Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: dead & company (page 2 of 32)

Hop In The Hack

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir.”

“The time draws nigh.”

“It does, sir.”

“I can’t draw nigh. I can do a bunny, but not nigh.”

“I’ve seen your bunny, sir. You capture the ears quite well.”

“Could’ve been an artist, Jenkins. Painted. Sculpted. Or performance art. I could have thrown poop at people and had museums give me money for it.”

“You’d be a Downtown sensation, sir.”

“Giant racket, art. Only reason society tolerates art is that it gives homosexuals something to do in the afternoon.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I enjoyed pottery. It was a concrete task. You started out with a lump of clay and you ended up with a differently-shaped lump of clay. And the wheel. You could stick smaller children on it and spin them until they knew their place in the world. I had such fun in college, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How much are kilns these days? It would fit in Carruthers’ office if I fired him.”

“Sir, we need to talk about the poster.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“We just did this!”

“Oh, sir, we’re still at the very top of the hill. We’ve got some skiing to do before we make it to the lodge.”

“You paint a word picture, Jenkins.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We’re both artists.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We should wear smocks.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Jenkins, I had a brilliant idea.”

“Is the idea a boat that goes underwater? Because I’ve told you that that’s already been invented a dozen times.”

“No, for the poster.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Chucklehead.”

“Continue, sir.”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Pure white. Less a poster than a poster-sized piece of glossy paper.”

“Uh-huh. Why, sir?”

“Because I think we have a fanbase dopey enough to buy it. Let’s do a social experiment.”

“No, sir.”

“And we’ll bet.”

“Sir, the relationship between the Grateful Dead and their fans is a sacred one. We’re not KISS.”

“If were in KISS, I’d make you be Peter.”

“That’s hurtful, sir.”

“I’d be the short one with the afro. Big Funky. Remember him? He used to have a parrot on his shoulder that would do cocaine with him? That was one rock ‘n roll parrot, Jenkins.”

“Sir.”

“The parrot’s name was Little Funky.”

“Sir.”

“Died in a whitewater rafting accident, I believe. Well, the cops said it was an accident.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“We need to put something on it. Can’t do a blank poster, sir.”

“What about boobies? Are the kids still calling them boobies, Jenkins?”

“Yes. The kids are. The adults aren’t.”

“Let’s go with that. Glamour shot of some garbanzos. Big floppy ones.”

“I don’t think that’s really on message, sir.”

“Make ’em tie-dyed.”

“No, sir.”

“Jenkins, you know what I’m about to demand of you.”

“That I blast my eyes, sir?”

“Oh, yes.”

“How did that feel, Jenkins?”

“Awful, sir.”

“Good. I only wish that you were twins so I could make both of you blast your eyes.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster! Oh, I don’t care.”

“I thought you wouldn’t, sir, so I took the liberty of commissioning a student from a local art college to draw this one.”

“Which school?”

“The Throckmorton School for the Artistically Disinclined.”

“Delightful. Make sure he throws in a bear. And make sure the bear looks like Chewbacca with Downs syndrome.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And fire Carruthers.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Greatest Show on Ice

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir.”

“I had a napmare! Bring my wibby!”

“By ‘wibby,’ you mean–”

“Scotch.”

“–scotch? Yes, sir.”

WHISKEY POURING NOISE

“Such a wonderful drink named after such mud-covered savages.”

“If we could get past the baseless racism, sir. You said you had a nightmare?”

“Dammit, Jenkins, do you have dicks in your ears? Little skinny dicks blocking up your eustachian tubes?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”

“Napmare. Much worse than a nightmare.”

“How so?”

“Shorter! All the horror has to be packed into 20 minutes instead of being spread out all night.”

“20 minutes? You’ve been asleep for three hours, sir.”

“And yet I’m still sleepy.”

“What was the dream about, sir?”

“Oh, Jenkins, it was terrible. Time looped in upon itself like a fat boy doing somersaults. We were stuck performing the same inane, useless tasks day after day after day. Nothing ever changed! My God, what an awful dream. Ah, well. Over now. Just a dream. So, what’s on the agenda.”

“Dead & Company’s back on tour and we need to make a poster.”

“NOOOOOOOOO! THE DREAM IS REAL!”

“Get away from the window, sir!”

“Why? I’ll just wake up again tomorrow, which will be today again!”

“Sir, no!”

STRUGGLING NOISES

“You’re awake, sir! You’re not in a time loop!”

“Then why do we keep doing the same shit over and over?”

“Life is both cyclical and progressive, sir.”

“I can’t take it, Jenkins. I’m very fragile. I feel as though I may snap at any second. Like Emily Dickinson at a Black Friday sale.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t do well that in that environment.”

“She is me, Jenkins! I am her! Look at my hand. It’s trembling.”

“That’s your penis, sir.”

“Oh, so it is. Hello there, Monsieur Floppy.”

“Sir, the poster.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir. The band will be playing at MSG.”

“Ah, yes. The Mongolian Sex Gulch. My children had their Bar Mitzvahs there.”

“No, sir. Madison Square Garden.”

“Oh. I had Mongolian sex there.”

“I’ll regret asking this, sir, but what is Mongolian sex?”

“It’s semi-nomadic.”

“I’m moving on as though this conversation made sense. Do you have any ideas?”

“Child labor needs to make a comeback.”

“Ideas about the poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Something that goes with the venue. Let me see, let me see. MSG. MSG. MSG. Ah! A Chinaman frying up a cat!”

“Sir, the racism needs to stop. It’s 2017.”

“Yes, I know. Have you looked around? Racism is getting a reboot. Like Star Wars, but less diverse.”

“Let’s concentrate, sir.”

“Yes, yes, How about a drop more concentration juice?”

WHISKEY POURING NOISE

“Yummy. Oh, by the way, how many of these posters are we going to have to do this time around?”

“About a dozen.”

“Just hand me the damn bottle.”

WHISKEY CHUGGING NOISE

“Smooth. Jenkins, I might take up crack.”

“Oh, sir, no. Why?”

“No one’s doing it anymore. I feel bad for crack. Used to play the big rooms.”

“Poster.”

“Poster!”

“How about something related to sports?”

“Jeff Chimenti in a jockstrap.”

“No, sir. Sports that take place in Madison Square Garden.”

“Patrick Ewing’s sweaty dong.”

“No, sir.”

“You didn’t let me finish, damn you.”

“Excuse me, sir.”

“Patrick Ewing’s sweaty dong, and Billy and Mickey are his sweaty balls.”

“Ah. It’s still no, sir.”

“Is it too late to go to grad school, Jenkins? I could be a squirrel scientist. Sit outside with a notebook. ‘2:30 pm: squirrel ran up tree.’ ‘2:35: ran back down.’ I’d record the doings of squirrels and be happy. Do I deserve happiness, Jenkins?”

“Can we get back to the poster, sir?”

“Poster! Oh, fine, let’s plow through this. Heads is basketball, tails is hockey.”

COIN FLIPPING NOISE

“Tails.”

“Hockey it is, sir.”

“Heads is bears, tails is turtles.”

“Oh, no, sir. That isn’t necessary. It has to be bears.”

“Why is this?”

“Turtles are cold-blooded. They can’t play hockey.”

“Excellent point, Jenkins. Deadheads demand scientific exactitude in their posters.”

“Thank you, sir. What about the colors?”

“Make it look like a TeleTubbie threw up.”

“Yes, sir. And the font?”

“Third-rate circus.”

“Yes, sir. Isn’t this exciting? Fall tour!”

“Go buy me some crack, Jenkins.”

“Oh, sir.”

Just Your Neighborhood Rock Star And His Saturday Night Girl

“Hold me close, Natasha Monster.”

“Stop it.”

“Count the headlights on the highway.”

“Stop it.”

Join Together With The Bands

Dead & Company are up at around 11 pm East Coast time, and Metallica after that.

What John Mayer Was Doing In My Pajamas, I Have No Idea

Go read Groucho: The Life and Times of Julius Henry MarxIt’s a much sadder story than you’d think.

And then go watch Duck Soup. It’s much funnier than you remember.

A Good Cause (For Outrage)

Yes, of course this is a worthwhile cause, and obviously it’s admirable of Dead & Company to do it–Oteil even canceled a show in New York with his band for this gig–and no one would argue that everyone’s heart isn’t in the right place.

That said, how the unbelievable fuck is Rancid’s name as big as D&C’s? And, yes, I know that their names take up the same amount of space and Rancid has fewer letters in their name so it just appears bigger, but this isn’t about facts: it’s show biz. Or principle. Either one, whichever you like better.

Second question: what is a “G-Eazy” and how does it possibly get the same billing as Metallica? I will now break my sacred vow of Without Research to pin down the identity of this so-called “G,” who flounces about with such “eaze.”

Oh, God, it’s a white rapper. And–what the fucking fuck–his first album came out in 2014 and didn’t even go gold.

This cannot stand. I object on behalf of the Grateful Dead community, and also the community of people who liked the first three Metallica records. I object in the name of Dave Matthews’ cargo shorts. This here is some LiveNation bullshit and none of you should take it lying down.

Thanks, Obama.

I See The Gulf Of Mexico

Summer’s here, Enthusiasts, but winter is coming and that can mean only one thing: time for Bobby to get Montezuma’s Revenge again. Mexico! Our hermano to the south; Bizarro Canada; the neighbor no one threatened to move to if Trump got elected. Oh, beautiful Mexico with your proud history that I know absolutely nothing of, and your tacos, which I enjoy, and your music, which if I’m honest I could live without. Who told you a trumpet went with an accordion, Mexico? Did Germany tell you that? What else did Germany tell you, Mexico? Have you and Germany been passing notes again?

Stop being–

Mexican’s not a race.

incoherent and weird. And racist.

I’ll give you the first two, but hating a foreign culture’s traditional music is natural. I don’t like Canadian traditional music, either.

What is Canadian traditional music?

Triumph.

Just tell everyone about the Mexico shows.

We should crowd-fund a ticket for Sam Cutler and he could do broadcasts from the resort about how awful everything was.

I would chip in a couple bucks for that.

We should get Steve Wozniak to give us a half-million dollars.

Totally. Tell the nice people about Mexico.

Several years ago, a rock band looked out into the audience and thought, “I bet a bunch of these fuckers are rich.” Thus was born the Mexican Resort Run. The Phishes have been doing it for a while, and the legacy acts team to play Classic Rock weekends, and Bobby and Billy went down there last year with Widespread String Cheese or whoever.

Now it’s Dead & Company’s turn to rock the Mayan Riviera at a cautious, stately pace; there are several tiers of accommodations available, but I know that Enthusiasts are only the best kind of people and that demand a certain quality in their surroundings. I would wager that most of you are in tuxedos while you read this. I wouldn’t disgust you by telling you where the poor will be sleeping; I will share with you the specs of the ultra-luxury, super-elite, supposed-to-be-secret package known as the Praetor’s Suite.

In the Mayan language, Makayano means “Of course we’ll dispose of the dead prostitute” and the Makayano Sunkisser Hotel lives up the name with a standard of service unparalleled throughout the world, or at least better than that shithole Hard Rock across the bay.

Packages include:

  • Four days and nights at the Mayakano Sunkisser.
  • Hand-crafted, carbon-neutral tickets to all three Dead & Company shows.
  • Private transportation to and from the shows in literally whatever car you prefer. Just ask. Bentley? Lambo? ’92 Mazda RX7? We’ll make it happen.
  • Private jet to and from your local airport.
  • Private helicopter to take you from your house to the airport.
  • If you like a bellhop, you can take him home.
  • Four dinners at our 5-star restaurant, Guy Fieri’s Villa de Flavór.
  • All the fucking shrimp you can eat.
  • Seriously: if you ask us to, we will feed you shrimp as you sleep.
  • Personal security for the shows. (Available: large trained man, or tiny crazy fucker who will tackle strangers to make you laugh.)
  • Backstage access.
  • Backdoor access (to the bellhops).

Ask about our trips into town to run over locals!

Steal Your Base

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Backman flies out to left.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Hernandez flies out to center.”

“Please don’t tell your Game 6 story, sir.”

“I had 30,000 on the Mets, and I was smoking a lot of crack. This was when I was a cop.”

“No, sir. This is the plot to Bad Lieutenant, sort of.”

“I was going to murder Mookie.”

“None of this happened, sir.”

“Make it look like an accident. Maybe a tiger would eat him, I don’t know. Luckily, he won the game for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why are you here?”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s not do a poster, Jenkins. Rude to the blind. Let’s do a smell for this show.”

“A what, sir?”

“A signature smell. One-time only. That’s how we’ll advertise the show.”

“Sir, posters aren’t for advertising any more. We just sell them for $60 a pop.”

“Then we’ll make it a very fancy smell. Money mixed with not being afraid of the cops.”

“Maybe for next year, sir. I think we should stick with the sense of sight for this one.”

“Sight. Pish-tosh. Overrated sense.”

“Be that as it may, sir.”

“Why don’t we go somewhere cold and cut the cables on a ski lift, Jenkins?”

“After the poster, sir.”

“Promise?”

“Sure.”

“I imagine it would sound like this: TWANG! AAAAAAaaaaaah! PLOOMPF!”

“Yes, sir.”

“The ‘PLOOMPF’ was them hitting the snow, Jenkins.”

“I figured that out from context clues, sir.”

“Don’t you get all high and mighty with me, Jenkins. Figuring things out like a smarty-pants.”

“No, sir.”

“In fact: give me your pants.”

“Poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, just put some bullshit on a piece of paper.”

“Same as always,. Yes, sir.”

“Wait, Jenkins. Let’s do something different.”

“I told you that we can’t do a poster made out of smells, sir.”

“No, not that. Let’s have the poster be…I don’t know the word for it.”

“Vaguely attractive?”

“That’s it.”

“So, not the same as always.”

“And put the bears in it.”

“Mostly the same as always. Yes, sir.”

“Not kidding about that ski lift plan.”

“I didn’t think you were, sir.”

Oh, Babe, It Ain’t No Lie

Hey, Nephew. Whatcha doing?

“Fuming. Fuming, bro”

What happened? You don’t like your onesie? That’s a custom Starhawk job.

“This is not about the onesie. Don’t make it about the onesie.”

What’s it about?

“WHERE THE FUCK IS JERRY?”

Garcia?

“No, Orbach. Of course Garcia.”

Dead.

“You’re shitting me.”

You are three days old, and I’m going to need you to stop cursing.

“No Garcia? I got born in a non-Garcia timeline?”

It’s been 20 years.

“Dude, not cool.”

Honestly, buddy? The lack of Garcia is, like, the least worst thing about 2017.

“Wow. Huh. No Garcia? Tough break.”

It is.

“At least we still have Bowie.”

“MotherFUCKer!”

I don’t know what to tell you, Nephew.

“What were my parents thinking?”

That they love each other and wanted to have a child?

“Selfish.”

Maybe.

“Just one more question.”

Shoot.

“Who’s the president?”

Barack Obama.

“Oh, thank God.”

The Bus Came By And I Threw Up

“Jenkins!”

“I’m sitting on your lap, sir.”

“Oh, yes. Why are you doing that?”

“You call it ‘Santa Practice,’ sir.”

“Ah. How am I doing?”

“You have an erection, sir.”

“Well you must have been naughty.”

“I’m going to stand up.”

“I’m not. I’ve got a boner.”

“Yes, sir. What did you want to discuss?”

“I had a dream last night, Jenkins. I dreamt that I ate an entire box of crayons and then projectile vomited onto some glossy paper. What do you think that means?”

“No idea, sir.”

“So many colors that nothing at all made sense. Have you heard of minimalism, Jenkins?”

“Of course, sir.”

“This was the opposite.”

“Maximilism.”

“Stop making up words, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And there were bears and skeletons and buses and roses and flying eyeballs and you were there, Jenkins. And you two farmhands.”

“Who are you talking to, sir?”

“The farmhands.”

“Hello.”

“Howdy.”

BANG!

BANG!

“You shot the farmhands, sir.”

“Their existence was only required for that one joke, Jenkins. Let’s get back to the poster.”

“Is that what we were talking about?”

“Let’s see: first, I sexually harassed you, then I told you my dreams, and then I shot two farmhands. Yes, we’re talking about the poster.”

“Excellent, sir.”

“Bring me some paper, a box of crayons, and a bottle of Ipecac.”

“What if we just let an artist do it?”

“But then I wouldn’t get to vomit up rainbows.”

“Yes, sir.”

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