Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (Page 10 of 198)

Cuz I Shot First And Kilt Him

November 2, 2019 / / 0 Comments

This is gonna be a regular thing, huh?

“You have no idea how comfortable kilts are. Loose in the thigh.”

Sure.

“Calves are free and easy.”

Like a poorly-run cattle ranch.

“Not your best simile.”

No.

“And, uh, as I’ve mentioned–”

Your balls.

“–my balls are swinging. Like London in the 60’s. Although, obviously, the kilt is the garment of those oppressed by London. So, uh, I guess neither of us is doing real good with analogies tonight.”

Some people on the internet are saying that you wore the kilt in honor of Hunter.

“That young man’s caught up in some shady business.”

Not Hunter Biden, Bobby. Robert Hunter.

“That would make more sense.”

Yeah.

“Hunter loved his kilts. And, uh, his bagpipes. Composed Row Jimmy on ’em. Course, his version was called Blow Jimmy. Jer changed it around a little, because he thought people would get ideas.”

Good call. What did the rest of the band think of your fashion choice?

“Well, Billy called me precisely what you’d imagine he would. Mickey was concerned, though.”

Why?

“He thought someone yoinked my pants.”

Makes sense.

“Josh pretended not to like it, but I overheard him and some of his fashion friends talking about where they could order some.”

Also sounds right. What about Oteil and Jeff Chimenti?

“Who?”

…

Branford and New Brent.

“Ah. Well, here’s the thing: contractually, neither of them are allowed to have opinions.”

Man, Irving Azoff is a canny negotiator.

“Steal your residuals right off your head.”

My Brother Esau Kilt A Hunter

October 31, 2019 / / 3 Comments

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Enjoying the breeze. It’s like it’s Spring, and my balls are falling in love.”

So you’re wearing the kilt in the traditional fashion?

“It’s completely Scottish down there: hairy, six drinks in, and fiercely opposed to Brexit.”

Good to hear.

“I’ll tell ya: this started as a Halloween thing, but I might become a kilt guy.”

Do not become a kilt guy, Bobby. Can’t you just wear a normal pant?

“If, uh, I wanted to be normal, then I wouldn’t have been in the Grateful Dead all my life.”

Yeah, okay.

An Open Letter To Monet Weir On The Occasion Of Her Joining Twitter

October 31, 2019 / / 5 Comments

Dear Monet Sunbeam Ladychief Weir-Monster,

Hi. How are you? I’m fine. Did you see Joker? It sure wasn’t a joke how he danced down those stairs! How is Instagram going for you? I see you have not yet been hired to endorse Bang! Energy Drinks, and that makes me happy. You are better than Bang! Energy Drinks, Monet. Maybe Fashion Nova or KO Watches, but not Bang! Energy Drinks.

Anyhoo, I see that you are now branching out from the ‘Gram to Twitter, and I humbly offer up some small pieces of advice that I pray with all my heart you will not respond to with “OK Boomer.” (Oh, by the way: Could you film yourself saying “OK Boomer” to your dad and then let us all see it? It would be the greatest Christmas present ever.) Feel free to imitate the rest of the world and ignore me, but please know that I want only the best for you, even though “the best” is not a concept on Twitter, as it is an untended compost heap of journalists, Nazis, Kpop fans, and roaming swarms of artificially semi-intelligent Russian bots.

My first piece of advice is this: Don’t. Stay on Instagram. Twitter rewires your brain. Young lady, I’m gonna tell you a little secret: Twitter has made me love Donald Trump.  Every single day, usually before I’ve even gotten out of bed, that suckfaced nincompoop does a new moronic thing that Twitter can meme about and lampoon in every which way, and it fills me with glee. I tell myself that he’s enabling a takeover of the Judiciary that will fuck up the country for decades to come, and then he fucks up handing out candy to trick-or-treaters and I think about voting for him in 2020. This does not happen in other mediums. Reading books about the current administration takes me forever, as I generally fling the volume across the room in fury once a chapter or so. The sight of him on teevee makes me switch the channel. But on Twitter, I open the app daily hoping he’s broken another law, because on Twitter he’s not the greatest threat to our republic since the Civil War, he’s Doofus Grandpa. That is a pernicious modality of thought, and Twitter does it to you.

Second: seriously, don’t. Monet, I hate to do this, but it’s for your own good.

See that bullshit? You’re gonna attract that. It’s not an “if,” it’s a “when.” Worse than Instagram, right? You just see the text of the comment over there, but Twitter’s got avatars. I’m trying to put myself in your shoes. My dad wasn’t even a little famous, and if someone tweeted at me with his picture as their avatar and demanded I show them my balls, my day would be ruined. I would need to lie in a darkened room for a good long while, but maybe you’re made of stronger stuff.

If you refuse to apply good sense and run screaming, then at least remember the following:

It’s so much easier to piss off Twitter than you think it is. I once got yelled at by dozens of people for pointing out the fact that the Disco Biscuits only sound good when you’re on drugs, and even then only specific drugs in near-lethal quantities.

Never engage with randos Earlier today, you were kind enough to respond to my little joke welcoming you to Twitter. BIG MISTAKE, MISSY! Look where we are now: I’m writing you a thousand-fucking-word letter. You’re gonna get Deadhead Reply Guys; do not encourage them. They WILL try to slide into your DMs.

Consider learning drums and forming a metal band with Grahame Lesh and Wolfgang Van Halen. That’s not Twitter-related, but I wanted to include it. You guys would rock, and I think a cool name would be Sins Of The Fathers. That would be metal as fuck.

Don’t talk your dad into taking over his account. Bobby–that’s what we call him around here–has a Twitter account, but he doesn’t run it. His feed is 80% promotional and 20% workouts, and all of it is ghosted for him by his social media manager. We don’t get your father’s raw and unmediated thoughts five or ten times a day, and that is the way it should stay. Even if you start having a ball on Twitter, don’t make it seem like too much fun in front of him.

Don’t be racist. Although, you know: that should go without saying. I am not in any way accusing you of being racist, I’m just saying that if in the near future you decide to become racist, don’t do it on Twitter.

Watch for red flags. Ironically, one of the biggest Twitter red flag is an American flag. You see an American flag emoji in the handle, run. Anime character as an avatar? Run very fast. The initials “JRE” in the bio? Sprint. Conversely, anyone announcing their pronouns is trying to trick you into cancelling yourself.

In conclusion, be careful and be smart and be safe and think about the heavy metal band idea. I know a guy who could be your manager. Do you know Benjy Eisen?

Sincerely,

The King of the Deadhead Reply Guys

Go Tele On The Mountain

October 29, 2019 / / 3 Comments

“Hey, Jer?”

“What, Weir?”

“I’m kinda digging this Telecaster. Thinking about maybe becoming a Tele guy.”

“A what?”

“Telecaster guy. Get myself a shirt styled in the cowboy fashion. Maybe one of those haircuts that requires unguent to maintain its integrity.”

“Haven’t I told you to stay away from unguents, man?”

“At least once a day since 1968.”

“It’s good advice I’m giving you.”

“I think the Deadheads would appreciate the change. Perhaps they could learn to line-dance.”

“They can barely stand in lines, man.”

“Jer, I’ve heard the sound of my soul, and that sound is ‘twang.'”

“Just play the damn song, Weir.”

“Aw.”

Runnin’ Up That Hill

October 28, 2019 / / 4 Comments

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Hilling.”

Is that different than running?

“Much steeper.”

Sure.

“Reminds me of something Rolling Thunder once told me. He was, uh, my shaman buddy. Not a lot of people have shaman buddies, but they tend to accumulate when you’re in the Grateful Dead. By the time we broke up, I had about half-a-dozen.”

What did he say?

“He said, ‘Bobby, please don’t ask me too many specific questions about being an Indian.’ No, wait. That wasn’t the thing I was thinking of.”

Okay.

“He said, ‘When you run, don’t do it with your legs.'”

What should you run with?

“Well, generally at that point in the conversation he would try to cadge ten bucks off me.”

Sounds like Rolling Thunder.

“Hoo-boy!”

Tired?

“Not mentally. I could do a crossword puzzle right now. Sudoku, whatever.”

What about physically?

“Little bit.”

Are those proper running shoes?

“Well, so far none of the piggies are complaining. Market, roast beef, wee-wee-wee all the way home: all very happy with my choice in footwear.”

Can’t argue with the piggies.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I, uh, should take that. It might be a reporter I could describe last night’s dreams to.”

Sure.

…

“Weir here.”

“What happen to gym?”

“It’s like my man said, ‘All the world’s indeed a gym, and we are merely guys in sweatpants.'”

“I no say that.”

“My other man.”

“Hairy Garcia, you come back to gym. We do free weights. Get yoked.”

“I’m not looking to put on too much mass.”

“You need juice?”

“Gonna pass on that.”

“We be huge. Like Rock. You know Rock? We be Rock.”

“I can’t eat that much cod.”

“You come. We lift. You win Mr. Only Korea contest.”

“I don’t think I’m in that kind of shape.”

“You win. Trust me.”

If The Bob Don’t Pull, You Gotta Carry The Load

October 25, 2019 / / 1 Comment

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Forklift ran out of gas.”

No.

“No, no. I was, uh, just having a little fun. The machine is in fine fettle, mechanically.”

Good to hear.

“I’m at the gym. You might not think so, but anywhere’s a gym if you’re sweaty enough.”

Your delts are popping.

“The kids call it being swole. Well, Don Was calls it that.”

What is this exercise called?

“Well, uh, naming something gives it power. But in this situation, I want the power. Not enough power to go around. So, uh, the exercise does not get a name. I just put my weight on it.”

Do not quote Dolemite at me.

“I enjoy the way that fellow says ‘ambulance.'”

He pronounces the word humorously.

“Here’s something you don’t know: that guy Dolemite? Rutabaga Perkins?”

Rudy Ray Moore.

“Big Deadhead.”

Not true at all.

“Oh, yeah. Him and Pig dated a couple of the same women.”

Rudy Ray Moore didn’t date women, Bobby.

…

“I’m thinking of Rerun.”

Go back to your workout.

Steal Your Mace

October 24, 2019 / / 7 Comments

Hey, Bobby. Talking to journalists again?

“I’ll, uh, talk to anyone who’s polite.”

I guess. Are those sex toys?

“Anything’s a sex toy if you’re perverted enough.”

True.

“But, uh: no. They’re what’s called gada maces. Ancient weapons. Have you ever heard of the Knights of Malta?”

Vaguely.

“What about Nights on Broadway?”

What?

“Anyway, the knights would use these bad boys as a last-resort cudgel. Lot of Turkish heads got bashed in with ’em. But, you know, the knights also had downtime. They would repurpose their maces into exercise equipment, due to not being able to order a Bowflex.”

Hadn’t been invented yet

“There ya go. The, uh, knights had to make do.”

So, the article mentions that you don’t proselytize to your the rest of Dead & Company about fitness.

“Well, Billy would hit me and Mickey can’t hear me. No good bothering those two. And, uh, Josh keeps himself in real good shape, although most of that’s for show.”

No core strength?

“Abysmal. I don’t wanna talk out of school, but: abysmal. He just won’t activate his hips.”

I’ve heard that about him.

“I won’t even discuss Branford and New Brent.”

For the best.

Kim, Chi(ld)

October 23, 2019 / / 2 Comments

Oh, so that’s what Grahame looks like under his beard.

“It’s not Grahame, you numbskull.”

Who is it?

“Ah, I dunno. One of those teen guitar prodigies that comes along every couple years. I think he plays the blues, maybe.”

You think?

“Just judging by the hat.”

Sure. You jam with him?

“Maybe when he gets his braces off.”

Okay.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Oh, thank God. I can ignore you.”

…

“Terrapin Crossroads, home of the all-you-can-eat vegan shrimp platter. Phil speaking.”

“Philbert!”

“Ah, shit.”

“That Baby Levon? Grow up so fast.”

“No, it’s not Baby Levon. What do you want?”

“Slasher there? He no pick up phone.”

“Who the hell is ‘Slasher?'”

“Has hair. Top hat. Used to no wear shirt, but now wear shirt.”

“Oh, Slash. Yeah, no. He’s not here.”

“No biggie. You get liver I send?”

“Yes, and you need to stop sending them. Where are you even getting all these human livers?”

“Only Korean politics very serious game.”

“Jesus.”

“See people on horses behind me? Are back-up organs. Always bring with.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Tell Jill Kim Jong-Un say hi.”

“No.”

Special People

October 22, 2019 / / 8 Comments

One of the best things about the Dead is how little clothing the members owned. Bobby wore that shirt, like, every other day in ’72.

OR

Where’s you get that guitar. Bobby?

“It was handed to me as I took the stage.”

Sure. But it’s not your usual axe.

“Huh. Guess not. But, uh, like I said: I’m handed a guitar as I take the stage. I don’t get into the logistics.”

Okay. Hey, Mrs. Donna Jean. Whatcha doing?

“Trippin’ balls, sugar.”

Professionalism at every turn.

OR

That is a Les Paul Special, which was also available with a single-cutaway, but looked cooler in the double-cut configuration and coolest in the so-called “TV Yellow” finish. (That shade was believed to look fabulous on black-and-white teevee sets.) Gibson only made ’em from ’55-’60, when they were replaced by the far-less-cuddly SG.

OR

Anyone know of any other shows when Bobby played that guitar? Scholar Michael Clem informs us that Garcia played an identical instrument during the Summer ’71 tour:

Is it, in fact, the same guitar that Bobby is wielding in the picture above, which we are told is from 10/18/72 at the Fabulous Fox Theater in St. Louis? Go ask your families, Enthusiasts. Demand answers from those parasites, and meet me back here around midnight. Bring sandwiches.

Honky, Conch, Woman

October 20, 2019 / / 2 Comments

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Honestly? I have no idea whatsoever.”

It looks like a ritual of some sort.

“Well, anything’s a ritual if the garb is native enough. You, uh, wear those hats to the supermarket, and you got yourself a ritual.”

Sure. Are you polishing off a mini-bottle of Dewar’s?

“No, no. They didn’t have an extra conch shell, so I’m blowing a duck call.”

Cool. What are you wearing under that kilt?

“Just my downstairs beard.”

As is tradition.

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