Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill kreutzmann (page 3 of 80)

Ready For The Feast

Was John Mayer not invited or did he have Celebrity Thanksgiving to attend?


Why is Oteil not sitting with the rest of the band? Is it because he wore sweatpants on Thursday?


Is Matt Busch wearing a fucking Islanders hoodie? Unacceptable, Matt Busch.


“Who’s the youngest here?”

“Black Phil.”

“Thanks, Billy. Black Phil–”

“Oteil. My name is Oteil.”

“–will you read the Four Questions for us?”

“Wrong holiday, Bobby.”

Wheel To The Skank And Fly

“Fly the skanky skies, Ass!”

Hey, Billy.

“Got a plane, fucker! Gonna do some barrel rolls, some loop-de-loops.”

They’re not letting you fly that thing, are they?

“I was talking about my on-board fuck styles.”


“You know the best thing about private planes?”

You can fuck in ’em?

“You can do anything in ’em, but that’s not it. Best thing is the private gates you get to go through. There’s, like, no security. I got four guns on me. On me. My person.”

I get it. Why do you have four guns on you?

“Because I lost one on the way over. Usually have five,”

Why do you need any weapons, Billy?

“Shit might go down.”

Where do you even keep them?

“Got a .22 under the hat.”


“.38 in the small of my back.”


“.35 cal Smith and Wesson on the ankle.”


“There ya go.”

Where’s the fourth?

“Don’t worry about it.”

Are you kiestering pistols again, Billy?

“Shit might go down.”

You should not bring any of that to an airport, regardless of how private the gate and plane are. What if you lost a gun there?

“That’s it! I left the .42 in the Chili’s Express. I stopped at the Chili’s Express.”

I got that. Why is every gun a different caliber? That means you have to have four different kinds of ammo.

“I shoot according to mood. My calibers are like a painter’s colors. The .38 is a workingman’s caliber. The .42, though? That’s straight elegance.”

Whatever you say, Billy.

“Yknow what else is nice about the private planes? The stewardesses, man.”

They’ve been called flight attendants for, like, 35 years, Billy.

“Not on private planes! Y’still get to grab their asses, too!”

Please don’t do that. Current acts of sexual harassment aren’t covered under the Remaining Rock Stars Protocols.

“I’m pretty sure the RRSP is full coverage.”

Yes, for back in the day. Everything you did back then, we’ve all agreed not to mention. But you’re still liable for shit you do now.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

I’m gonna ignore that. Don’t grab anymore ass, Billy.

“This sucks. I miss the old days.

Holy shit, don’t mention missing the old days. Not in public, at least. Just don’t say anything into a microphone for a year or so.

“Ah, fuck it. I still got the skankjet. Thinking about joining the pile-high club.”

I think you mean the mile-high club.

“No, the pile-high. Y’put the skank on the ground. Then you get, like, six or seven guys.”

I get the picture.

“You wanna see pictures? I got tons.”

Enjoy your flight, Billy.

“My boner is in the fully upright position.”

Heeeeeeeeeere’s Billy!

Oh, no.

“Thoughts on my Ass! Look, I got a teevee show now!”

This will end poorly.

“Nah, I’m gonna kill it. Shit, I’m funnier than that little giggling fuckhead.”

Jimmy Fallon.

“And who’s that fat theater kid? Foreign one who won’t stop singing.”

James something-or-other.

“Fuck that guy. He looks like a grown Cabbage Patch doll. I’m gonna do late night right.”

I’ll regret this, but how?

“I got some bits. Stupid Skank Tricks.”

Not a good bit.

“Mickey’s gonna be my sidekick. Like Ed!”

He would be awful at that.

“I know, but he’s used to sitting next to me while I work.”

True. Who are your guests for your first show?

“Walton and Bobby.”

What about the second show?

“Bobby and Walton.”

You switched the order.

“Yeah, that way people won’t realize.”

I think they will.

“Already got a head writer.”


“Better. Al Franken.”

Franken’s gonna write for you?

“His schedule suddenly opened up.”


The Dead Sell Out

When did Phil stop drinking? Because this is from before that. I think it’s ’85; that shirt combination was one of Garcia’s favorites in ’85.


“So it’s me and Mydland and Jer. and we’re singing or something.”


“But then the camera pulls to out reveal we were on a monitor.”

“I don’t think there’s a special effects budget.”

“We’ll figure it out. Anyway, now we’re in the studio and you read the copy or whatever and Billy sits there and dicks around.”


“But then the camera zooms out…”

“I’m listening.”

“And I’m sitting there, too!”

“I don’t get it.”

“I was in the teevee monitor.”


“And then I’m sitting next to you.”

“You can always sit next to me, buddy.”

“Weir, I just fucking can’t with you today.”


There are (at least) three schools of thought about the Grateful Dead’s business acumen, two of which are wrong and believed by others, and one of which is correct and obviously belongs to me. The first is that the organization was made up of apple dumplings with scrota full of glitter and hugs; men and women who cared nothing for the material and did it all for the fans, and for the music. Maaaaan.

The second take, the revanchist take, the contrarian take, is that the Grateful Dead were visionaries of commerce and communication. That their early-adopter stance towards technology advanced the industry as a whole, and that their intuitive use of branding led to memetic penetration of the teenage mind via ballpoint drawings of Stealies on desks and backpacks, and then you’re gonna hear a rap about how tapers either built the internet or were the internet. Run from these types.

The truth is that the Dead did all the same bullshit the other big bands did, but–due to congenital bushiness of their collective league–they almost always fucked it up. They tried hard to be big stars, and they worked diligently at pushing merch; they played Lovelight for 45 minutes at the biggest gig of their life, and they made commercials like this.

Go watch that bullshit again. I demand it. You must. I’ll wait.


Did you see that bullshit?

Did Precarious Lee write this script? What is for sale? “Projects and products.” What is that, Grateful Dead? You literally could not be less specific. “Projects and products” encompasses actions and objects. You’re basically saying “We have nouns and verbs for sale.”

Also: calling back? Younger Enthusiasts, before the internet there were far fewer ways to buy stuff. You went to the store. Other than that, you had catalogues. You wrote the company, usually longhand, having been taught both the proper format for a business letter, and enclosed a check or money order in the envelope. Mailed it off and then waited. There was no app to obsessively check the status of your package, so there was joy in the surprise when it arrived.

After a while, you could call an operator and order out of the catalogue.

By ’85, you could also shop on teeevee. Call the number on the screen, give ’em your credit card number, and they’ll send out your Ab Weasel. (The Ab Weasel was an actual weasel that bit you if you stopped doing sit-ups.)

And that was it. There was no “call you back.”

So: the customers had no idea what they was buying, and–even if they wanted to put their money down on sight-unseen merch–needed to wait for you to get back to them?

Good work, Grateful Dead. Proud of ya.

Not Sweating It

You playing for Metallica now?

“Oh, hey, Ass. I wear black on the outside because black is how I feel on the inside.”

What’s up, slugger?

“Net Brutality. They’re gonna take all the snuff films off the web?”

Neutrality, Billy.

“Oh. Then I don’t give a shit.”

Shocked. How’s the tour going?

“Well, we didn’t get the tour of the Capitol we were promised.”

Yes, the Senator from Shakedown Street is a bit occupied these days.

“I’m not making his mistake.”

Groping women?

“No, running for office.”


“I don’t need anyone vetting me.”

You vetted yourself, Billy. The book.

“Heh. Yeah. I left shit out.”

How much?

“Like, 90%. Like an iceberg made of skank and cocaine.”


“I’m sticking to this gig. Besides, you heard about the RRSP?”

The Remaining Rock Stars Protocols? Of course.

“There you go. There’s a clause in it that voids your protections if you get some other job.”

Like if Paul Stanley hosted Extreme Home Makeover?

“Exactly. Not smart right now to draw too much mainstream attention. Everyone’s hunkering down in their fan bases.”

The sea is stormy, but you’ll weather through.

“I’ve been getting away with it for this long.”


Otherwise Known As The Chickenshit Show

Jeff Chimenti looks like a beloved high school music teacher who’s also a member in good standing of his local BDSM community.


Billy and Oteil have both noticed the meatball the intern is holding aloft. This will not end well; Billy loves meatballs, and interns. Oteil also enjoys meatballs, but no one’s getting tackled for one. Billy’s gonna tackle the intern.


All new on CBS this season: Friends. Due to legal incompetence on the part of Warner Brothers, the rights to remake Friends became available, so CBS cast these six and they perform the episodes line-for-line. It’s fucking terrible. (Bobby used to be a Joey, but now he’s a Phoebe. Mickey is Ross. Josh banged Rachel.)


Can Mickey still fit the merch he’s yoinked these past few tours into a storage space, or does he need a warehouse?


ATTENTION PLEASE: Billy has new sneakers.


I can’t see his feet. Is Oteil in his goddamned flippity-flops? Bobby had the sense of decorum to put on his formal socks, but I think Oteil is going full flop. You are not running into a Sarasota Publix in for a chicken tender sub and a sweet tea, Oteil. At least Bobby’s sandals are made of leather.

Pss pss pss.

I am being informed that there are such a thing as vegan sandals, and even if Bobby didn’t care, he would most likely wear them just so not to get protested by Lilian Monster.


What is that?

“My toppermost?”

Your kimono.

“No, no. It’s a Japanese-influenced men’s toppermost designed by Givenchy in associated with streetFUVK”

There’s no such thing as a toppermost.

“You only know about poor people clothes. We have access to shit you’ve never heard of.”


“This is what I like to call ‘Fun John.’ Real playful, just mixing and matching and, you know, trying to display my own style. I’m always thinking ‘What is my aesthetic?'”

What is your aesthetic?

“Guy who spent an hour deciding what to wear.”

You nailed it. What is that garment made of?


Is that like ultrasuede? A synthetic?

“No, it’s real silk, but much fancier. The worms are all wearing little tuxedos–get this–made from the silk that they themselves produced. It’s self-sufficiency in action.”

Is it expensive?

“Oh my God, yes.”

Ballpark it for me.

“Where are we?”


“I wanna know how far my dollar goes. We could buy a town in most countries for what this thing cost.”

We’re in America.

“You could start your own business.”

Pre-built space or custom structure?

“The second thing.”

Goddammit, Josh Meyers.

“Don’t call me that. Don’t worry about how I spend my money.”

I’m not worried. I’m judgmental.

“Kiss my ass. What should I do with my money?”

Take as much of it as you need for yourself and give the rest to the poor.

“I will not.”

Well, there you go.

“And of course you’d say to give my money to the poor. You’re the poor.”

I’m just repeating the words of some Jewish guy I met once.

“You would buy just as much stupid bullshit as me if you had a nickel to your name. Easy to make a decision for someone else when you’ll never face it.”

You’re right. Absolutely right. Tell you what: you give me all your money. Then you’ll see that I would live up to my words and distribute it to the needy.

“This is a trick.”

It is.

“You wouldn’t give the money away.”

I would.

“I don’t believe you.”

If you’re feeling froggy, leap.

“What if I gave you a little bit of money and saw if you gave that away? Like, as a test.”

No. I will keep and squander any amount of money less than all. All or nothing. Maximum Christ, baby.

“I’m gonna pass.”

“I like that toppermost, boy.”

“Them other white boys look like homeless lumberjacks or some shit. Hats on indoors. They lucky I got a cocktail.”

“Oh, wow, Mr. Davis. Hi. My name is John Mayer.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

“I am such an enormous fan of your music. I have every one of your albums, every single one. You’re one of the most important men in musical history. In American history! It’s just such an honor. Wow.”

“In the key of E flat, what does the C minor resolve to?”

“G minor.”

“You see this medal?”

“I do.”

“You holding?”

“We are. Collectively.”

“Gather that shit up. Those motherfuckers look smelly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nice. Respectful. Hey, motherfucker.”


“The other motherfucker.”


“Yeah. Why didn’t you introduce me to this white boy before? I like this young man.”

Awwwwww. I wanted you to hate him.

“I’m fucking unpredictable.”


My Second-Favorite Martian

You’re just riding out these golden years in a chariot made of crazy, aren’t you?

“I can’t believe you’re not getting the reference, man.”


My Favorite Martian. CBS. We’re on CBS and so was My Favorite Martian. Get it?”

There’s nothing to get, Mickey. And no one remembers My Favorite Martian.

“No, they’re rebooting it.”

Of course they are.

“I’m doing the score. I was thinking about using a lot of drums.”

A departure for you. Is anyone else attached to this project?

“Amir Bar Lev is directing.”

Good for him.

“There’s Oscar buzz.”

There is.

“He says the keyword is ‘moody.'”

Moody? It’s about an alien pretending to be a guy’s uncle.

“We’re going dark with it.”

Anyone cast?

“Sean William Scott will be playing every role.”

Pass. That schmata isn’t going to be making any appearances at Dead & Company shows, is it? 

“Depends on how annoyed Bobby gets with it.”

Well, that’s thoughtful of you.

“No, the more annoyed he gets, the more likely Alien Mick is making a comeback.”

Is that what you’re doing this tour?

“Have people noticed?”



Klaatu Barada Mickto

“I can’t even look at you.”

“Take me to your leader.”

“Not looking.”

“You’ve got a hat and I don’t give you shit for it.”

“Hat, Mick. I have a hat. You have an Andy Warhol wig and deelybobs on your head.”

“Still a hat.”

“Just because it’s on your head doesn’t make it a hat. When skank sits on my face, that doesn’t make them masks.”

“You’re looking at this with a very narrow view.”

“Can we not argue ontology right now? We’re playing Jack Straw too slow.”

“Take me to your leader.”

“This is why I get paid more than you.”

Down At The Mall

“Y’know, I’ve been banned from a shitload of malls.”

Hey, Billy.

“Got 86’ed from the Glendale Galleria in ’86 for ordering a bilzone at Sbarro’s.”

A bilzone?

“It’s a calzone, but I stick my dick in it.”


“Thrown out of the Mall of America on five occasions spanning two decades.”

For what?

“Took out my dick in Foot Locker.”

What about the other four times?

“I took out my dick in Foot Locker five times.”


“It was hot.”

Jesus, Billy.

“Definitely not allowed back in the Short Hills Mall. Ever seen that place? Swanky as fuck.”

It is. What did you do?

“Well, it was close to Christmas and I had been drinking since Easter–”

You punched Santa in the dick.

“–and I punched Santa in the dick.”


“Got them, too. Punched ’em in their elf-dicks. Which is tougher than you’d think. Small targets. And the little fuckers are quick until, you know, you grab ’em by the throat. Then they slow right down.”

These are terrible acts you commit.

“Terrible like a fox.”

Makes no sense.

“Couple other malls I can’t go into, either.”

What did you do there?

“Hit on teenage chicks.”


So Happy Together

Well, this is awkward.

“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass. Tell Phil he can munch my nads.”


“Hey, dickhead. Let Billy know that I can smell his asshole from here.”

I don’t know when I turned into a marriage counselor.

“Billy doesn’t believe in marriage counselors. He prefers defense attorneys.”



I’ll leave you two alone.

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