Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: john mayer (page 1 of 28)

In Which, Through Fits And Starts, A Twist, Undreamt Of By The Typist ‘Fore His Sitting, Occurs

I don’t even know what to say to you at this point.

“How about ‘What a splendid toppermost, John?'”

No. Definitely not that.

“I like to look on the outside how I feel on the inside, and today I feel like an Albuquerque dentist’s office in 1978.”

Nailed it.

“Thank you. Honestly, man? I don’t know what I love most about clothes: buying them, wearing them, or washing them. But, you know, if you think about it: those three things are intertwined. I have a really involved metaphor comparing tee-shirts to the Holy Trinity, if you’d like to hear it.”

I would not. Seriously, what the fuck is that garment?

“I can’t keep telling you this. It is called a toppermost. It’s neither a kimono nor a robe, and it’s certainly not a coat.”

You can’t define words that way.

“Just watch me.”

Got me there.

“The toppermost is one of several articles of clothing that poor people don’t know about. Like footkerchiefs.”

Are those like handkerchiefs?

“Sort of.”

What else?

“An aglellon.”

What is that?

“It’s like a hat for your neck.”

You’re making this all up.

“I will send you a video of my aglellon closet. I’ll edit it into a trying-on-outfits montage like in chick flicks.”

I would like to see that. Hey, speaking of chicks: you have to make it to the end of this tour without getting accused of anything.

“It’s like a feeding frenzy.”

Just gotta make it to the end of the tour. You know that we’ve all grown fond of you, but if drag the Dead into the Problem Attic with you, Deadhead assassins will be dispatched.

“Deadhead assassins?”

Yeah. They’re not the best. Far more dangerous to themselves than to you. But you’ll be in a very odd state of existence forevermore: nonstop attempts on your life, but all of them doomed to fail.

“Dude, it’ll be fine. And nothing’s happening this tour, anyway. I’ve settled down.”

Oh, God.

“Bitch, who you talking to?”

“No one important, Daddy.”

“I forgot my fucking robe. Gimme your toppermost.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I simply do not know what’s going on here.

“It’s called love, you simple motherfucker. Bitch was respectful, educated. Learned how to cook my food right. Asshole real tight. Talked too fucking much, but I trained that out of him. Moved him in to the house in the City.”

You’re gay now?

BANG!

Saw that coming.

“Miles fucking Davis ain’t a fucking sissy. Nothing gay about fucking a man. Getting fucked by a man? That’s some gay-ass shit.”

I don’t think that’s how it works.

“No one asked your opinion on my fucking love life.”

Love?

“Yeah. I didn’t see it coming. Surprised me.”

Me, too.

“Thinking about letting him get gay married to me.”

“It would just be married, Daddy.”

JAZZ SLAP!

“What the fuck did I tell you about correcting me in public?”

“That you appreciated constructive criticism?”

JAZZ SLAP!

“That was in private, you dumb bitch.”

“Oh! Right! I got them confused. I thought ‘Speak up in public and be quiet in private’ but now that I think about it, it just makes no sense. I’m a scatterbrain.”

JAZZ PUNCH!

“Not in the face, Daddy! I need that!”

Please, Miles Davis, stop beating your fiance, John Mayer.

“When he stops needing a fucking beating.”

This is getting truly dark.

“Shouldn’t have fucking brought me here, you didn’t want me to be myself.”

None of this is my fault.

“Now fuck off. We going aglellon shopping.”

Sure.

Badman And Robin

“Fucking exhausting.”

What?

“Being a genius.”

Tell me about it.

BANG!

“Don’t you ever compare yourself to me.”

You’re right. I apologize.

“I did some acting. Went down to Miami. Did that cop show. What was that shit called? The No Sock-Wearing Motherfuckers Hour?”

Miami Vice.

“Yeah, right. These motherfuckers call me up. I’m out on Long Island. Swimming every day. Hip feels good. I’m strong. I’m masculine. They tell me how great I am. Want me to be on their show. Got one question. Could I act?”

What did you say?

“I flew down to Miami, found the motherfucker said that dumb shit to me, and punched him in his Jew nose. Might have been an Italian nose. Maybe Greek. Big motherfucker. Then I pissed on him in front of his coworkers. You can’t take no shit from these Hollywood motherfuckers.”

Good advice.

“They got me playing a pimp. Got a cane and shit. I asked the producer why I couldn’t be playing a doctor. Father was a fucking dentist, I can’t be a doctor? I became angry.”

Did you hit him with the cane?

“I did.”

Yeah. Other than that, how’d it go?

“Shit, acting is fucking easy. It’s just lying.”

And standing in the right place.

“They’re obsessed with that shit. Wanna thank you for hooking me up with your boy. We getting along.”

Josh? Oh, no. You two are friends now? And going on adventures?

“We ain’t friends. We have a relationship.”

What?”

“Bitch!”

“Yes, Daddy?”

Oh, no. What’s happened here?

“You may answer, bitch.”

“I have been turned out.”

Oh, this is not what I wanted to happen.”

“And yet it did. Miles Da–”

“What the fuck you call me?”

“–Daddy has claimed me as his bitch and is now earning off my ass.”

I’m sorry, buddy. Why are you dressed like that?

“Did you know there were Furry marathoners?”

I didn’t.

“There are. And nine of them just jerked off on me.”

“And paid you for it! Bring me my fucking money.”

I didn’t intend this.

“Help me.”

No.

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.

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.

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.

Persiflage In Camouflage

“Hello?”

Who’s talking?

“Are you doing one of your little routines?”

All I see are two chairs. Listen, chairs: I already talk to a stool, and that’s kind of enough.

“You doing the camouflage bit?”

I am, yeah.

“Delightful. So. Hear you’re gonna die.”

Probably.

“Irma’s blowing pretty hard.”

And not even cupping my balls.

“Rude.”

I think so.

“I’m gonna miss you.”

I’m gonna miss you a lot, John. I know we’ve had our differences–

“You blew up my house and let Trump freejack my body.”

–but I feel that we’ve truly become friends. Our relationship will be one of the things that goes through my mind as the palm tree goes through my chest.”

“Really?”

Yeah, sure, why not?

“You’re such a dick.”

I’m the only one who tells you the truth, John. Has anyone else told you that you have weak ankles?

“No.”

Surprised they haven’t snapped in half yet while you soloed.

“There’s nothing wrong with my ankles.”

They just look like they should have a charm anklet around one of them. Maybe both. Dude. Dude? Double anklet.

“I don’t know why you’re like this.”

I calls ’em likes I sees ’em. And those are the ankles of a six-year-old girl.

“I’m gonna go.”

Not even an athletic six-year-old girl.

“Leave me out of this until winter tour.”

Are you confirming that there’s a winter tour?

“Yeah, sure why not?”

You turned it back around.

“I did.”

Nice.

“You want me to sing at your funeral?”

Solo stuff or Dead?

“Solo stuff.”

Pass.

“Asshole.”

Have some respect for the doomed.

Einstein Disguised As Robin Hood With His Memories In A Frunk

Why are you here?

“You are a hurtful and bitter man.”

Be on tour. Go play arenas. Get blowjobs and buy sneakers. I deal with you when I have to. You’re like good-looking herpes.

“Thank you!”

All you heard was “good-looking,” right?

“Uh-huh.”

How’s your tour going?

“Dude, so awesome. No one’s called me Josh in weeks. Haven’t been dosed in a while. Oh, and the crowds? Hotter.”

I would imagine.

“No, you can’t. You cannot imagine how much more fuckable a John Mayer solo show crowd is than a Dead & Company show.”

I bet you got some Deadheads coming out now, though.

“Oh, yeah. Know how I know?”

Are they yelling out for Dark Star?

“They are. Every night. You know that Billy Joel song Leave A Tender Moment Alone?”

Sure.

“Well, Deadheads don’t do that. Deadheads see a tender moment, and they yell Dark Star. It’s like hippie Tourette’s.

I’m sure someone’s going to be offended by that.

“Hey, at least I didn’t say anything racist about my dick.”

True.

“The Dark Star thing has to stop. Can you tell people?”

No one takes my advice on anything ever.

“It’s fucking absurd. I tried to talk to one of them the other night.”

Oh, don’t do that.

“I learned my lesson. Guy shouts out Dark Star, so I say–calmly, reasonably–‘Hey, man, we don’t know that tune.'”

And?

“So, he yells ‘The chords are A and G! It’s in D minor!’ And I’m like, ‘Yeah, I know,’ but he cuts me off. ‘It’s a modal jam!'”

Got a music theory major in the crowd.

“Threw me off my game. I couldn’t make my faces for three or four solos.”

Three or four solos? So…half a song?

“Yeah.”

Good seeing you, Josh.

“Follow me on Instagram!”

God help me, i do.

Dyer, Wolf

You love that hat.

“It’s growing on me. Maybe I’ve been a hat guy all my life and not known it.”

I don’t think so.

“So many lost years.”

I really don’t think so.

“Um, so, tell me something.”

Sure.

“Josh always been blond?”

Only his hairdresser knows for sure.

“Ah.”

I think he’s having a mid-life crisis.

“Could be. I notice he’s been driving around in sports cars and sleeping with women half his age.”

He’s always done that.

“I used to.”

Sure.

“One more thing.”

Yeah?

“Why are there reindeer backstage?”

Reindeer?

“Putin is Santa now.”

What the hell have you done with Santa?

“Santa make problem. Now is no Santa, so is no problem.”

You’re a monster.

“Keep talking and you vill get polonium in your stocking.”

Why is there a lake backstage at Red Rocks?

“Do nyet vorry about it.”

Okay. Listen, Putin: get out of there. No one wants you at the Jerry Tribute.

“Vant to hear Bird Song. This is my jam.”

Stop it.

“Leave Putin alone. Am on vacation. Putin chilling like villain.”

You are the villain.

“Da. Now I steal Bobby Grateful’s hat.”

I’m cool with that.

Turnout’s A Bit Light, But It’s Early

“You’re just gonna have to crouch down a bit, Josh.”

“I can’t keep having this conversation, Bobby.”

“Listen: I’m, uh, the tall guy in the band. I’m the good-looking one, and I’m the tall one. Those are the rules.”

“You were never the tall one. Phil was.”

“Only in inches. In spirit, I was the tall one.”

“Not gonna crouch down, Bobby.”

“Maybe I should get some lifts put in my sandals.”

“How would that even work?”

“No idea. Have to ask my sandal tech. Y’know, Josh, I gotta tell ya: I’m very impressed.”

“With what?’

“13 nights with no repeats? You’re just killing it.”

“Uh-huh. Bobby, that was your famous fill-in guitarist from two summers ago. I’m the new ringer.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah. Well, you know, I guess I’m proud of you, too.”

“Thanks.”

No Head, No Backstage Pass

This is the worst kickoff to a presidential campaign I’ve ever seen.

My dad used to say that America didn’t elect Senators. My dad used to say a lot of bullshit. Ten seconds of research shows that 16 Senators have become President, and that’s almost exactly a third. Obama, Kennedy, and Harding went straight from the Capitol to the White House. Well, not straight there: Obama stopped at his mosque to pray, Kennedy stopped for a blowjob, and Harding stopped for [INSERT WARREN HARDING JOKE HERE].

So: could Al Franken be the next President of the United States? He is Jewish, which does not help, and he is not even the right kind of Jewish for Middle America, which is non-religious. The yokels have not met many Jews, you see, and do not know much about Judaism except that bacon is not on the menu and Saturdays are for the Sabbath. (Middle America has heard the word Sabbath.) Jews are supposed to keep things. Jews keep kosher; Jews keep the Sabbath, Jews keep getting expelled from countries and/or massacred. Jews keep.

But a Jew who doesn’t do any of that? A secular Jew? Nah, not in Peoria. Only thing worse than being a different religion is not having one. However–and I’m sure you’ve already intuited this–it is certainly possible to be too Jewish, both in a religious and a cultural way. Hasidic isn’t getting the nomination, and neither is Ed Koch. I hate to give him any credit, but Joe Lieberman threaded the needle perfectly. Didn’t wear a yarmulke, but made a big deal about going to temple every week.

TotD, you’re saying, we already elected a black guy and a rusted bucket of racist diarrhea: why not a Jew?

And I would answer, We also elected a woman, but the Electoral College didn’t agree.

To which you would reply, That’s the system; why should California get to decide for the whole country?

I would say, Because that’s where all the fucking people live.

And you would say, This is why Trump won and there’s no Russia.

Can you stop this?

The imagined conversation or the whole post?

Either would be fine with me.

John Mayer picked that bandana out special to meet the Senator.

He totally did.

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