsky is also out, and that’s a personal thing between me and the Russians right now. Nothing against Evgeny. Irene Taylor Brodsky has three names, so fuck her. Frederick Wiseman sounds like a old-time movie star who appeared in horror movies, so he’s scratched. Matthew Heineman is just as boring a name as Morrison, Nichol, or Orlowski; I don’t know why I didn’t group him in with the others; I apologize to you for the oversight. Ceyda Torun is Star Wars character, and therefore nixed.
Amir wins. Odds of victory: 3-1.
You gave him 3-1 on the last one.
I don’t actually know how betting works.
You are bad.
Yes. We end with demands. Amir will most likely be present for one or more of the screenings in New York and Los Angeles, so I have two:
Enthusiasts in New York
Please bother Amir and take pictures.
Amir in Los Angeles
Please bother famous people and take pictures.
I would also like to be thanked from stage, but have just decided that I will write the acceptance speech. It is forthcoming.
The fatassed whoremonger voted into the White House by racists and the rural mean spoke today. Well, “spoke.” He made sounds that approximated words. Basketball Head also did his hand gesture, inadvertently revealed his lack of knowledge about the basic principles of American governance, and said “fake news” a couple dozen times. Much like a legacy act headlining a county fair, he gives the crowd the greatest hits.
This was, technically, not a rally. Fleshy Fuckwit loves his rallies, but this was not one, not technically. Today was the Values Voters Summit, which is a meeting for assholes who hate gays and women. I have seen summit’s participants described as “religious conservatives,” but I’ll stick with the way I said it. These assholes are also, of course, not fond of ethnic minorities, but the anti-black and anti-Mexican stuff takes a back seat to the homo-hating and bitch-bashing. These assholes are clods, shitkickers, and glorioski are they mean.
(Which points out the true nature of Trump’s base. It is not whites; it is not the rural; it is not men. It is the cruel.)
Anyway, while Shitty was over-enunciating to try and cover up his outer-borough accent, helpful gnomes in the audience were attempting to aid homosexuals by including this nifty little advertisement in the goody bags. (What the fuck is in a goody bag at a Christian Conservative meeting? I’m guessing a coupon for a free oil change at a garage that no longer exists and a flavorless lollipop.)
More like Ass Resistance.
What? If the ass doesn’t resist, then no one’s having fun. Gotta have some pushback from the ass.
No one’s having fun with whatever it is you’re doing.
I’m laughing to keep from crying.
You, too? Carry on.
Right. So: the reverse of the pamphlet is some scary stuff. I couldn’t find a scan of it, so I’ll just copy-and-paste it from a newspaper that isn’t the Cenotaph. This is what it actually says:
That’s the whole thing, I swear. But if you’re still interested and want to know the health hazards of homosexuality, TotD has you covered. Please direct the money you were about to spend on the book into the Donate Button.
The Health Hazards of Homosexuality
Stop that. Can’t you make your point without cheap jokes?
What’s the fun in that?
Who are you–
“Hey! Motherfucker! I see you over there, motherfucking up a storm. Stop that shit.”
“One of my guitar players. Don’t know what happened. Went my whole career without any, now I got nine or ten of ’em. Bunch of confused motherfuckers, guitarists. Never know what time they supposed to be anywhere. McLaughlin used to wander around without no shoes on. Figured it was some sort of hippie white person shit. Nah. Motherfucker lost his shoes. How you gonna lose your shoes? Fucking guitarists.”
It can’t be all guitar players, Mr. Davis.
“Can and is. Don’t doubt me. You anger me when you doubt me. I been around this business. Motherfuckers choose instruments for a fucking reason. Like, it’s subconscious. Guitar players are all airheads. Drummers are all out of their goddamned minds. The bass player is duplicitous. Piano players are all secret homosexuals. Trombonists are all scared of spiders.”
“Anti-Semites. Fucked up thing. I hire a sax player and it ain’t ten minutes before the motherfucker starts in with the Protocols of fucking Zion.”
Even Steve Grossman?
“Especially Steve fucking Grossman. Never seen anything like it. Motherfucker would goosestep around playing Hava Negila on his fucking horn.”
I don’t know how to respond to that.
“I laughed my ass off.”
Of course you did. Mr. Davis, what do you think about the news lately?
“I read the International Herald Tribune and Jet.”
The sexual harassment and all that.
“What the fuck is that?”
Bothering women at work.
“I never did that.”
God for you, Mr. Davis.
“I never hired any women.”
I should have waited before complimenting you.
“I had some girls used to make me shirts and shit.”
That’s better, I guess.
“I didn’t fucking bother ’em, though. They said nice things about me, and got freaky on themselves while I was trying on shirts. I enjoyed the shirts and the freakiness. Went home stinking like fashion pussy. Cicely got pissed. Wouldn’t shut the fuck up, so I made her quiet down.”
I am not going to ask–
“I told you. She wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Had nothing else to do.”
You had a million other options.
“Hey, I didn’t sexually harass her. Better than that fat Jewish fuck.”
I don’t think you are. I really don’t think you are.
“You gonna stop listening to my music?”
“Uh-huh. And, hey. Lemme ask you. You gonna stop watching the movies that fat fuck made?’
“So shove your judgement up your white ass, motherfucker. Don’t make me point at you.”
Always enlightening, Mr. Davis.
Hey, New Yorkers! Put down your bagels; stop spray-painting those subway cars and inventing hip-hop; Fleet Week is cancelled. I have news that will appeal to all from the Bronx to the Battery. (Real estate developers are now calling the Battery “NoBaBooBoo” and I don’t think it’s catching on.) Is it Springsteen on Broadway? No, it’s the Dead in the Village!
Hey, Los Angelenos! Stop sexually harassing each other at cocaine parties for a second. No, I don’t want to hear about your screenplay, or your sobriety. In fact, shut the fuck up and listen for once in your shallow, fruitless lives. The Dead! Yay!
What are you doing?
An ad. I am doing an advertisement. Long Strange Trip is being re-released to theaters in New York in Los Angeles in the next couple weeks.
You got paid to do an ad?
Maybe “ad” was the wrong word. I am doing a favor.
The lovely young gentleman from the movie studio or publicity company or wherever asked me to. And, as you know, I am a team player.
He sent me a very pleasant e-mail about the matter, and I sent one back demanding that he watch me shower.
That’s why they call you Johnny Showbiz.
I’m a Hollywood dynamo.
At least tell the nice people who live in those dreadful cities where and when they can see the film.
It’s playing at the Laemmle in Beverly Hills from 10/13 to 10/19.
The Village East Cinema from 11/3 to 11/9. That’s in New York.
The Enthusiasts are capable of deductive reasoning.
Some. Some of them are.
True. This was a nice thing you did. Like a mitzvah.
Yay. I did a mitzvah.
Not what I said. I said it was like a mitzvah. You didn’t feed anyone or anything.
I’m a hero.
I hate this life we lead.
Dear women, lovely women, you prolific prizes, you gifts to treasure. Please, women, won’t you see reason? Won’t you listen to logic? Many scientific studies have shown that women are not as capable as men when it comes to reason and logic, especially when it’s that time of the month, but I beg of you.
Listen to me, a man.
Do not boycott Twitter, women!
Whose opinions will we have to ignore, talk over, dismiss before reading, or steal and pass off as our own?
Whose timelines will we have to comb through, looking for a statement to take out of context so as to hold you up as a hypocrite?
Whom will we have to call cunt?
To call whore?
You don’t expect us to threaten other men with rape for disagreeing with us? That would be absurd. You ladies and your absurdities.
We understand what you’re trying to do here, women. We do, honestly, and we think it’s adorable. But you haven’t thought, have you? No, you’ve not given one second’s thought to how your actions make men feel. If you were to boycott Twitter, it would cause men to feel hurt, unimportant, disregarded. It would feel as though no one were listening to us, no matter how loudly we yelled, and that’s no way to make someone feel, is it?
Before you make your decision, women, I beseech you: think of the men.
“He is a varlet!”
“A rank scoundrel bound neither by convention nor morality!”
“I know, but it’s all you talk about, Hammy.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I just want to discuss something other than politics. Just for a little bit.”
“Easy for you to say. I’ve ne’er heard a statement more imbued with white privilege, General Washington.”
“White privilege? Have you been talking to Martin Luther King Bust again?”
“He’s a powerful speaker.”
“He is a divisive race-baiter.”
“I heard that, you tree-mouthed motherfucker.”
“I meant you to, Dreamy.”
“General Washington, the man is a cad and a bounder.”
“So was my brother Billy.”
“Your brother was named Billy?”
“He made beer.”
“We’re off the point. This miscreant means to bring down what we strove and fought to bring about. He shall be the end of the republic.”
“You have a very Chicken Little attitude towards life.”
“And you, sir, are like Pliny’s ostrich. Head buried in the sand.”
“How dare you?”
“Then we shall duel!”
“Dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say–”
“WHY DID YOU SAY ‘DUEL?'”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“IT’S A SENSITIVE FUCKING ISSUE, MAN!”
“You’re right, Al. You’re right. My bad, my dude. All on me. My bad.”
“Breathe. Just breathe.”
“I need a paper bag.”
“Well, we’re portraits. So you can’t have one.”
“Just gimme a sec.”
“Take as much time as you need.”
“You really are a rotten asshole, you slaver motherfucker.”
“FUCK YOU, MARTY! No one asked your opinion!”
“From the piney woods of Georgia to the mighty redwoods of California; from the desert to the sea; from the lunch counters of Alabama to the auction blocks of New Orleans: one of these days, I’m going to beat your ass, George.”
“You call me General Washington, damn you!”
“Right after you suck on my nuts.”
“George Washington sucks on no nuts!”
“Big black free nuts, buddy. Take out your teeth and open wide.”
“Gentlemen! Stop fighting! We must put aside our petty differences and solve the problem to hand. For providence’s sake, he’s even brought streetwalkers into the Oval Office.”
“I think that’s his wife.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I cannot tell a lie.”
“She looks like a off-brand Barbie doll left in the car on a hot day.”
“Regardless. She is the First Lady.”
“You know, Hammy–”
“Don’t call me that.”
“–I’m beginning to think that there is nothing this man can do right in your eyes.”
“You should have been thinking that for some time now, General. He has proven foul in every possible way. Why are you defending him? He belongs to a political party and loves foreign entanglements. He’s everything you despise.”
“What? What, then, is the attribute of this homunculus that you admire?”
“Well. You know.”
“I truly do not.”
“I don’t want to say in front of Martin Luther King Bust.”
‘I KNOW WHAT YOU LIKE ABOUT HIM, MOTHERFUCKER!”
“I hate the both of you and wish I were out in the hall with Clinton Portrait and Kennedy Portrait.”
“I’ve heard they throw some good parties.”
It’s like your head is voting Republican, but your feet forgot that it was Election Day again.
“Well, you know, it’s like Walt Whitman said: I’m gonna shoot all of you from this tower.”
That was Charles Whitman.
“They were cousins.”
Don’t think so. So, Bobby, you been following the news about Harvey Weinstein?
“The guy who wrote Leaves of Grass?”
That was Walt Whitman.
“That is one accomplished family.”
No, Bobby. None of the people I’ve mentioned are related. Harvey Weinstein. The movie producer who enjoys rape.
“You’ll need to be far more specific.”
The fat, ugly one.
“You could still be talking about, like, a million guys.”
The Jewish one.
Okay, that wasn’t a help. Him and his brother Bob used to be concert promoters in Buffalo.
Ah. You remember him.
“Every time we went to Buffalo, man. Same shit from that guy. He’d tell me how pretty my hair looked.”
You did have pretty hair.
“Sure, yeah. But he was, uh, masturbating while he said it.”
“He was always trying to get me to watch him shower. Told me that if I did, he could make me a rock star.”
You were and are a rock star, Bobby.
“No, like, a real one. He was gonna get me an audition for the Eagles.”
“Finally, I just said ‘fuck it’ and told him to get in the shower and lather up.”
You watched Harvey Weinstein shower?
“No. You know Mickey’s duffel bag full of furious raccoons?”
“Yup. Parish nailed the door shut, too. Betty recorded the whole thing. We used to play the tape at parties.”
Proud of you, Bobby.
“Raccoons did most of the work.”