Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: john mayer (page 4 of 31)

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


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.”


“Irma’s blowing pretty hard.”

And not even cupping my balls.


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.”


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?


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.”


“You want me to sing at your funeral?”

Solo stuff or Dead?

“Solo stuff.”



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?


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?”


“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.”


“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.'”


“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?


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.”


“Josh always been blond?”

Only his hairdresser knows for sure.


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.”


“One more thing.”


“Why are there reindeer backstage?”


“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.”



“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.”


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