Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: john mayer (page 2 of 29)

It’s In The Details

Fine, just talk about it.

“Today’s toppermost was made by a Japanese man named Akira Yoshida. He’s an artisan/courtesan.”

What is that?

“Sewing in the day, fancy-fucking at night.”

Courtesans are very fancy.

“Right? If you made a bell curve of prostitute classiness, courtesans would be all the way to the right.”

And crack whores to the left?

“Yeah.”

I can see it.

“This is his masterpiece. The toppermost originated in Japan, y’know.”

I didn’t.

“Somewhere around 800 AD, a shogun named Suzuki Nintendo–”

Nope.

“–awoke from a dream on his tatami mat. He went to the window and arranged some flowers. Then, he had tea.”

We get it. He’s Japanese.

“His servant brought in his kimono for the day, and Suzuki refused it. The servant asked what he wanted to wear. Suzuki pointed at the kimono and said, ‘That, but not quite.’ Then Mt. Fuji gave birth to a dragon, and the toppermost was born.”

Uh-huh.

“It’s like this mash-up of art and religion for them. Very spiritual, very inspiring. They give their lives to the clothing. You know how it takes forever to become a sushi chef over there?”

Yes.

“Well, that’s lunch. This is toppermost, man. My guy does pieces for the Emperor.”

Japan still has an Emperor?

“Japan’s got, like, nine or ten systems of government going at the same time. It’s impenetrable.”

True.

“Decades. It takes decades to become a master. My guy Akira? First three years was just threading needles for his master. Nothing else. Threading needles all day. Master never talks to him. Finally, after a year he says, ‘Master, don’t I get to do anything else?'”

Ooh, what did the master say? I bet it’s all wise and shit.

“No, he just beat Akira senseless. These were the old days.”

Sure.

“But now? Look at this sleeve.”

Which one?

“Either one.”

I don’t wanna choose. You pick for me.

“Left.”

What am I looking at?

“Quality!”

Stop making me look at your clothes.

“Now we move on to the hem stitching.”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“You suck.”

I know.’

“What’s up, player? It’s John Mayer.”

“No one answers the phone like my Johnny!”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“We are making moves out here, baby. You would not believe the business I’m drumming up for you. You know those parks where they got the birds in cages, and rich assholes come out with shotguns and kill a whole bunch of ’em?”

“Like where Dick Cheney shot that guy in the face?”

“Exactly. It’s like that. These deals are just flying out in front of my face and I’m taking ’em down. Bing bing Benj.”

“Great. Whatcha got?”

“Nike.”

“Nike? That’s awesome!”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Dammit.”

“Nikehitsu. They’re Japanese.”

“Oh, we were just talking about Japan. What are they? Energy drink? Clothes?”

“It’s a consortium of salarymen who want to pee on you.”

“You’re killing me, Benjy.”

“It’s a lot of money for not a lot of pee!”

“Pass.”

“I got an offer for you to play the President of Turkmenistan’s birthday party. $1.5 million for an hour.”

“Wow. That sounds okay.”

“And, you know, it’s a party so there’s gonna be chicks.”

“I figured. Who’s the President of Turkmenistan?”

“Great guy. Don’t look him up. Wonderful man.”

“I’m gonna look him up.”

“Pass, Benjy.”

“The people love him! He won the last election by 96 points!”

“No.”

“I have a firm offer on the table from a Broadway producer to do a jukebox musical based on your songs.”

“Huh. That’s interesting. Maybe I could do that. Who’s the producer?”

“Jeremy Piven. He’s switching lanes.”

“Pass. Benjy, find me something that’s not weird or damaging to my career, please.”

“Working for my guy!”

“And why are you still at the racetrack?”

“Remember that sponsorship deal I told you about?”

“The one where I would be the sponsor? Yeah. We’re doing the other thing. Where people give me money instead of the other way around.”

“Right. Except you gotta spend money to make money, buddy. This is great publicity!”

“Pass.”

“You already took the deal.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have your power of attorney. We signed the deal. Six months of the Mayermobile.”

“How the fuck do you have my power of attorney?”

“You do remember when I brought you back from the dead, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And the management contract you signed?”

“Shit.”

“You should have had a lawyer look that over.”

“Fuck.”

“I want you to think about the Broadway thing. Piven’s a dick, but he’s got a vision. I saw him do Troilus & Cressida way back in Chicago. Brilliant mind. Okay, they’re calling me back to the track. Later, Johnny.”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

“Hey!”

Yes?

“This is not funny, and it’s not cool.”

It’s a little funny.

“I’m thinking about pulling a Gawker on you.”

Feeling froggy? Leap.

Orpheus, Returned

I thought you were dead.

“I am really thinking about calling my lawyers on you. I don’t appreciate you using my image in this manner.”

I warned you! I told you flat-out that Miles Davis–

“Who I married.”

–was going to shoot and kill you.

“I blame you.”

This wasn’t the worst relationship you’ve ever had.

“It was. Most of my relationships involve movie stars and anal. Very rarely before I became a character in your little cry for help was I pimped out, beaten, and murdered.”

Look on the bright side.

“What bright side!?”

Dude. #MeToo.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

You need to jump on this bandwagon, bro.

“I should come forward with my story about how a jazz legend who died in 1991 killed me?”

Domestic violence is so hot right now. You know how many offers Terry Crews is getting?

“That’s kinda dark, man.”

It was, wasn’t it?

“Usually, you voice those terrible thoughts through other people.”

I do. Let’s move on.

“Wanna talk toppermost?”

No.

“Topper time?”

Absolutely not. I want to know how you came back from the dead.

“Oh, right. I forgot. It all blends together after being eaten by dinosaurs, inhabited by the spirit of 1993 Donald Trump, and blowdarted repeatedly by Vladimir Putin. Why exactly is it that I’m your Mr. Bill doll?”

Jealousy.

“Gotcha.”

I don’t recall anything in the continuity about you having any sort of resurrectory powers. How are you alive?

“A friend came and got me. Well, not a friend: my new manager.”

New manager?

“Best decision you ever made, Johnny.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Hey, Benj. You Ubering people back and forth from the afterlife now?

“Anything for Johnny.”

“What did I tell you?”

“Bro, we’re going places. I got big plans. John Mayer is not just a guitarist, a singer, a songwriter, a Furry prostitute.”

“That was just the one time.”

“John Mayer is a brand. It’s like: Coca-Cola, Apple, John Mayer. And that list is probably out of order; people are drinking way less soda lately. We’re gonna leverage you, buddy. What do you think of pecans?”

“They’re all right.”

“Could you love ’em for two million?”

“I could, yeah.”

“Okay, great. One condition: you have to legally change your name to Pecan John.”

“Pass.”

“No problem, no problem. I got a ton of shit lined up. I’ve been on the phone all day. Nothing but work for you, buddy!”

“Uh-huh. Then, uh, why are you in a racesuit standing next to a racecar?”

“Johnny!”

“Stop that!”

“It’s for you! It’s a sponsorship deal!”

“A racing team wants to sponsor me?”

“Other way around. But your picture would be on the car!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine, fine, I got more. How do you feel about kittens?”

“Kittens are great.”

“How do you feel about tattooing your face on kittens?”

“Negatively. Very negatively.”

“Is that a pass, or a hard pass?”

“Hard. Very hard. Why would anyone want to do that, anyway?”

“They wouldn’t tell me.”

“Benjy, these are terrible deals. How about an upscale liquor?”

“Upskirt licker?”

“What?”

“Sorry, I just got horny.”

“Benjy, concentrate.I need you to find some moneymaking opportunities for me that are not insane. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know. Can we?”

Oh, this totally smells like a new storyline.

“Awesome possum!”

“Goddammit.”

For Mayer Or For Poorer

They spelled your name wrong, Josh.

“This is going to come as a shock to you, but I’m a highly respected artist.”

You paint?

“Not that kind of artist.”

What is this for?

“Awesomeness.”

Uh-huh.

“And record sales. I move product like Escobar.”

You do sell a lot of units. I don’t see the last album on there.

“Excuse me?”

The Search for Everything. Didn’t go Gold?

“It did.”

Oh.

“In Canada.”

Does your girlfriend live in Canada, too, Josh?

“Y’know, your shitty little attitude and hateful disposition can’t bother me today. I’m happy. I’ve got, like, nine bands; millions of dollars worth of probably-not-counterfeit watches; my tattoos are so sexy; and I’m happily married. I’m objectively winning at life.”

How is Miles?

“I am so in love. Bought him a present.”

Oh, God. Lemme guess.

“Look at this fucking toppermost my bitch bought me.”

I was right.

“I’m clean as a motherfucker. Bitch got a good eye.”

That is a hell of a toppermost, Mr. Davis.

“Best wife I ever had. Shops more than Cicely did, but he pays for his own shit. Brings me presents. Washes all my shit real good. Gets all freaky on my armpits.”

You’re into that?

“I wasn’t, but now I am.”

Sure.

“He’s a good wife. Strong on the inside. Very spiritual. And powerful legs. Boy can take a pounding. I like that. I got a hard stroke. I stroke long, I stroke hard.”

Sounds like you got something good going.

“Love that motherfucker. Traded some of his watches for coke.”

“What now?”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m fucking talking.”

“But you said–”

JAZZ BACKHAND

“Which watches did you–”

JAZZ FOREHAND

“Did you at least save any coke for–”

JAZZ BACKHAND

“Stop slapping me!”

“Okay.”

JAZZ CHAIR-ACROSS-THE-BACK

“That better?

Could you stop beating him, please!?

“When he acts right.”

Mr. Davis, may I speak to your wife, John Mayer?

“Quickly.”

Josh? Buddy?

“Daddy was right. I shouldn’t talk back like that.”

Josh, I need you to know how serious I am, so I’m going to call you John.

“Wow.”

Yeah. Johnny?

“Just John.”

He’s going to kill you.

“He’s not. He loves me.”

He may very well love you. Most people get killed by people who love them.

“You’re just speculating.”

I’m not. I write this bullshit. I decided he was going to shoot you a couple days ago.

“It is the logical dramatic progression.”

I go where the muse takes me.

“I really think I’ll be fine.”

I promise you that you are not.

“Bitch! Get over here and grease up.”

“I gotta go.”

I warned you.

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.

Older posts Newer posts
%d bloggers like this: