Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill kreutzmann (page 3 of 78)

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.

When Did Billy Show Up?

Hey, Billy. Whatcha doing?

“Balls deep in the hoopla.”

Sure.

“Look at this. Me and Phil back together again.”

His name is Oteil Burbridge.

“That’s just an anagram for Black Phil.”

It’s not.

“It is if you’re illiterate.”

Maybe. Where have you been? This is, like, the first picture I’ve seen of you this tour.

“I been checking out art museums. Unbelievably inspiring.”

No, you haven’t.

“You’re right. Skanking it up, baby. Hanging out at dog tracks and methadone clinics. Last night I had a chick who got had a buttock amputated.”

Really?

“Lopped that fucker straight off.”

I don’t even know how that works.

“Me, either, but it did. Doctors didn’t amputate her butthole.”

How come you didn’t go to the Capitol to meet Al Franken?

“I’m a Davis man.”

Makes sense.

Dead & Company At Citi Field

When did Bobby dye his hair?

That’s Garcia.

No. Garcia’s dead. I had to explain this to Nephew, but I thought you knew. Oh, shit, I’m not breaking this to you, am I?

This attitude is why Pitchfork won’t hire you.

Fuck Pitchfork.

That attitude, too.

Dude, hop on the D & C train.

It’s not Dead & Company. That’s the actual Grateful Dead at Bickershaw.

Nonsense. It’s Citi Field. Look in the crowd to the left of the stage; you can see Mr. Met giving Oteil the finger.

That’s not Oteil.

He would totally wear that sweater.

Absolutely, yes. Still: no.

I don’t get you, man. What about this picture doesn’t scream “21st century corporate perfection” to you?

Every single thing.

Ah, I’m just funning with you.

It’s never fun when you fun.

What’s the most Precarious Lee part of this setup?

Ooh, good game. Let’s play. Hmm. Amateurs might say the oblique angle that the monitors are lined up at.

Amateurs.

A more seasoned vet would point out that Pig is literally behind the PA.

Well, it’s not like there was any room on the stage.

True. But the real Enthusiast sees Precarious’ handiwork in that super-taut wire leading to the speaker all the way up top on the right.

So many points of failure.

It’s amazing they’re all alive.

They aren’t.

I was funning with you.

Yeah, you’re right: funning isn’t fun.

I know.

Jack Straw

“This is new.”

“Is it, Bob?”

“Never seen it before. Doesn’t, you know, augur well for the evening.”

“What’s he got in there?”

“Nothing good, Josh.”

“What’s on your iPad?”

“Franken’s book. This guy really hates Tom Cruise.”

“I’ll check it out. Seriously, we should do something about this.”

“Good idea. You talk to him.”

“Why me? You’ve known him for 50 years.”

“That’s why I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Sure. Um, Billy?”

“Fuckface?”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Getting my swerve on, hamster-style.”

“Uh-huh. What is it that you’re drinking?’

“If you soak weed in Bacardi 151 for a month, it turns into…like…I don’t know what the fuck it turns into, but it kicks like a rented whore.”

“You’re not drinking it straight?”

“I threw in some ice.”

“Wow.”

“And whisky.”

“Okay. Bob, can I talk to you over there?”

“Where?”

“In the next picture.”

“Ah. Sure, yeah.”

“He’s drinking rocket fuel.”

“Literally?”

“No.”

“Because, you know, he’s done that before. Doctor once told us Billy had the stomach acid of a condor. Can’t be poisoned.”

“No, it’s some sort of concoction, and I’m sure he didn’t even tell me all the ingredients.”

“He’ll survive. And, uh, it can’t be worse than whatever’s going on next to him.”

“True.”

Bill Love

Billy, are you guys playing in an asbestos museum?

“No such luck. Salt Lake City.”

Yeesh.

“Gotta bring your own hooch. And skank! Went to a whorehouse here once, and they give you tuggers behind a Zion curtain.”

Why?

“Elders think if you look at your own dick too much, you’ll turn sissy.”

That’s not how it works.

“I know, right? I love looking at my dick, and I’m straight as shit. Hell, it’s my phone’s wallpaper.”

Why?

“Cheers me up. I see it and think, ‘I’m gonna stick that somewhere soon,’ and I smile.”

Awesome.

“You can get skank here, but it’s got all different rules. You can have as much skank as you can satisfy. They call it plural skank.”

Polygamy, Billy. You’re describing polygamy.

“I’m describing one chick in an ankle-length dress working my shaft, and another one working my fire exit.”

Ew.

“Sister-skank.”

Double ew. How’s the tour going?

“All the checks have cleared so far.”

A success.

“Yup.”

Wait. You went to a whorehouse in Salt Lake City? What was it called?

“Brigham Tongue’s.”

I’ll have to stop by.

“Bring money and your dick.”

Good advice.

Older posts Newer posts
%d bloggers like this: