Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill kreutzmann (page 2 of 77)

Bill, Bill, Phil

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Hey, Billy. Been a while.

“Help! Fuckin’ giants, man!”

Those aren’t giants. They’re basketball players.

“Either of ’em LeBron?’

Obviously not.

“Fuck ’em, then.”

Sure. Where you been, buddy?

“The islands, man. I only come back to the mainland when someone pays me to. Wait, I know who this guy is. Walton. I know this fucker.”

For, like, 40 years.

“I got my mind on other stuff. Preoccupied as shit.”

About what?

“Relix is publishing an article about all the skank I plowed. They talked to the skank, Ass!”

That’s not good.

“They talked to the skank!”

I heard you.

“There’s all sorts of stories in this thing. The time I jerked off into a plant in front of some skank.”

You made a woman watch you masturbate?

“Made her? It was her fucking idea! She was at the salad bar shoving celery in herself. She was on her period. Called it a Bloody Mary.”

Ew.

“I don’t even know where they found half these chicks. I didn’t even know most of their real names. Like Bus Locker.”

Bus Locker?

“I kept her in a bus locker.”

Oh, Billy.

“She was into it!”

Well, that’s fine. It sounds like you’re talking about consensual perversions here, Bill.

“I didn’t consent to some of it. I liked it, but I didn’t consent to it.”

I don’t think this article will affect your reputation.

“It’s the principle of the thing. A gentleman never tells.”

You literally wrote a book about your adventures in skank town.

“Yeah, but I’m not a gentleman.”

True.

“And it turns out that the skank aren’t gentlemen, either.”

No, they’re skank.

“I expected more.”

You shouldn’t have.

“I am laid low by that which I love the most. I’m like a Greek tragedy, Ass.”

You’re not.

“You know what a real Greek tragedy is? Running out of lube when you’re banging one of them. They’re all about the butt.”

We’re done.

“See you on tour.”

Okay.

Ah, You Come Up With A Title; I’m A Bit Distracted

It’s not that Robert Altman.

OR

Phil?

“What?”

Why you standing back there?

“Chili farts.”

Okay.

The Parentage Trap

Esteemed Commentator Tor Haxson brings to the table an important question, and because I am currently avoiding writing several vital e-mails, I shall attempt to answer this most ponderous of mysteries.

Which Grateful Dead would you want as a parent?

See, I told you it was an important question.

We must start out by noting that none of the Grateful Dead’s children have rampaged through a Burger King, nor been indicted on racketeering charges. Not a one of them has ever been arrested for pissing on a stewardess while yelling “DO YOU KNOW WHO MY FATHER IS!?” They’re all presentable. Any honest reading of the situation must led to the conclusion that the Dead were, at least, decent parents.

But who would be preferred? All members of the band have their pros and cons. To have Phil as a parent means that you would be tall, and have a beard. If that’s how you’d prefer to look, then you should choose Phil. If, on the other hand, you would rather be a hot chick, then Bobby is your best bet. If you’d like a wholesome, hard-working, American name such as Stacy or Justin, then you need to go with Billy; for a hippy-dippy, godless, communist name like Taro or Raya, then Mickey is your man.

Mickey is also an excellent choice because he’s so easy to buy presents for.

“You got me a drum! How did you know what I wanted?”

“Just guessed, Pop.”

Are you going anywhere with this?

Honestly? No.

So why did you write this?

If I stop writing, I’ll die.

Even it’s complete shit?

History will decide its worth.

Go put your head in the stove.

It’s electric.

Put a gun in your mouth in your head in the stove.

Suicide by syntactical recursion. I like it.

Do it.

Trade Season

The rock and roll world was stunned last night when, just as the trade deadline was about to expire, Led Zeppelin shipped John Bonham to the Grateful Dead for Bill Kreutzmann, Mickey Hart, and a keyboardist to be named later. The trade is expected to be approved by the league after the men fail their physicals and then retake them with a less scrupulous doctor.

Bonham, 27, was quoted as saying, “It was time f’r a change, wunnit? Tired of playing wi’ a guitarist on th’ nod. Jimmy’s gettin’ sloppy. Be much better wi’ Fatty, wha’ever his name is.” Bonham then hit this reporter with a folding chair for no reason.

Kreutzmann, who gives his age as “Suck my balls, that’s how old I am,” responded to the trade by saying, “Turns out I’m getting paid more. Billy’s happy enough to punch dicks.” Kreutzmann then punched this reporter in the dick. Hart also refused to give his age and became belligerent with this reporter for asking. More dickpunching ensued, and, before this reporter lapsed into blessed unconsciousness, there were raccoons loosed.

The first performances of each newly-constituted band went poorly. Kreutzmann and Hart refused to rehearse and became enraged when offered English food to the point of sexually penetrating bacon butties. During the show, both drummers conspicuously mocked the other band members, frequently putting their sticks down to rise and do unflattering imitations of Jimmy Page’s guitar moves. When Robert Plant asked the crowd if they remembered laughter, the men leaned into their drum mics and told him that they did, in fact, remember laughter and called him an asshole. John Paul Jones was completely nonplussed.

Not surprisingly, the Dead’s performance was worse. Bonham, nervous about his first show, drank heavily and began throwing punches and tables. The Dead’s crew put up with it for about ten seconds and then began whaling the living tar out of Bonham to the point where he was unable to play that evening. The show was cancelled and Bonham was left in a dumpster on the way to the airport to pick up Hart and Kreutzmann.

The keyboardist that was to be named later is now being named: Brent.

 

Someone Done Stole Your Batt’ry

Are you wearing a tee-shirt with your own picture on it while autographing your own car?

“Looks like it.”

That’s a healthy level of self-regard even for a Rock Star.

“Well, you know how I’ve been looking for my bliss?”

You’ve mentioned it once or twice.

“Sure. Well, uh, I found my bliss. Turns out it’s me. I’m my own bliss.”

Awesome.

“The commute’s great.”

Sure. Why are you signing your car?

“Giving it away.”

Can I have it?

Not that kind of giving it away. Auction.”

Figures. Finally decided to get rid of the old girl?

“She’s acting up. The, uh, performance issues have intensified.”

How so?

“I don’t know how it got a hold of my credit cards, but it ordered itself new rims.”

Spinners?

“Spinners. And, you know: I’m not really a show-offy kind of guy.”

You’re wearing a tee-shirt with your own face on it.

“Maybe I’m just not a spinner guy.”

That’s understandable.

“That was bad, but the phone calls are unacceptable.”

Phone calls?

“The car has learned to imitate my voice.”

Like the T1000?

“Exactly. And it, uh, crank calls my friends and family. Little bastard fired New Brent the other day.”

That’s kinda funny.

“Funny to you. Because you didn’t have to spend an hour on the phone with a crying keyboardist.”

True. Thinking about what your new ride’s gonna be?

“Oh, yeah. Been looking at a 1985 Buick Grand National.”

What?

“Maybe importing a Skyline from Japan.”

Excuse me?

“I could dig the Vette out of the garage. Needs a little paint, tune-up. She’ll run good again. Or, you know, I could just get another Tesla so my sister-in-law–”

Lillian Monster.

“–doesn’t stab me in the face with a locally-sourced machete.”

Good point.

“I want the one with the fancy doors.”

Good choice. What’s Billy doing there?

“He wanted to get one last tugger in the backseat.”

Has he been getting tuggers in the backseat of your bar, Bobby?

“If you asked me that yesterday, I would’ve said ‘no.’ But things have come to light today.”

Billy told you?

“Yup.”

Did he tell you while he was getting a tugger in the backseat of your car?

“You bet.”

You should leave that off the auction website.

“Probably.”

Jam Night With The Grateful Dead

The Grateful Dead were hanging out at Front Street one day when Bobby said,

“Fellas?”

“What, Weir?” Phil said.

“Blow me, Weir,” Billy said.

“Look at my new drum,” Mickey said if he was in the band when this scene take place.

Garcia said nothing, because he was in the bathroom. SUDDEN TWIST: Garcia is clean, and he is there for legitimate reasons related to the 7-11 hot dogs he ate on the way in. REVERSE TWIST: he lights a shitload of matches to cover up the stank, drops them in the waste bin, and sets the bathroom on fire despite his (relative) sobriety. COUNTER-CLOCKWISE TWIST: he feels so bad about it that he goes back to using Persian.

Are there keyboardists there? Yes, no, maybe, who gives a shit, possibly. If one shows up, he shows up.

“Why don’t we, uh, have a Jam Show?”

“Why are you capitalizing that?” Phil asked.

“Free country,” Bobby said.

All the Grateful Deads in the room were intrigued by this idea, and displayed their interest by ignoring Bobby and playing grabass.

Garcia emerged from the bathroom as Parish ran in with a fire extinguisher.

“I agree with Weir. Let’s do one show and just lose it, man. Just go out as far as we can on everything. Throw caution to wherever caution gets thrown nowadays.”

Garcia was not the Grateful Dead’s leader; it was a coincidence that everyone always did what he wanted.

“Good idea, Jer,” Phil said.

“Jazzbo Billy’s making a comeback!” Billy added.

No one else in the band said anything because I don’t feel like writing dialogue for them.

And so the Grateful Dead announced their very first Jam Show at Madison Square Garden. Since there was no internet, they informed Dick Latvala of the news and told him to keep it a secret; every Deadhead in the world knew within 48 hours. There was even a theme: Skeleton Jam. (They did not work hard on the theme at all.) Tickets sold out immediately.

The morning of the show, no one had seen whichever keyboardist was alive for two days. If the keyboardist who was alive had a wife who was also a Grateful Dead, then no one had seen her, either. The entire hotel was not on fire, but only because it was a very large hotel. Nearly most of the band piled into the van around one o’clock.

SEVERAL WRONG TURNS LATER

The van was in Yonkers and Billy had punched the driver’s dick to death.

Phil took the wheel.

SEVERAL WRONG TURNS LATER

“Monticello?” Garcia asked. “How’d we get to Virginia?”

“There’s one in New York,” Phil said.

“Didn’t know that.”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty up here.”

“God’s country.”

SEVERAL WRONG TURNS LATER

“Weir’s asleep,” Garcia said.

“Little angel,” Phil said.

“We should tell him we’re proud of him more.”

“Good idea.”

“Where are we?”

“The last few road signs I saw had Cyrillic writing on them.”

“Not optimal.”

With ten minutes until showtime, Phil got the van to MSG. The giant inflatable gorilla in the tie-dye leapt from the building and began making bulbous love to the vehicle. Billy was aroused, and joined in.

“Come get a piece of this!” Billy cried.

“A piece of what?”

“I got no idea, but I’m fucking it!”

Extricating themselves from the penetrations of King Kong’s dong, our heroes went directly to the stage, stopping only to smoke, chat, grab ass, enjoy cocaine, receive tuggers and/or beejers, tune, bicker with each other, bicker with the crew, smoke another cigarette, throw paella at the promoter, ignore the fact that there were naked fucking children everywhere, and re-tune.

Earlier, Bobby had proposed that they play The Other One for the first set, and Dark Star for the second set. This was a reasonable plan, so of course it was ignored in favor of “finding jams where we didn’t know there were jams.” Garcia and Phil were very big on this plan, but neither was fond of rehearsal, so the plan never got further than “we should jam shit out.”

The first song was Promised Land. The jam was not found, even though they looked for it for a quarter-hour. The evening deteriorated from there.

Turtle, Horse, Cat

Billy?

“Ass?”

You’re white again?

“Had to switch back, man. I got pulled over nine times in an afternoon.”

That’ll happen.

“I wasn’t anywhere near a car.”

Yup. So, uh, why is there a picture of a horse crudely taped to your bass drum?

“Skank sees horse, skank thinks dick.”

Sure.

“Skank has a simple thought process. Salt of the earth. Know what needs salt on it?”

Popcorn?

“Meat. Specifically, mine.”

Don’t you have any other topics of conversation?

“I once punched both Gumbels in the dick.”

I’d almost rather talk about skank.

“Speaking of meat, you can find prime skank at the butcher’s shop.”

Like, ordering something in particular?

“Nah, not in the store. Out back feeding the stray cats. That’s choice skank right there, but you gotta watch out for toxoplasmosis. Then once you bang her, you can shit in a litter box.”

Wow.

“And that’s what America means to me.”

We’re done. Wait: who’s the chair for?

“Elijah.”

Now we’re done.

Jerry, Phil, and Pigpen Sitting On A Fence

Jesus. Precarious?

“Yo.”

What the fuck?

“The picket fence?”

The picket fence.

“Security.”

How?

“40,000 volts running through it.”

40,000? Isn’t that a bit of overkill?

“Hey, man. I don’t work for the fuckin’ Eagles.”

True.

A Conversation With Billy That Goes Just How You’d Assume

Hey, Billy. Whatcha doing?

“I think I’m a Big Brother now or something.”

No.

“Helping out an underprivileged kid from the inner-city.”

No.

“No?”

No.

“Am I being mugged?”

Jesus, man.

“World’s changing, Ass. Used to be you had to be white to be a Grateful Dead. Or at least Mexican. Now there’s a pretty chick, a black guy, and a Jew!”

First off: that is not a pretty chick, it’s John Mayer.

“Tell that to my boner.”

Second: his name is Oteil.

“Oteil’s not a Jewish name.”

The black guy!

“Makes sense. Jewish guys are named Schmucky or Lumpberg or Amir.”

Or Mickey. Mickey’s the Jew.

“Yeah? Thanks for telling me.”

BEEP BOP BEEP

What is that?

“Updating my Jew files on the ol’ Apple Watch.”

Why?

“Because it’s 2017. What am I supposed to do, write it down like a caveman?”

We’re done.

Join Together With The Band

Fun fact: this is a bigger crowd than at Trump’s inauguration.

Not fun at all fact: Trump was inaugurated.

Familiar fact: Mickey. Who does he look like? I can’t quite place my…oh, right.

I knew I recognized him.

Anyway: Meet-Up at the Movies is on 8/1/17 and the show is 7/12/89. Make your plans, or don’t. I’m not your boss.

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