This is from Rolling Stone back in May. The great Jesse Jarnow interviewed Bobby about Dead & Company, and the new ’77 box set, and bliss. I was not mentioned, even obliquely, and the article lacks for my absence. Bush league move, Jarnow.
People should talk about me more.
Okay, champ. Get to whatever stolen premise you’re gonna half-ass while you procrastinate doing your big-boy writing that you’re so proud of that no one will pay you for.
Point out the lie.
It’s all true, but the tone was a bit much.
You deserve it, plus more.
That’s true, too, but it still hurts.
Get to it.
Anyway, Dead & Company’s summer tour is well underway and Enthusiasts everywhere are still a bit perplexed as to what this so-called “wrinkle” is. It must be subtle, whatever it is, so allow me to make some guesses and also steal some from the internet:
Just because it’s funny.
Which one of you is speaking?
That doesn’t help.
“It’s, uh, me. You know: me.”
Oh. Hey, Bobby. Not a rando.
“No? Wait. Ah. He’s my manager?”
Are you basing that on his Semitic looks?
Not your manager. That’s Al Franken.
“From Trading Places?”
“Huh. Guy’s a heck of an actor. I really believed he was a baggage handler.”
“Handle this, Bob. Rando War is won, bitch.”
“Look at these randos.”
Okay, first of all: not randos. Second: stop calling Bobby a bitch, Amir Bar-Lev.
“Man in this sweater can call anyone he wants a bitch.”
That’s not how it works.
Stop calling me a bitch. Those are not randos. The one on the left is Whatsherface, and the one on the right is Amy Adams’ mom or something.
“Sounds pretty rando to me.”
Dude, in this photo? You are the rando.
Sorry to be so blunt.
Well, I’ve never seen you on Law & Order, and both of these ladies have been on multiple iterations of the show.
“Don’t talk to me.”
Don’t be this way.
“You’re an asshole.”
“AAAAHHHHHHHH! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?”
I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.
“You’re FUCKED, man!I’m a goddamned midget!”
“No, I can say midget. It’s our word.”
You’ve been this way for 20 seconds.
“Change me back!”
You’re just impossible.
“Y’know, when I made that movie about Penn State, I got death threats.”
“That was better than this.”
I’ve heard that from people.
INT. PRESS ROOM – SALEM, MA
“Good morrow to thou all, except for Chastity Haberman. Fuck you, Chastity.”
“Very nice, Brother Spicer.”
“I have a prepared statement that I have been forced to read before I take your questions.
“No witchcraft. No witchcraft. Pastor Comey, who speaks with a forked tongue, told me that I wasn’t a witch on three occasions while we were plowing. I plow the straightest lines you’ve ever seen, the best plowing.
“Why is Myles Standish not being investigated for his collusion with Radical Wampanoag Terrorists? How has Reverend Dimsdale not been placed in the stocks?
“Before I take questions, let us pray to our ridiculously angry God.”
“Amen. Brother Tapper?”
“Brother Spicer, Elder Trump has stated that he is not a witch.”
“No, sir. Not ‘stated.’ He has pointed out the fact.”
“Even though there’s a lot of smoke.”
“Well, the actual smoke for one thing. It’s purple and it dances in an unholy fashion. Follows him around everywhere.”
“Localized weather anomaly. Brother Thrush?”
“What about the broom?”
“The one he uses to fly.”
“Elder Trump is a clean freak. Loves to keep tidy. Sister Ryan?”
“If Elder Trump isn’t a witch, then why is his skin that color?”
“It’s 1691, Brother Spicer. No sushi.”
“No witchcraft, either. Brother Acosta?”
“Brother Spicer, don’t you see anything suspicious in Elder Trump’s behavior?”
“Absolutely not. Very un-witchy. Non-witcherous.”
“Uh-huh. What about ending Pastor Comey’s investigation into him?”
“Elder Trump was within his legal authority to do end the investigation.”
“By turning Pastor Comey into a frog?”
“Thy press covfefe is over!”
“Look what I got.”
“The randiest. Although, this guy to my left keeps telling me go home and get my shinebox.”
Yeah, don’t murder him. It comes back to bite you in the ass.
“I’ll try. But, you know, if he keeps disrespecting me my hand will be forced.”
Don’t do it.
Don’t make it obvious, but check out the piece on the guy to your far right.
“Garcia’s was better.”
“Jer wear a toupee. From about 1972 onward. Went to the same guy as Gene Simmons.”
This is not a fact.
“Oh, yeah. Real human hair, too. Parish used to get it for him. Sometimes, there’d be chunks of scalp still attached.”
“We doing group randos now? You got nothing, Weir.”
Not randos, Phil. That’s your band.
“This can’t be my band. Where are my children? I made my band with my own balls.”
Ew. And it is definitely your band. That’s Melvin Seals.
The one that looks like his name should be Melvin Seals.
“I still think I’m winning Rando War.”
These aren’t randos!
“Agree to disagree.”
“They aren’t, Phil. Now this is a rando.”
No, Amir Bar-Lev. That is Michael Moore.
I would imagine.
“And he won’t stop talking about Bernie.”
I would also imagine. You should get away from him before he rubs off on you.
“His bad luck?”
No, he physically rubs off on people. On the other hand, you might want to stand next to this fucker forever.
“It’s a good contrast, right?’
Totally. Your face has, like, bones in it.
“He just asked if I had any candy.”
Okay. Abort, abort. Get away from Michael Moore. The man makes awful movies and his voice makes me envy the Deafheads.
“But I look so good.”
Find an ugly fucker who makes good movies.
“Hmmm. Wait, I got it.”
Dude, you killed it.
“I rocked this shit.”
Why wasn’t the ’81 European tour covered in Long Strange Trip?
“Al Franken made me cut it.”
“It’s Ice Cube’s birthday.”
“I didn’t know that, sir.”
“I hope he has a good day.”
“Well done, sir.”
“Not his real name, you know. Ice Cube.”
“I did know that, sir.”
“He was born MC Fiddle Faddle.”
“He was born into this hip-hop game, Jenkins.”
“If you say so, sir. Can we get to the poster?”
“We must, sir.”
“Oh, damn the poster. Damn it to Hell!”
“The poster’s already for Pittsburgh, sir. Hell’s not much of a drop-off.”
“Pittsburgh. Ugh. Nothing but rivers you can’t spell and improperly-placed french fries.”
“They don’t go in the sandwich. Fries go next to the sandwich.”
“I agree, sir.”
“Are they still flashdancing in Pittsburgh?”
“Not since the 80’s, sir.”
“A fine dance, Jenkins. My favorite, at least since the lambada got itself forbidden.”
“Lambada with me, Jenkins!”
“Let’s dance dirtily!”
“I’ll put my baby in your corner.”
“When I said ‘baby,’ I meant ‘penis.'”
“And by ‘corner,’ I meant–”
“The poster, sir.”
“Yes, sir. We need to concentrate.”
“We should get a famous artist. Is Chuck Close available?”
“Yes, but our office is on the second floor.”
“Ah. How about that fellow who draws those flattering cartoons of the president?”
“Ben Garrison? No, sir. He’d draw a bear and then write BEAR on it.
“That’s not a necessarily bad thing, Jenkins. Many Deadheads are utter morons.”
“True, sir, but it’s just not the aesthetic we go for.”
“You’re right, you’re right. Okay, here’s what we do: put the happiest bullshit we have on the poster, but make it somehow ominous.”
“Yes, sir. Color scheme?’
“Imagine you just vomited up a peach cobbler.”
“I’m on it, sir.”
“Watch out for that Goodyear blimp, Jenkins.”
You could not buy a saddle in Little Aleppo, not anymore, nor cattle or sheep or horses; the neighborhood was not zoned for cowboying. There were no pool-supply stores. The tunnel-borer used to create the Chunnel is in not one shop in the neighborhood–not one!–and the Poet Laureate has checked. You do not have to worry about a big old jet airliner carrying you too far away, as you cannot purchase one. Some things you just can’t get.
You could buy a gun, but not a rocket launcher. (You could probably order a rocket launcher, but not buy one the same day you wanted it.) Cheeseburgers were plentiful and high-quality, and Chinese and Italian and Mexican and all the other American cuisines, but if you felt the urge to spend $500 a plate for fancy bullshit, you had to slide into C—–a City. (Nero’s had real tablecloths and heavy forks and a lobster tank: it was the local nice restaurant, but it it’s not fancy. Mostly because of the diners who keep trying to liberate/attack/fuck the lobsters. On weekends, security needs to be hired.) Love was not for sale. (It was, but not the kind you wanted.) Some things you can sort of get.
You could always buy an umbrella on the corner of the Main Drag and Robin Street from Umberto Clamme, and you could pay triple for it every 18 days. The Cenotaph whamps onto the sidewalk in front of the Broadside Newsstand on Gower Avenue every morning at 6:10: four tightly-bound bundles that weigh 30 pounds each. Angus likes to gnaw open the plastic ties, and before Omar can even put the papers in their rightful place there is a line of coffee-holding impatience. Riots, strikes, turtlemonsters: the Cenotaph was there at six.
The publisher had come by the newsstand one day. Everyone called him Punt, because rich people enjoy making the poor say their stupid nicknames. Punt told Omar,
“The Cenotaph delivers! A blizzard couldn’t stop us.”
“What blizzard? We’re on the West Coast,” Omar said, but Punt had walked away. Both Omar and Angus had to admit that walking away from a blind man in the middle of his sentence was impressive.
“Power move,” Omar said.
You could always see a movie, and you could always get your ass kicked, and you could always get your heart broken. Fear, and the joy that exists within cookies. There is never a moment in which you cannot contract herpes in Little Aleppo. Some things you can always get.
Like an Arrow. When you’re hunting for taste, Arrow hits the mark. Tallboys from the main batch came in white cans with red lettering: the O in Arrow was a bullseye, and the crossbar of the A was an arrow pointing towards it. Bodegas, take-out places, pharmacies, Beer-Cooler Ethel: tallboys of Arrow were easy to find, and the paper bag was free. Arrow Good Times came in an elegant amber bottle, and Arrow Reserve Executive Bock came in stubby green and cost twice as much. (Same beer.)
Scientists will tell you that water is necessary for life. Germans will tell you that you need to turn the water into beer first. The Büntz brothers were Bavarian, and not very good at farming. Heinrich was an inventor; he liked staying indoors and fiddling with things, and he liked sleeping in. Shtümp only had one arm. He was born that way, with a little chicken wing with two useless fingers hanging off it, and Shtümp can remember the first day that their father had put him to work on the family farm.
“You will have to work twice as hard,” his father said.
And although Shtümp lived to be 91 years old, he never forgot how he reacted to his father.
“Oh, no, I don’t want to do that.”
His father beat him thoroughly, because it was the past and that’s how children were raised, but Shtümp was not convinced that a life of ease was not a desirable one. They were the third and fourth of ten children, and therefore not needed, and so their father sent them off to America in 1891. The two landed in New York and kept going west until they found somewhere without a brewery. Unfortunately, by 1891 Germans had settled pretty much the entire landmass of North America, and so the Büntz brothers were forced about as far west as you can go without getting wet.
Far on the Downside, by the natural harbor created by the Segovian Hills sloping off into the ocean and alongside Cutty’s Stream which they used for water, the brothers built their first brewery with their own hands. (Hand, in Shtümp’s case.) The floor was dirt packed hard, and the windows were crudely cut from the walls that were made from redwood. Copper everywhere. Pipes and nozzles and cranks and levers. Mustaches were enormous.
Heinrich knew what he was doing, and the beer was tasty and smooth and golden, and he spent his days happily tweaking and twisting and worrying about tolerances and sleeping until ten. The water came in, and the beer went out. Heinrich was happy. Shtümp was a talker, a good one, and he had become roly-poly very early in life and his laugh was as big as Montana, but not as mountainous. You were happy to see him, though you couldn’t quite put your finger on why. He had all of the qualities of a good salesman. Heinrich made the beer, and Shtümp sold it.
Horse-drawn wagons pounded up the newly-paved Main Drag headed for who-knows-where and laden with stout wooden barrels of lager with the Arrow logo seared onto the staves. (The name had no particular meaning: Shtümp thought it sounded good, and Heinrich didn’t give a shit.) The beer went out, and the money came in. Then came Prohibition, and five time as much money came in. The LAPD (No, Not That One) made a deal with the brothers: if you bribe us, then we’ll overlook your crimes.
Henry and Stan Boone found this to be an acceptable deal, and bought up a good portion of the harbor with the inflated profits. (World War I was an unpleasant time to be known as Heinrich and Shtümp Büntz, and so the brothers Americanized their names.) They threw a few jetties into the surf and charged the rich to berth their boats there, and this was called Boone’s Docks. It was a cash cow, and the brothers invested these further profits into land and stocks and precious metals, and by the time that their children took over the family business there was so much money that even worthless junkie heirs couldn’t put a dent in it.
The brewery still stands, and still pumps out beer; the water is trucked in now, Cutty’s Stream having dried long ago.It is a local concern, and there is no effort to expand or diversify. Arrow is profitable enough to not be noticed on the Boone Trust’s financial report, but not profitable enough to be noticed. Negligence kept it alive.
Certainly not this generation of Boones: Tildy had overdosed at age 22, and 24, and 25, and then again at 25 for the last time; Volstagg was at a party in Goa, and had been for seven years; Marduke had been eaten; Brest-Litovsk was still trying to be an actor despite having a face like an octopus on fire; Melisandre was in her third year at Harper College.
A person could work up a mean thirst after a hard day of nothing much at all, and Arrow hit the spot. Bodegas and convenience stores and bars and gas stations and restaurants and Beer-Cooler Ethel: you could always get yourself a beer, and when you’re hunting for taste, Arrow hits the spot in Little Aleppo, which is a neighborhood in America.
Enthusiasts, all leaks flow to Fillmore South. I hear all; you know this. From next week’s specials at Terrapin Crossroads (halibutloaf) to next week’s Dead & Company tempos (slow), TotD has his ear to the grindstone, or maybe there’s fingers in my pie; however those metaphors go.
My point: I know many things, and just like a Russian ambassador in the Oval Office, you’re about to get all the information. There was a first draft of these internal talking points handed out by the GOP this afternoon, and one of my sources in DC sent it to me. I can’t reveal his name, but I will say he is incredibly high-ranking. I’ll refer to him from now on as Deep Althea.
With his help, I can now reveal this explosive document:
First Draft of the GOP’s Talking Points on the Washington Post Story.
- There is no case for obstruction of justice.
- Donald Trump is the best predisent ever.
- Everything’s fine.
- Why will no one discuss the fact that Loretta Lynch is the devil?
- Everyone else is actually the criminal.
There Is No Case For Obstruction Of Justice
- James Comey, who is a liar, said so numerous times under oath.
- Most if not all legal analysts on Fox News agree that there is no case for obstruction.
- How can justice be obstructed when the investigation continued after James Comey was fired? If Predisent Trump intended to obstruct justice with Comey’s removal, then he failed at it. This makes it not a crime. Attempted murder isn’t a crime, so why should attempted obstruction of justice be?
- Again: James Comey said so.
- No one informed the predisent that he shouldn’t obstruct justice.
Everyone Else Is Actually The Criminal, Or Perhaps In The Deep State
- Every decent American should be appalled at the shocking amount of leaks coming from literally every pocket of the government constantly with the force of Niagara Falls, and not spend one second thinking about why there are so many leaks.
- Last night at Bennigan’s, James Comey leaked his order to a waitress. How can he be trusted?
- If these leakers had anything to say, they wouldn’t be saying anything.
- These leaks are flabbergasting.
If There Was Obstruction, Then There Can’t Be Collusion
- Can’t be both. Checkmate, libtards.
Donald Trump Is Not Just The Greatest American Predisent That America Has Ever Had, But The Greatest American Predisent That Any Country Has Ever Had
- Since Predisent Trump is the most patriotic man in America, any act performed by him most therefore be a patriotic one; ipso facto, any obstruction or collusion was good for the country.
- The infrastructure, healthcare, budget, and tax bills are great, and will be ready in about two weeks.
- In a recent cabinet meeting, Predisent Trump was praised by all in attendance.
Loretta Lynch Is The Motherfucking Devil And Behind Everything And The Worst Criminal This Country Has Seen Since Al Capone
- This “woman” met Bill Clinton on a plane. A plane! Probably fucked her. Whore.
- She is also a black, who worked for a black.
- James Comey briefly stopped lying to exonerate the entire campaign and administration of all crimes.
- No Russia, no Russia.
- Leakers should be executed.
- This is normal.