Thoughts on the Dead

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

Godchaux Photo

donna keith rhodea bw

The expressional dichotomy in this photo is jarring: it’s boggling that one species can produce such dissimilar mindsets.

This isn’t like the difference between “amused” and “enraged,” no: it’s like the gap between “mildly interested” and “about to rain,” which is a common feeling among the sentient Cloud Monsters of Flooof, the gas giant moon that orbits Shmordo, The Living Planet, whom people have stopped visiting because he’s into CrossFit now and won’t fucking stop talking about it.

“Dude, do you know how much weight I’ve lost? Guess?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, honestly, me either: I’m a planet. How would I even weigh myself? I don’t even think that’s a thing.”

“Listen, I gotta go.”

“But just look how tight my equator is!”

Mrs. Donna Jean is, in almost every way, standing behind her man. She was a traditional Southern woman, so she was loyal to Keith, no matter how many luggage carts she threw at him or Bobbies she humped.

In an interview a long time ago, Mrs. Donna Jean refers to Keith’s first six months or so in the band, when she sang nothing at all, and the rest of ’72, when she cameo for her little part in Playin’ as being in large part her choice. She had wanted Keith to have–and this is the phrase that stuck with me–his “pride of place” in the band.

Weird little phrase: Southern, deeply so. But poor, too. It refers to the spot in the home where the most cherished family item goes. You never see it in rich folk’s homes; you never don’t see it in poor. It’s where the eye stops naturally upon entering the house: the mantle, the living room wall, over the bed. Sometimes, it’s remains, a diploma, a Bible.

Pride of place. When what you have to offer is respect, then the respect is more highly valued. All of us have our currency in this wicked world.

Keith is trying not to puke.

If I Could Save Time In A Bobble

bobby green grassa 77

“Sing to me of youth, grass and trees; sing to me of innocence. Grow around me, under me; grow nutritious and feed the cows and sheep that might somehow wander into a suburban San Francisco park.

“Eat, aphids and katydoodles and ladybugs and fuzzy-wuzzies and sherpas and shamalamadingdongs! Burrow, vole and stoat and marmot and prairie dog! (The prairie dog had come out as gay to his colony and got thrown out and was now sleeping on someone’s couch in the Castro.)

“The seed of the tree becomes the breakfast of the mouse: it becomes the mouse, do you see? As the mouse becomes the hawk; the hawk becomes the scavenger; the hunter becomes the hunted; Victor becomes Victoria; Death becomes her.

“Patterns, man.

“Beauty is eternal. Nothing Changes; everything lasts.”

bobby pink bunny suit

“Daddy’s gonna need another one of those big blue pills, two more Coronas, and a pre-show beej. Also: bunny suit ain’t coming off.”

Pinch Me

Does White Privilege exist?

Well, are “slavery” and “white slavery” two separate concepts?

Then: yeah.

Beat It On Down The Plank

bobby pirate shirt

“Yaaar.”

I Wish I Was A Little Bit Taller

bobby really short shorts

Bobby’s shorts are so short they…

  • Can’t ride Space Mountain.
  • Teamed up with fellow cops on the edge Strawberry and Cake to catch the Panda Strangler. (They basically just hid in the bushes by the remaining panda and waited, but it was tense.)
  • Jockeyed for a few years after college until that incident in the paddock.
  • Are composed almost entirely of ball sweat and taint crust.
  • I’m just saying: there’s a lot of DNA in those shorts. They might be the single worst piece of evidence to leave behind at a crime scene.
  • Run from their tormentors, bullied by the towering masses, trapped in a world they never made! Pity for the short shorts: innocent cotton they began as, with hopes and dreams. Perhaps they would be a beloved t-shirt. Maybe a comfy sock? But no: the universally derided short short was the destiny for that fabric–the comb over of pants, the Nickelback of trousers. Not just a joke, an easy joke. Say a prayer for the short shorts.
  • Work in show biz.
  • Can’t be seen from space.
  • Once went to a fancy restaurant and the guy at the door was all “We don’t serve short shorts,” and Short Shorts found out which car the guy owned and keyed a swastika into the door, which was way over the line. Not cool, Short Shorts. Didn’t have to take it there.
  • Were rejected by every other shopper who saw them at the store, most likely for “being too short.”

Red Zone

If there is a silver lining to the fact that we shall all very soon be violently drooling our liquified and rotting gall bladders out of our nostrils, it is this: the New York Football Giants were, before this weekend’s desultory and dispirited trip to Dallas, given a presentation on Ebola.

It is the end of practice and Coach Tom Coughlin calls his players in.

“C’mere, men. Bring it in. Take a knee. Knees all around. Everybody taken a knee? Jenkins, are you just sitting on your helmet? Dadgum it, Jenkins: take a knee.

“Men, the league’s asked me to say a few words about this Ebola thing. First off, November is now going to be Ebola Awareness Month, so grab your purple towels and cleats and whatnot after the meeting…

“So, listen: I’m no doctor and you’ve all been concussed as recently as this afternoon, so here it is in a way we can both understand it:

A CHALKBOARD APPEARS.

“So, here are the X’s: that’s us. But then we got the O’s and they’re Ebolas, got me? This O here? He’s a sweaty guy who works for Doctors Without Borders and just got back from Ghana. This O? It’s your cousin offering you a sandwich made from bat meat.

“Yes, even South American bat meat, Jenkins. Better safe than sorry. Can I just get through this, please? Thank you.

“Aside from that, I’ve been told, there is nothing to worry about, so I am going to ask everyone to curtail the Purell use. It is getting excessive and the footballs are getting slick.

“Also–and the rest of the coaches and I can’t stress this one enough–you cannot get Ebola from a toilet seat, so whoever is shitting in the hallway can stop it now.

“The ‘bola is located at just one hospital, men, so we’ll be avoiding that hospital and everything’ll be okay. In fact, we’re going to be avoiding all area hospitals and medical facilities in the area. Well, the state, if I’m honest. So if you’re hurt, we’re gonna put you in either a medically-induced coma or cryogenically freeze you: we haven’t decided yet, but you will be placed in some sort of suspended animation.

“The league has also sent a memo threatening harsh fines and suspensions for any player engaging in any sort of-and I’m quoting–‘Ebola-themed celebratory dance.’

“How the hell would I know, Jenkins? It would involve lying down, I guess. Some spasms.

“Okay, you know I like to end the week on a positive note, so Ray Lewis is going to scream at you for a while. Probably about Jesus, but who knows with Ray, y’know?”

“EBOLA AIN’T NO MATCH FOR THE LAWD!”

Fade out.

Formal Weir #2

bobby crooning tux 2

When he was in town, Bobby was the maitre d’ at Chez Guevara’s, a swanky Cuban joint in the North Bay with terrible food and great T-shirts.

Coz Of The World

Definition of oblivious white male privilege: wishing you hadn’t heard about all those women that Bill Cosby raped, instead of wishing Bill Cosby hadn’t raped all those women.

Neckronomicon

The first thing I look at on a woman–after her head and body–is her neck.

Go take a walk.

Lamer Gate

I tried to find out what the fuck Gamergate was, so I read an article and contained therein was the phrase “…used to be a powerful Reddit mod…” and I had to go to my kitchen and blow my brains out with a machine gun for ten or fifteen minutes.

Everyone needs to go to the park.

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