Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill kreutzmann (page 1 of 80)

Cuz When You Smile For The Camera…

It’s like a denim farm exploded.

OR

I would throw these men out of Starbucks.

OR

Is Bobby playing the ‘There was a fly on your head’ game? Yes, Bobby is playing the ‘There was a fly on your head’ game.”

OR

Just don’t look at him.

OR

Ten bucks says Mickey called what he was smoking “SEE-gars.”

OR

Seriously, don’t look at him.

Do I Hear Two Thousand?

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Where are you getting all these children from?

“The mall. Bus stops. Wherever.”

Stop stealing children, Billy.

“Nah. The markup on ’em is astounding. I’ve completely stopped kidnapping dogs for the reward money. All about kids now.”

This is no good for anyone.

“Hey, I’m good to the little monkeys. Feed ’em, buy ’em some toys, give ’em beers.”

Beers?

“What? They’re not allowed to have alcohol. Just beers.”

Does he have a name?

“Probably.”

Do you know it?

“Huh. Pancho?”

No.

“Lefty?”

That’s a Dylan tune.

“Mata Hari?”

The boy’s name is not Mata Hari, Billy.

“What’s the difference? I yell out, ‘Hey, little fucker,’ and he pays attention. We’re simpatico.”

Give the child back.

“Give? No. Sell the child back. Do I have to explain this scam to you again?”

What if the parents don’t have enough money?

“Someone does. Someone’ll buy the kid. They’re a lot more valuable than you think. Gotta get white ones, though. People who buy children are racist as shit.”

Weird.

“But until he goes back, or to the highest bidder, I’m gonna teach him some stuff.”

We know. Skank.

“Other stuff, too.”

Like what?

“Wearing red ballcaps.”

Okay.

“Hating Phil.”

Sure.

“And skank. You were right: most of the lessons are skank-based.”

Stay away from kids, Billy.

“We’re all slaves to the free market, Ass.”

Billy And The Kid

“Watch my left hand, boy. This is how you control the skank. The right hand? That’s the finesse hand.”

Billy, stop teaching children about skank.

“I taught him how to punch dick. What else is left for a father?”

Anything else. Literally anything else.

“Nah, fuck that. I’m like Earl Woods. You know that black guy?”

I do. I wish you hadn’t referred to him that way, but I do know him.

“Shit, I got a bunch of other names for him.”

No, no, no. Let’s stand pat on “black guy.”

“Yeah, he’s an idol of mine. Took his kid out to the golf course when he was a baby, taught him the game. And now look how happy Tiger is.”

Tiger Woods seems like one of the most miserable human beings on the planet.

“But rich! And skank all over the place! Tiger’s got a great short game with the skank. Amazing putts.”

I see what you did there.

“Gotta start the kids early. Only way to get a head start. You know Mickey’s got a little boy, too, right?”

Yeah. Taro.

“Good kid, And, you know, I love Mickey like a brother. But I’ll be goatfucked if his kid is gonna out-skank mine. It’s like our song says: ‘One small boy of pride.'”

Point, Billy. One small point of pride.

“Ah, whatever. I don’t listen to the words. Y’know what I do listen to?”

Your dick?

“My heart! And my dick. Okay, you were right: I mostly listen to my dick. Sometimes, I listen to my nose.”

What does your nose say?

“‘Put cocaine in me.'”

Should have guessed.

Baby, Grand

Why do you keep stealing children?

“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass! Look! I got tykes.”

Where did they come from?

“Vaginas.”

Not what I meant.

“And balls. Kids are stored in the balls before they get scooched out the wowzer. This is basic stuff, man. Your dad should’ve had this conversation with you.”

I know where babies come from, Billy. I meant these specific children.

“They’re my grandkids.”

Oh, that’s sweet. How many grandchildren do you have?

“At least two.”

Sure. What are their names?

“Buddy and Sweetheart.”

No, that’s what you call them. What are their actual names?

“I got no idea. Remembering names is a mother’s job. I’m a grandpa: I pull quarters out of ears and eat gross shit in front of ’em. Good kids, though.”

All kids are good kids.

“Nah. Kids are just little people. Some of ’em are complete assholes. But these ones are all right”

Is your grandson playing with Bobby?

“Yeah. Weir’s yelled at him twice to slow the fuck down.”

The circle of life continues.

It’s A Family-Friendly Band

Please tell me that’s Justin.

“Yeah, I think it is. He seems to know me.”

Billy.

“I’m fucking with you, Ass! Course it’s my kid. I made him.”

Good.

“With my dick.”

Stop it.

“Me and Justy, father-son time. See, you think I’m a sleazehound, but I’m a family kinda guy.”

Uh-huh. What does father-son time entail?

“He’s gonna wander around unsupervised all day while I do drugs and jam with my friends.”

I don’t think that’s optimal.

“Well, what the fuck did you do with your dad?”

Sat in tense silence wishing we could speak to one another.

“Yeah, that blows. My version’s better. Maybe I get the kid laid.”

No, Billy.

“He’s old enough. What is he, 15?”

Eight. He’s, like, eight years old Billy.

“Never too early for skank.”

Eight is too early for skank.

“Wasn’t for me. Little League snack bar, man. Nothing draws skank like a snack bar. Probably cuz a lot of ’em aren’t allowed in real restaurants any more, but who knows with skank?”

Billy, please talk about anything else. Think of the child.

“You’re right. Hey, I’m famous.”

To certain people.

“Maybe I hook Justy up with one of them Hollywood starlets. What’s Kristy McNichol’s number?”

I don’t know, and–once again–he is eight.

“Fine, I’ll bang her.”

We’re done.

Kreutzmann Agonistes

60’s Garcia was hep; he was a real beat cat. 80’s Garcia was a mess, and 90’s Garcia was sad.

But 70’s Garcia was a cool motherfucker.

Franti Raid

“You, uh, wanna do a thing?”

“Is the thing drumming?”

“No.”

“Fine, I guess.”

OR

Jeff Chimenti wearing a hat is like Scarlett Johansson wearing a space suit. Do not keep your beauty to yourself, Jeff Chimenti.  Does the eagle refuse to fly in fear of embarrassing the pigeon? Let the world see your silvery goodness.

OR

Double potato salad.

OR

I feel like Josh is showing me his invisible engagement ring.

OR

“Thoughts on my Ass! Look at my gum!”

No, thank you, Billy.

“Look!”

Fine. Yes, you have gum in your mouth.

“Sex gum.”

What does that even mean?

“Viagra-flavored. Gum gets soft, and Billy gets hard.”

Ew.

“I’m gonna stick it in stuff.”

Your dick or the gum?

“Both! I used to know some skank in Indianapolis. This chick could chew gum with her swimmin’ hole. Blow bubbles, the whole nine yards. I tried to get her on Star Search, but Ed McMahon called the cops on us.”

Good story.

“I got a million of ’em.”

Saxtet

This is all the rehearsing that Furthur did.

OR

“Oteil?”

“Bobby, stop calling me that.”

OR

Even backstage, Mickey doesn’t get a real drum set.

OR

Heineken?

OR

Jeff Chimenti is a Shorts Die-Hard, isn’t he? Everybody knew one in college: the guy–it’s only guys that do this–who ALWAYS wears shorts, no matter what the weather or occasion. Usually, though, they’re fat guys or at least stocky. Jeff Chimenti is the skinniest SDH I’ve ever seen.

OR

“Yeah, I’m gonna need the white people to stop encircling me, please.”

OR

The fellow with the camera is Justin Kreutzmann–you know Justin–and he’s putting together a documentary about rock and roll drummers called Let There Be Drums. You can read about it, and see something called a sizzle reel, right here.

FUN FACT: For the past few years, Justin has been an editor on The Bachelorette.

Babies, Part 2

“Billy, have you seen my son?”

“Black Phil, Jr.?”

“That is not his name, and that is not my name.”

“Nah, haven’t seen him.”

“I’ve been told otherwise.”

“By who?”

“The guy who writes this bullshit.”

“Thoughts on my Ass? Fuck him. He makes stuff up.”

“Billy, gimme my kid back.”

“You’re just gonna send him to school! I wanna make him awesome.”

“Billy.”

“I’m sorry. The plan is already in action.”

“Oh, hell, no. My son will not be a drummer.”

“And we got a guy coming by in an hour to teach him how to pick locks.”

“I’m calling the cops.”

Babies

“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass! Look at this little fucker!”

Cute kid.

“You see this curl?”

I see that curl.

“Holy shit, this curl. I’m gonna eat him.”

Why?

“Youth.”

It doesn’t work that way.

“It does. You know Rob Lowe?”

Not personally.

“Good buddy of mine. Our friendship could actually be a wonderful example to the world of how people with differing views can still get along.”

Right, he’s a Republican or something.

“Nah, fuck politics. It’s that I’m a skankman and he’s a poonhound.”

I have no idea what that means.

“The man prefers poon. Poon! In this day and age.”

Billy, poon and skank are the same thing.

“What are you, an idiot?”

That’s unnecessary.

“This is grade school stuff, man. I bet the baby knows.”

Don’t ask the baby.

“I oughta Robin this kid.”

Do not make the child an orphan and raise him in a cave, Billy.

“I got so much to teach! Drums. Tantrums. When to deploy strategic anti-Semitism. And, obviously, the rules of being a skankman.”

There are rules?

“Oh, yeah. It’s just like being a gentleman, only you gotta throw away your sheets a lot more often.”

Don’t teach the kid anything, Billy.

“Yeah, nah. I’m gonna Robin him.”

Fuck!

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