Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: dead & company (page 1 of 32)

Back In Business

“Jenkins!

“Yes, sir?”

“How many fonts can we fit on one poster?”

“Can or should, sir?”

“Dammit, Jenkins, we’re the Grateful Dead. ‘Should’ isn’t our vocabulary! Imagine if someone had asked ‘Should we have two drummers?’ or ‘Should we give the roadies a vote?’ We’re not Bon Jovi.”

“No, sir.”

“For example, we don’t own an arena football team. Or do we?”

“We don’t, sir.”

“Let’s buy one. How much cash do you have on you?”

“Not much.”

“That’s the correct amount. I think Jon Bon bought his with some McDonald’s gift certificates and a used Chevy Tahoe.”

“The sport never caught on, sir.”

“Arena football. Good gravy, what an abomination. Might as well play hockey in your aunt’s vagina.”

“Sir?”

“Wrong venue!”

“Ah. Sir, I believe we were talking about the poster.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make ever word a different font!”

“Won’t that make it tough to read, sir?”

“Jenkins, who in God’s name would actually want to read the words ‘Ruoff Home Mortgage Music Center?'”

“It doesn’t have much poetry to it.”

“Sounds like a real shithole.”

“I’m sure it’s a fine place, sir.”

“Balderdash. Go down to the cafeteria, grab a tub full of chicken wings, and dash your balder against them.”

“We don’t have a cafeteria, sir.”

“Then order some wings from that place I like, and dash your balder against them.”

“You just want wings, don’t you?”

“I do, yes.”

“I’ll make the call.”

“Honestly, Jenkins: Ruoff. Say it once, and it sounds like shit. Say it twice, and people will think there’s a dog choking on a sock.”

“No argument here, sir.”

“Now, Dodger Stadium? That’s a name. Evocative. Do you know what I think of when I hear ‘Dodger Stadium,’ Jenkins?”

“Baseball? Vin Scully?”

“Forcibly relocating Mexicans.”

“Or that.”

“Oh, those were the days, Jenkins. You could rip a a whole familia out of their house and turn it into a dugout.”

“Those days are still here, sir.”

“No, no. Now you have to pretend not to enjoy it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Citi Field again?”

“Yes, sir. Very exciting. Two shows.”

“Well, something happy should go on in that building, I suppose.”

“It’s a rebuilding decade for the Mets, sir.”

“They haven’t been the same since Marvelous Marv left.”

“Marv Throneberry?”

“He could have been the next Roberto Clemente, but he missed the plane.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir. You said something about multiple fonts?”

“Beyond multiple! An orgy. An orgy of fonts, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir. And the color?”

“All of them.”

“Yes, sir. Skeleton, turtle, or bear?”

“Tell you what: ask the kid who brings the chicken wings.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Summer tour!”

“Whoopee, sir.”

This Fucking Guy Right Fucking Here

“This guy right here is the guy.”

“No, folks. Don’t listen to Bobby. He’s the guy.”

“Aw, no. Too kind. So much bliss. So, uh, Josh: I heard you went out with William Bendix.”

“Almost. I had my appendix taken out.”

“Oh, sure. Well, that’s better. I hear Bendy had quite the problem keeping his hands to himself.”

“Okay.”

“You feeling all better?”

“Nearly at 100%. Another couple days and I’ll be right as rain.”

“Hey, at least you yoinked a pair of scrub pants out of the deal.”

“These are not scrubs, Bob.”

“Hey, hey, hey: I’m not calling you a scrub.”

“Bobby.”

“I would never accuse you of hanging out the passenger side of your best friend’s ride.”

“Bobby.”

“Would that be Andy Cohen? Or me? And, you know, if I’m gonna be your best friend, then you need to know I already have one.”

“My best friend is Jimi Hendrix.”

“They’re not scrub pants, Bobby. They’re Visvim, and they cost four grand.”

“Uh-huh. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you spend that much money on trousers? I don’t know if we’ve ever officially had ‘the talk,’ but you’re kinda the Bobby now. You don’t need to dress up to get laid.”

“It’s not about getting laid. I have an appreciation for fashion.”

“Y’know, if you added up the cost of every single piece of clothing the other five guys onstage are wearing, I don’t think you’d hit four grand. I don’t know if you’d hit four figures.”

“Oh, I’m sure that everyone’s outfits add up to a thousand bucks.”

“Nah. Every tee-shirt but yours was yoinked.”

“Yeah, true.”

“My pants are from Costco.”

“I thought I spied the world-famous Kirkland hem.”

“Billy stole his new hat from a scarecrow.”

“Okay.”

“One of us, uh, doesn’t even own shoes.”

“You might be right.”

“Well, anyway, I’m just glad you’re all right.”

“Gee, thanks, Bobby.”

“Oh, and there’s a $50,000 deductible on the show-cancellation insurance, so that’s gonna be on you. Maybe you could sell some of your robe-thingies.”

“They’re called toppermosts.”

“I’m not saying that word, and you can’t make me.”

“Fair enough.”

All Of You Have Disappointed Me

Deeply, and possibly permanently. This is the kind of sorrowful betrayal that leaves a scar, Enthusiasts. Perhaps this latest defeat will harden me like it did the little boy in Old Yeller, and I’m not talking about the well-known weepy ending, I mean the after-credit scene where the kid’s dad tells him, “And now we eat him,” and then there’s a five-minute long shot of the boy silently cooking a dog omelette. I am that disappointed, Enthusiasts. I am little-boy-killing-preparing-and-eating-his-beloved-pet disappointed, and it is in you.

Dead & Company are playing a half-hour from Fillmore South on Friday (12/8/17) and none of you have contacted me to arrange my Praetor’s Suite-level guest experience. No car service has called and given me a chance to reject all of their vehicles. (I travel either in the rear-facing seats of an Isuzu Brat or the limo with the hot tub in the back from the Phil Collins video.) The on-site concierge has not inquired about my dietary restrictions (many), my allergies (strawberries, toil), and my temperature preferences (crank the air and bring me a parka). I’m assuming the bar is open, but I don’t know. Am I entitled to a complimentary massage from the Florida Panthers’ trainer? I don’t know. What does the gift bag contain? I don’t know. And I hate not knowing.

How dare you not come through for me after all I’ve done for you?

“But, TotD,” you might reply. “This is quite literally the first you’ve mentioned of any desire to go to the show.”

You’re trying to destroy me, aren’t you?

You’d say, “What now?”

You want me gone so you can take my place. I see it now. You want to marry my husband, and take my children. I never should’ve hired you to babysit!

“I don’t understand what’s happening here,” you’d say, concerned.

And then I shoot you with a harpoon gun. My point is this, Enthusiasts: don’t put your failings on me. How can you call yourself readers and miss subtext this non-submissive? It’s barely subtext: it’d domtext. Go back! Go back and read through the past month or so, and you’ll notice a theme: “I’d maybe kinda like to go the Dead & Company show but don’t wanna pay for it or put any planning or effort into it, but obviously I’d fucking write about it and shit.” I swear it’s there, Enthusiasts; go and read. (Pro Tip: the more you want to see the theme, the easier it will be to see.)

Number one on my list: all of you.

Major publications, important newsgatherers, and beloved websites have fallen off (or been murdered) at an increasing pace. Why? Because they do not arrange for me to attend the 12/8/17 Dead & Company show in pampered luxury. Recently, Brian Ross of ABC News incorrectly reported that the President had been implicated by Michael Flynn in his plea deal; the story was retracted, and Ross suspended, but the stain on the organization remains. Could this have been prevented if ABC had sent me to the Dead show? Yes. Absolutely: yes. How dare you?

Number two on my list: the lying, failing, fake news media.

I include the band in my dudgeon. (Except Oteil, who is a perfect beam of sunshine.) How dare you, Dead & Company? Pardon my French, but comment osez-vous? You know where I live. You knew you were going to be here. I know I was discussed at Thanksgiving dinner. Yet: no laminate. Where is my laminate? (I can provide my own cord.) Should I call Will Call? Will Will Call call me? Shouldn’t Will Call be Will Text nowadays?

“Hey, Josh, you know that obsessive weirdo my lawyer is keeping an eye on?”

“TotD? He recently had me sodomized and murdered.”

“Yeah, that guy. We should hang out with him.”

See how easy that is, guys? If I didn’t know any better, I would swear that rock stars only thought about themselves.

Number three on my list: the band I want tickets to see. (Don’t analyze it, just go with it.)

In conclusion:

  • How dare you?

Thank you.

Ready For The Feast

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

OR

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

OR

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

OR

“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.”

Menu New Minglewood Blues

This has been floating around the internet for the past few days, and so I present it to you: Ladies and gentlemen, the least interesting Dead & Company document in existence. This is some boring-ass white person food. If this menu were a vacation, it would be a week in a Delaware laundromat.

Assorted notes:

  • If Bobby sees a fish, Bobby eats the fish; that’s why he’s not allowed in aquariums.
  • John Mayer’s meal is what they give you after surgery; it’s food to contemplate suicide by.
  • Are abs worth that?
  • I don’t know if abs are worth that.
  • They probably are, though.
  • The Grateful Dead hates blue fin.
  • Mickey out of nowhere with the pulled pork.
  • Was he thinking, ‘What’s the most pain-in-the-ass food there is?’ and came up with the bullshit you have to cook for nine hours?
  • Or did Mickey think the phrase “pulled pork” was funny?
  • The second thing, right?
  • What if you brought Mickey unpulled pork?
  • Would Mickey pull his own pork?
  • Does Billy ever pull his pork, by which I mean masturbate in front of strangers?
  • Um.
  • Uhhhh…
  • Do…
  • Do Oteil and Jeff Chimenti not get fed?
  • What the fuck?
  • That’s not cool, Dead & Company.
  • Do they have to hit the Burger King drive-through on the way in to the venue?
  • What if they’re running late, and don’t have time; would Mickey share his pulled pork with them?
  • This is bullshit, Dead & Company.

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.”

Sure.

“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.”

Wow.

“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.”

Right.

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.

OR

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.

OR

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.)

OR

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

OR

ATTENTION PLEASE: Billy has new sneakers.

OR

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.

OR

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.”

Uh-huh.

“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?

“Ultrasilk.”

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?”

What?

“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.”

“Me?”

“The other motherfucker.”

Me?

“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.”

Aw.

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.”

Huh?

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?”

Yes.

“Good.”

The Great Wig In The Sky

Stop looking at Mickey, Jeff Chimenti.

“I can’t. His doohickeys are vibrating.”

Did he explain himself before the performance?

“Kinda. He said, ‘New Brent–‘”

He still calling you that?

“–I’m tired of being a Vulcan. I’m an Andorran now.”

Is that a Space Track reference?

“Maybe. I’m not a nerd.”

Good for you. Stop looking at him.

“He’s just so fascinating.”

In his own way.

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.”

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