React in any way you wish; it is a fact.
Also: listen to Bostrowsky, Shakedown420. He is wise.
React in any way you wish; it is a fact.
Also: listen to Bostrowsky, Shakedown420. He is wise.
Young John Mayer has a nifty little car collection; it’s precisely the lineup you’d expect him to own. There’s a Ford GT with the proper racing livery, and the old Land Rover. A few Mercedes and a Porsche with tacky wheels. He’s even got a Ferrari, though it’s the 599, which is the single most boring car Ferrari ever made: the only thing exciting about them is that they occasionally burst into flames for no reason.
But even international pop icon and Instagram champion John Mayer is not allowed to own a Ferrari LaFerrari. They only made 499 of them and you weren’t even allowed to apply for one unless you already owned five Ferraris. And, you know: not used. Full-boat retail, which starts at $1.4 million before the options.
(I was thinking: what kind of options could there possibly be? You can’t really jam anything else into the cockpit of the car. Then I looked, and all I’ll say is: diamond wheels. The wheels’ finish has diamonds in it to make it shine. That’s fifty grand, which is peanuts compared to carbon fibering up the sucker. Guess how much the front end is. Just doing the front end.
$333 grand. I know, right? Now: people are allowed to whatever the hell they want with their money. On the other hand: in any just world, the 498* people who bought these middle-fingers-to-the-middle-class would be lined against a wall and shot.)
Sammy, who has an exceedingly cool garage with old El Caminos and Mustangs (that’s one of them on the right; I think it’s a ’67 fastback) and Lambos (that’s a Miura on the left), but the man loves him some Ferrari: he’s got a ’72 Daytona, and a 330 GT 2+2 from the Sixties, and a 400i, which is a weirdo four-seater sedan with an automatic transmission he bought when he had his kids. (Sammy is practical.)
The LaFerrari (yes, yes: the name is self-referential) is the Italian supercar company’s first attempt at a hybrid engine: it’s got one of those thingamajigs that captures energy when you brake, but despite the Prius-like features, it still does 217 mph. (According to Ferrari, and you cannot test it on your own, as there’s no place to go that fast except the Bonneville Salt Flats, and no one takes a LaFerrari to salt flats.)
It’s a technological marvel. of course, but plug-ugly from the front: it looks like a hammerhead shark whose mother drank during the pregnancy. It’s better from the side:
It cuts a belle epoche.
If it’s your thing, it’s your thing. TotD is a traditionalist, as always, and prefers American muscle, as usual; in fact, Sammy Hagar already owned a perfect car, one that I feel tops the Ferrari’s elegant, but cold futurism any day:
(Fun fact: when Bobby would come over to hang out, Sammy had to hide those shorts.)
That’s a 1979 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am (on the ’78, the license plate was in the middle of the brake lights, but on the ’79, the brakes are one solid, grated strip across the whole back-end; it is much better). Usually, they look like this from the front and without Red Rockers lounging on top of them.
Does the LaFerrari have any chicken on it, let alone a magical and golden one? Plus, what if you buy a LaFerrari and there is a beer shortage in Atlanta, and you are in Texarkana with a shipment of Coors and you need to run interference for the truck? You’re fucked. The job is undoable in a LaFerrari.
It doesn’t end there, though: the car above is the human version. That’s the one normal people got. Sammy had this:
I’ll take this American beauty over the Ferrari any day.
*Sammy gets a pass. I like him. When the Revolution comes, I will shelter him like Anne Frank.
“Sammy, I got an idea.”
“Is it a party? You know I love partying.”
“You’ve made that clear, Sam.”
“Not a party. Why don’t we have a Guns ‘n Roses reunion? Play some more football stadiums.”
“Bob, we can’t have a Guns ‘n Roses reunion.”
“Sure we can. You got curly hair. Top hats can’t be that expensive.”
“I don’t even know where this is coming from.”
“How about a Van Halen reunion? You and me.”
“Sammy Hagar and Bob Weir does not a Van Halen reunion make, man.”
“Michael Anthony’ll do it.”
“Of course Michael Anthony will do it. That’s besides the point. You were never in Van Halen.”
“I can do that tapping thing.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Well, I’m sure I could learn onstage over the course of several years. C’mon, Sam: you, me, Mike, and the guy from the Chili Peppers have a Van Halen Reunion.”
“Bob, you got a band. You got a big tour this summer.”
“Yeah, but that’s a new band. This summer is all about the reunions.”
“Yeah, all right, maybe. Let’s you and me get Montrose back together.”
“Well, you know, Sam: I got a big tour coming up.”
“I’m hurt, man.”
“I don’t wanna play the poking game. Stop that.”
“Bobby, what’s with your boy?”
“The narrator guy?”
“Yeah. He’s weirder than usual. I don’t know if I want to party with this guy.”
“But, Sam: you party with everyone.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Anyway, it’s Anarchy Wednesday or something like that.”
“Hell does that mean?”
“No clue. Just repeating what I was told.”
“And Bob? Don’t listen to that guy. Make a reality show. I made one.”
“Yeah, I was on it.”
“That was fun!”
“And Mickey, too.”
“We had to edit Mickey out.”
“He’ll be hurt.”
“Well, he should have worn pants. I told him!”
“You know he can’t hear you.”
“I wrote it down!”
“Oh, then: yeah. He should have put on some pants in that case.”
“He should get his own reality show if he wants to walk around with his cowbell and tom-toms dangling.”
“Please don’t give him any ideas.”
“How about a reality show for the Dead & Company tour? My production company could do it.”
“Please don’t give me any ideas.”
“Please don’t give Josh Meyers any ideas. Kid’s itching for another TV show.”
“You hearing things?”
“My Bobby-sense is tingling.”
“That’s never good.”
“I been a Grateful Dead for half-a-century now: I know when one of ’em’s getting squirrely.
“You could poke me back, Sam.”
“I don’t want to!”
“Cuz the game feels awful lop-sided.”
“Plane? Nah. Carrying costs are stupid. I rent. Wait, man: weren’t you telling me about doing a private gig for a private jet company? They didn’t toss you some time?”
“They did, yeah.”
“Sell it to the band.”
“Thought of that. Billy’s been banned.”
“Is he putting his dick on people again?”
“That’s a shame. Why do you need a plane? This is what a manager’s for, Bob.”
“Well aware of that. Irving is either in the midst of a scheme or going mad. He tried to give me a helicopter.”
“Where’d he get a helicopter?”
“That was my question.”
“Hey. How are ya?”
Always nice to talk to you. Mr. Mayor.
“San Francisco is sustainable!”
It’s totally not.
“Yeah. House of cards.”
What comes first: Big One or Prole Uprising?
“I really hope it’s the earthquake.”
We won’t have to wait much longer to find out.
“No. Any day now for both things.”
Sure. Nice to meet you.
Um. Hey, guy.
“Oh, hi there. I’m–”
HEY. No offense, but know your place, rando.
Randos don’t get speaking roles.
“You have involved conversations with dogs.”
Dude, don’t ask me to choose between a dog and a rando; I will ALWAYS choose the dog.
“You’re being a dick.”
Rowdy Rando Piper.
“He’s right. You are being a dick.”
Someone was rude to me today.
“Well, you know: you don’t have to take it out on the rando.”
“Now you’re doing it, too!”
Sad news, Enthusiasts: Young John Mayer has been diagnosed with OSD (Obsessive Soloing Disorder). The symptoms were there: he’s been playing a continuous guitar solo since the middle of October, stopping only to change bandanas and watches, and he can’t stop. Now–as you can see in the picture above–he’s making trips to Mexico to cop more of that sweet, sweet deedley-deedley.
Also, Bobby introduced Sammy Hagar to Creepy Ernie’s House of Unacceptable Trousers; he’s been a loyal customer for years.
There are many things to get to, and we will cover all of them in due time, but first: Sammy Hagar and the TRI Try-Hards try their hand at Loose Lucy; it’s pretty good, actually.
It might be better than Garcia’s version, simply for the fact that I never liked hearing Garcia sing about humping. Plus, the keyboard player from the the guy from Talking Heads who is not Bernie Worrell.
Chapter Two: “All riiiight, let’s get this going!”
Chapter Three: “Pineapple!”
Chapter Four: “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Chapter Five: “The Rise of Bolivarism in South America – An Overview!”
Chapter Six: “Hey, what happened to the other bartender? The one with the big Cabo Wabos?”
Chapter Seven: “SHOTS!”
Chapter Eight: “I think that guy’s got coke.”
Chapter Nine: “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Chapter Ten: “Listen, I got a ton of black friends, but…”
Chapter Eleven: “I can get it up, gimme a second.”
Chapter Twelve: “ZZZZZZZ.”
As the Dead & Company tour is planned for the late Fall, Woody Hayes will already be in hibernation, plump from craft-services barbecue and tuggers from divorcees; he also will have plugged up his backdoor with leaves, dirt, and free t-shirts. It is dangerous to approach his dwelling during these months, but when Festival Season arrives anew, Woody Hayes will be there, sitting in on a Merle Haggard song and making a serious dent in the shrimp tray.
Sammy Hagar came down to TRI Studios one time when Billy and Mickey were there. Jeff Chimenti was there, too, as this pre-dated his life of crime. It didn’t sound anything like the Dead, obviously, but there was a goofy energy about it and they sounded like fun at 100 decibels; they played for hours. When they were putting their guitars away, Bobby asked Sammy Hagar to he wanted to tour with himself and the drummers and Sammy Hagar started laughing so hard that he pissed his jumpsuit.
David Gilmour responded to the Dead’s outreach with a handwritten note on handmade paper. It informed them that the offer was a huge honour (they do that) but he would have to regrettably decline, as he was already playing most of the venues a bit later in the year. If you didn’t know how to read British, you would assume he was being polite, but he was doing that English bullshit where he speaks in code because he’s fancy and all the other fancy people laugh at you.
An entreaty was also made to Queen’s Brian May, but the call did not go well because Brian May started talking about badgers. Brian May is fucking obsessed with badgers, which as far as I can make out, are some sort of fat European tunnel squirrel. They fuck up gardens; they’re pests; Brian May has chosen them as his totem. After around ten minutes of “They also enjoy eating rutabaga,” Billy lost his patience and called him a limey and that was the end of that.
Stevie Ray Vaughn did not return calls.