Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: dead & company (page 3 of 32)

Help On The Fenway

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Boston, Jenkins.”

“Beantown, sir.”

“Oliver Wendell Holmes called it the Hub. Do you know why?”

“No, sir.”

“Terrible speech impediment. Couldn’t pronounce ‘Boston.'”

“Ah.”

“I am excited, Jenkins! Let’s get in the Boston spirit.”

“How, sir?”

“Segregate the office.”

“No, sir.”

“Sell off Babe Ruth.”

“We can’t, sir.”

“Strangle someone.”

“Lots of towns have had stranglers, sir.”

“Yes, but the Tulsa Strangler didn’t get a Rolling Stones song written about him, did he?”

“No, sir.”

“Bring me your neck, Jenkins.”

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“They say it’s the most intimate way to murder someone.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Any ideas, sir?’

“What about a toothbrush for your asshole? That’d stick it to Big Toilet Paper.”

“Let’s table that, sir.”

“You don’t get to table anything, Jenkins. I’m the chair.”

“Perhaps I didn’t couch my statement properly.”

“Floor.”

“Yes, sir. Floor. Now, the poster?”

“Bear.”

“Bear, check.”

“One of those tank-lizards.”

“Turtles, sir. They’re called turtles.”

“They wear their ribs on the outside, Jenkins! Preposterous rib placement.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jenkins?”

“Do you want ribs for lunch, sir?”

“You read my mind.”

“Anything else for the poster?”

“Bucky Dent refusing to make way for ducklings.”

“No, sir.”

“Whitey Bulger running over Tom Brady in a duck boat.”

“No, sir. No duck-related trolling at all.”

“What? We can’t make fun of Boston? Next, you’ll tell me we can’t make fun of homosexuals or the poor!”

“I shouldn’t need to tell you that, sir.”

“Oh, fine. Just throw the bear and the turtle and some skulls and whatnot in there.”

“So, same as usual?”

“Precisely. Rib time?”

“Rack ’em up, sir.”

The Wrinkle Was Sold To Me As A Crease

This is from Rolling Stone back in May. The great Jesse Jarnow interviewed Bobby about Dead & Company, and the new ’77 box set, and bliss. I was not mentioned, even obliquely, and the article lacks for my absence. Bush league move, Jarnow.

Stop that.

People should talk about me more.

Okay, champ. Get to whatever stolen premise you’re gonna half-ass while you procrastinate doing your big-boy writing that you’re so proud of that no one will pay you for.

Ow.

Point out the lie.

It’s all true, but the tone was a bit much.

You deserve it, plus more.

That’s true, too, but it still hurts.

Get to it.

Anyway, Dead & Company’s summer tour is well underway and Enthusiasts everywhere are still a bit perplexed as to what this so-called “wrinkle” is. It must be subtle, whatever it is, so allow me to make some guesses and also steal some from the internet:

  • Entire band going commando for performances. (“It makes the jams freer,” Oteil says. “Makes it easier to take my dick out,” Billy adds.)
  • Jeff Chimenti changed conditioners.
  • Some video screen bullshit?
  • It can’t be Mickey’s clogs; though I have no evidence, I will state definitively that the wrinkle is not Mickey clip-clopping away back there.
  • And it can’t be Oteil singing lead, either, not from the sentences that follow the stuff about the wrinkle.
  • Bobby, what the fuck are you talking about?
  • I demand the great Jesse Jarnow get Bobby on the phone and make him explain himself.
  • Everyone go bother Jesse on Twitter about it.
  • Give him no respite until he answers our questions.
  • Call him names!
  • I’m not gonna tell you to stop again.
  • I was done.
  • Good.

I Wish I Was A Great Big Creepy Bear And Some Fucking Turtles And Whatnot On A Northbound Train

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?’

“It’s Ice Cube’s birthday.”

“I didn’t know that, sir.”

“I hope he has a good day.”

“Well done, sir.”

“Not his real name, you know. Ice Cube.”

“I did know that, sir.”

“He was born MC Fiddle Faddle.”

“No, sir.”

“He was born into this hip-hop game, Jenkins.”

“If you say so, sir. Can we get to the poster?”

“No.”

“We must, sir.”

“Oh, damn the poster. Damn it to Hell!”

“The poster’s already for Pittsburgh, sir. Hell’s not much of a drop-off.”

“Pittsburgh. Ugh. Nothing but rivers you can’t spell and improperly-placed french fries.”

“Yes, sir.”

“They don’t go in the sandwich. Fries go next to the sandwich.”

“I agree, sir.”

“Are they still flashdancing in Pittsburgh?”

“Not since the 80’s, sir.”

“A fine dance, Jenkins. My favorite, at least since the lambada got itself forbidden.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lambada with me, Jenkins!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Let’s dance dirtily!”

“No.”

“I’ll put my baby in your corner.”

“Pass, sir.”

“When I said ‘baby,’ I meant ‘penis.'”

“Yes, sir.”

“And by ‘corner,’ I meant–”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir. We need to concentrate.”

“We should get a famous artist. Is Chuck Close available?”

“Yes, but our office is on the second floor.”

“Ah. How about that fellow who draws those flattering cartoons of the president?”

“Ben Garrison? No, sir. He’d draw a bear and then write BEAR on it.

“That’s not a necessarily bad thing, Jenkins. Many Deadheads are utter morons.”

“True, sir, but it’s just not the aesthetic we go for.”

“You’re right, you’re right. Okay, here’s what we do: put the happiest bullshit we have on the poster, but make it somehow ominous.”

“Yes, sir. Color scheme?’

“Imagine you just vomited up a peach cobbler.”

“I’m on it, sir.”

“Watch out for that Goodyear blimp, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

Staredown Street

“Who the hell is that?’

Which one?

“White.”

John Mayer.

“Who?”

Josh Meyers.

“Still nothing.”

You okay, Bobby?

“I was bored before the show, so my shoulder started hurting.”

Stay away from those goddamned pills, Weir.

“Not pills.”

Good.

“I crushed ’em up.”

Dammit.

Fire, Fire On The Metaphor

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?’

“Is Taco Tuesday cultural appropriation of Mexicans or the Norse?”

“The Norse, sir?”

“Tiw, Jenkins. He’s who Tuesday’s named after. Norse god of law and justice and table manners.”

“The Norse had table manners?”

“Of course. They stole them from the Angles in 842. It’s like you don’t know history.”

“Just like that, sir.”

“We’ll deal with the taco conundrum later. Let’s get on this poster, Jenkins.”

“The show was yesterday, sir.”

“It’s Colorado, Jenkins. There’s no oxygen and everyone’s on dope. Yesterday, tomorrow, next week. Makes no difference to those people.”

“‘Those people,’ sir?”

“Yes, I’m racist against Coloradans.”

“Wow. New one.”

“I like to be on the vanguard of bigotry. Blaze new trails of irrational hatreds.”

“Yes, sir. Who’s next?”

“People who live on the fourth floor. Violent monsters. Not even human.”

“Which fourth floor?”

“All of them. Anyone who puts their head down to sleep in between floors three and five. Fuck ’em.”

“Yes, sir.

“Lefties.”

“Lefties, sir? What did lefties ever do to you?’

“‘Do to me?’ What does that have to with racism, Jenkins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now: the poster.”

“If we must.”

“You know how Colorado burns down every summer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Put that on the poster.”

“People die in those fires, sir.”

“No, just Coloradans.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And add some drowning children. Everything’s on fire and there are dead, wet children everywhere.”

“No drowning children, sir.”

“Oh, fine. Child. Put a drowning child in the poster.”

“No amount of children, sir.”

“Well, what would Colorado love more than an out-of-control fire? Ah!”

“Please don’t say–”

“Columbine High!”

“–Columbine…sir, no.”

“Mindy stabbing Mork.”

“No.”

“Elway getting sodomized.”

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Go ahead, sir.”

“Elway getting sodomized by a can of Coors Banquet beer in Joker makeup.”

“I’m leaving, sir.”

“Oh, fine. Just make the door slamming noise so everyone knows the bit’s over.”

“Yes, sir.”

SLAM!

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.”

Sell That Silver Mine

“Jenkins!”

“Yes, sir?”

“I had an idea! Uber, but for Dead & Company posters.”

“That’s not an idea, sir.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a sentence, kinda.”

“Jenkins, I’m tired of this poster business. Let’s sell dope.”

“You want to get into the cannabis industry, sir?”

“Industry? God, no. I want to go to the bus station and deal crystal meth.”

“Why, sir?”

“I’m beginning to find respectability irksome, Jenkins. Let’s be scum.”

“I was an Eagle Scout, sir.”

“Wonderful. You’ll wear your uniform, and I can get more money for you.”

“Sir, you cannot sell meth and pimp me out at the bus station.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, because the bus station is Pretty Cleon’s territory.”

“Oh, good point. He’s a bad mother–”

“Shut your mouth, sir.”

“I’m just talking about Pretty Cleon.”

“And two: we need to get this poster done.”

“Where are they now? Butte?”

“No, sir.”

“Lake Titicaca?”

“No, sir”

“Sloppy Pussy, Georgia?’

“Not a place, sir. Dead & Company will be playing Boulder, Colorado.”

“Not much scenery in Colorado.”

“If you say so, sir.”

“Nothing but hippies and doomsday preppers. Lot of overlap between the two groups, honestly.”

“Yes, sir. The poster?”

“Jenkins, I want you to open up your mind as wide as possible.”

“Okay.”

“Wider.”

“How’s this?”

“Wider.”

“Now?”

“Too wide. I can see your childhood.”

“Sir, just get on with it.”

“An experiment, Jenkins! We shall engage in a grand experiment!”

“And that is?”

“Let’s see how much bullshit we can cram into the poster. Stuff everything we got in there, and then stuff in some more. Those bears should be pressed up against each other like soccer fans against a chain link fence.”

“I formally repudiate that last simile, sir.”

“Nope, you’re complicit.”

“Thank you, sir. What about perspectives?”

“I don’t trust the perspectives of ethnic people.”

“No, sir. On the poster.”

“Oh, every single perspective there is. It should be tough for your brain to process fully.”

“Fonts?”

“All of them.”

“Colors?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call the boys in the art department.”

“Rather sexist of you, Jenkins.”

“You won’t hire any women, sir.”

“Oh, then that’s sexist of me. Carry on.”

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.

Summer’s Here And The Time Is Right For…

“Rando War.”

GodDAMMIT, no. C’mon, Bobby. Don’t do this.

“Listen, man: Grateful Deads are cyclical beasts. We’re like cicadas.”

You’re pronouncing that wrong.

“No, Garcia pronounced it wrong. I say it right.”

Bobby, please don’t start another Rando War.

“Don’t think of it like that.”

How should I think of it?

“Like the last Rando War never ended.”

Eisenhower warned us about the Rando-Industrial Complex.

“Lot of jobs depend on this happening. It’s realpolitik.”

Randpolitik.

“Both. My advice, you know, is to start profiteering immediately.”

I’ve heard worse advice.

“I’ve given worse advice.”

“Rando War?”

Don’t you have a Shipoopi number to write?

“Musicals write themselves.”

They don’t.

“My rando is taller than Bobby’s. Point: Chimenti.”

Is that how this works?

“Maybe.”

“But my rando has a giant hat!”

Aw, come on.

“Look at this fucker’s big hat!”

It’s a sizable chapeau.

“Game on, motherfucker.”

RANDO WAR IS NOT A GAME, JOSH MEYERS!

“You didn’t need to yell.”

It’s D-Day. You have some respect on D-Day.

“Sorry.”

Yes, you are.

Up, Up In The Air In My Acceptable Balloon

“Jenkins!”

“I’m right here, sir. No need to yell.”

“No need to backhand you, either.”

“What?”

WHAP!

“Oh.”

“See what I did there?”

“Comedic misdirection. Delightful, sir. Well worth the slap.”

“Oh, grow a pair, Jenkins. Now, let’s get to the poster. Shoreline!”

“Shoreline, sir.”

“Iowa?”

“No.”

“Wyoming?”

“No, sir. Shoreline.”

“Afghanistan.”

“Now you’re just saying landlocked places, sir.”

“No Kabul shows this tour?”

“Maybe next summer.”

“Shame. Excellent Shakedown in Kabul. You can get anything.”

“I’d imagine, sir.”

“Literally anything. Weapons, slaves, drugs, veggie burritos. And no Nitrous Mafia.”

“You can’t get nitrous? I thought you said you could get anything.”

“Oh, you can get nitrous. I said there’s no Nitrous Mafia. Taliban executed them a few years ago.”

“I’m okay with that.”

“And their families.”

“Also okay with that. Sir, we need to get back on track.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have an idea for this one. Old-timey.”

“Okay. Any specific movement or style, sir?”

“Nope! Old-timey!”

“Yes, sir. Bear, turtle, or skeleton?”

“Bring me my decision-making darts, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir.”

WHOOSH

THWUNK

“Turtle it is, sir. Any thoughts on the font?”

“Drippy.”

“Yes, sir. You do know there are two shows, right? Shouldn’t we make two posters?”

WHAP!

“One poster it is, sir.”

“Quick learner, Jenkins.”

“I try, sir.”

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