Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: john mayer (page 3 of 29)

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.”



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


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.

We’re Gonna Need A Bigger Bus


Bobby, don’t.


It’s not Shark Time, Bob.


Stop it.

“Hey, you know: I get bored.”

Still: no reason for Shark Time.

“I’m gonna bite Josh.”

You can absolutely do that, but don’t play shark in front of the paying customers.

“We call them ‘fans.'”

Potato, tomato.

Went To See The Doctor, Strangest I Could Find

“Benelux Cupmybuns.”


“Basketball Carburetor.”


“Durango Stilson.”

Not even close.

“Billydrummer Cumberland.”

Topical, but still nowhere near.

“Babylover Coopersmith.”

You’re just guessing, Bob.

“Bubbles Carbonara.”

That was a burlesque dancer from St. Louis.

“Jeff Chimenti.”

That’s your keyboard player, Bobby.

“Blasingame Cirrhosis.”

Now you’re just saying words that start with B and C.

“Well, I know he’s one of those superduperheroes. Fancy accountant?”

Doctor Strange.

“Ah. Y’know, the Dead had a Doctor Strange in just about every major city.”

That’s a Doctor Feelgood, Bob.

“So, this guy’s in Mötley Crüe?”

No. He went to Oxford. He’s, like, the opposite of the Crüe.

“Dunno about that. Nikki Sixx is gutter poet.”

Sure. Question.


Josh put some highlights in his hair?

“I don’t wanna talk about it. He’s been wandering around for three days demanding the crew tell him he could pass for 34.”

Aging affects everyone differently.

“You bet.”

You own a piece of D’Angelico, don’t you?



Hall Of Famers

I was number one.”

“You don’t say.”

“Ahead of Orlando Bloom, Groban, everybody. Best bang.”

“That’s wonderful, Josh. Who are we talking about?”

“Katy Perry.”

“Is that a friend of my wife’s?”

“An internationally famous pop star.”

“I don’t know their names, but I know who they are. Are you talking about the tall, skinny, mean one?”

“No, but I nailed her, too.”

“Nice. Was it the one who’s always smoking doobies in public?”

“She won’t return my DM’s.”

“I don’t know what that is. So, this young lady said you were hot to trot? Well done.”


“I got great reviews from Pam Dawber.”


“Yeah. She had a thing for athletes.”

“Cool. Well, you know, Katy’s reeeeeally famous.”

“Don’t sleep on Mindy. Her and Mork were America’s sweethearts.”

“Any other ’80’s teevee stars?”

“Markie Post.”


“Not really. Very petite woman. Like trying to shove your head into a tube sock.”


“All the Facts of Life girls.”

“At once?”

“Threesome with Tootie and Blair. Natalie and Jo separately.”

“Details, man. I need details.”

“Tootie kept her roller skates on.”

“Sweet. Who was the MVP?”

“Natalie. Hands down. And everything else down, too. She was happy to be in the game, and she gave it her all. Real winning attitude.”

“You should write a second book.”

“Benjy keeps calling me about it.”

Staredown Street

“Who the hell is that?’

Which one?


John Mayer.


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.”


“I crushed ’em up.”


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?”


“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.”


“And whisky.”

“Okay. Bob, can I talk to you over there?”


“In the next picture.”

“Ah. Sure, yeah.”

“He’s drinking rocket fuel.”



“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.”


Bill Love

Billy, are you guys playing in an asbestos museum?

“No such luck. Salt Lake City.”


“Gotta bring your own hooch. And skank! Went to a whorehouse here once, and they give you tuggers behind a Zion curtain.”


“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.”


“Cheers me up. I see it and think, ‘I’m gonna stick that somewhere soon,’ and I smile.”


“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.”



Double ew. How’s the tour going?

“All the checks have cleared so far.”

A success.


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.”


“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?


“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.”


“You didn’t need to yell.”

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


Yes, you are.

Basest Solos

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Taking a load off.”

I see that.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but the Grateful Dead rarely featured full-blown bass solos.”

No, they didn’t.

“For a reason.”


“But, you know, Branford loves doing ’em. Bless his heart.”

His name is Oteil.

“Agree to disagree.”

You don’t even want to comp behind him or anything?

“I’m not encouraging bass solos. Mickey used to toss used chewing gum into Phil’s hair when he did ’em. I’m not gonna go that far, but I won’t participate.”

You’re a man of principle.

“And I wanted to sit down.”

That, too.

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