Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (Page 22 of 198)

I’d Hammer All Over This Promised Land

March 9, 2019 / / 1 Comment

I don’t know what’s going on with you lately.

“Well, you know, I’m all about fitness. You like fitness?”

I know this joke.

“Deez nuts.”

No, it’s…ah, forget it. Seriously, what’s happening here? Are you trashing your dressing room in a fit of Rock Star pique?

“We never did that sort of thing. That was those heavy mental acts. Those guys are something else, man. They put on those black jeans and just go hog-wild. Some of them are influenced by Satan. Black jeans and Satan, man. Drive you nuts.”

Uh-huh. You been drinking?

“Only enough to get drunk.”

Okay. Please tell me what you’re doing.

“Promise not to tell anyone?”

Sure.

“Been cast in a big Hollywood production.”

As?

“John Henry.”

He was black.

“They’re gonna digitally darken me.”

This is a great idea.

Do You Even Jam, Bro?

March 5, 2019 / / 3 Comments

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Getting, uh, swole. Am I saying it right?”

Kinda.

“Gonna be a mass monster.”

Oh, I don’t think that’s a great idea.

“But I’m also going for shredded. Like Markus Ruhl meets Frank Zane.”

No one reading this knows who those men are.

“And don’t forget the wheels. Lee Priest is gonna be jealous.”

Stop referencing retired bodybuilders.

“Bodybuilding is a lot like the Grateful Dead, if you think about it.”

How so.

“Both involve sets.”

Sure. Anything else?

“Yeah. You, uh, don’t have to take drugs, but you get a lot more out of it if you do.”

True.

“When you showed up, I figured we’d discuss my footwear.”

I was deliberately not looking at those nightmares.

“Ah.”

Pappy At The Grammys

February 18, 2019 / / 3 Comments

Hey, Bobby. Hair looks perfect.

“Thinking about stopping at Trader Vic’s later.”

You’re a good dad, man.

“Oh, yeah. Earning some points here. Feet are killing me.”

Well, you’re wearing shoes.

“Not optimal. Tried my best to find patent leather sandals, but it turns out that’s not a thing.”

Anything’s a thing if you pay a cobbler enough.

“Yeah, sure.”

What’s in Monet’s clutch?

“Garcia’s stash.”

Still?

There’s A Price For Being Free

February 13, 2019 / / 0 Comments

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Honestly? Feeling a little insecure about the size of my hat.”

Your hat is huge, man.

“Yeah, but look at that sucker. The girth alone…”

Bobby, your hat is perfect. Besides, you got the boncho.

“I guess, yeah. I have discovered that there are multiple hidden pockets within.”

For what?

“Cash, stash, whatnot.”

Sure.

“You know: pocket stuff.”

Right.

 

Grammy, Pappy

February 11, 2019 / / 4 Comments

“Do you know Belinda Carlisle?”

I do, but that’s not her.

“She was a Bangle.”

Also wrong.

“And a hell of a gymnastics coach.”

That’s Bela Karolyi, buddy. The woman you’re talking to is the very talented singer/songwriter Brandi Carlile.

“Ah. She’s the daughter of a Bangle. Bangelldottir, the Icelandic would say.”

No. She’s not related to any popular girl groups of the 80’s.

“I nearly joined Vixen in ’84.”

No, you didn’t.

“Oh, yeah. This was around when I was doing Bobby & the Midnites and the other solo stuff. I was spending a lot of time in Los Angeles and I was seeing Vixen’s drummer.”

Hard-Hittin’ Roxy Petrucci?

“Sounds about right. She was 5’2″ and all muscle. Like a giant iguana. Lot of fun.”

This didn’t happen.

“And, uh, the band went through one of their lineup shifts and needed a guitarist. So I put my toe in the water, metaphorically speaking. Went down to jam with them.”

How did that go?

“Poorly. As poorly as you’d expect. They didn’t know any cowboy songs. Didn’t, uh, wanna learn any cowboy songs. Entirely unpracticed in improvisational jazz-inflected space-rock. And no catering. When the Dead rehearsed, there would always be food there. It’s one of the only reasons people would show up for rehearsal. But, uh, Vixen did not provide any refreshments at all besides a 12-pack of Lowenbrau that rapidly assumed room temperature.”

The vicissitudes of rock n’ roll.

“Deprivation, man. After a couple of hours, we found common musical ground, though.”

Chuck Berry covers?

“Oh, yeah.”

You go back to the source.

“There you go, right. So, uh, we ran through a bunch of Chuck’s tunes and sort of felt out each other’s musical bliss. It started to sound pretty good, and plus I was checking out the bass player.”

Uh-huh. Vixen was famously an all-female band. How were you going to join?

“We were contemplating a Bosom Buddies scenario.”

Nope. All of this is nonsense.

“In the end, they went a different direction, but I still think about that sometimes. The road not taken.”

Bobby, you did not almost join Vixen. Stop it.

“You like my tie?”

Is that a tie? I thought you worshiped Guitar Jesus.

“No, it’s a tie. Bolo tie.”

Oh, it’s nice.

My Final Form

February 10, 2019 / / 7 Comments

You’re going Full Pappy, man.

“I’m embracing my gravitas.”

In a poncho?

“Boncho.”

What?

“This is a boncho. Poncho is a solid piece of fabric with a hole for your head. A boncho is definitely not a poncho, but it is similarly not a robe.”

Bobby, stop letting Josh talk you into buying secret rich person clothes.

“I gotta admit, the kid’s taught me a lot about hyper-exclusive Japanese snotwear. Fascinating stuff. I was interested in Visine.”

Visvim.

“They’re doing powerful work in the trouser department. Important pants.”

The Grateful Dead didn’t turn John Mayer into a pothead; he turned them into hypebeasts. This is intolerable.

“Do me one favor, though.”

Uh-huh?

“Don’t tell the other poor people about the boncho. They’re not supposed to know it exists.”

Gotcha.

The Elusion Of Peace

January 31, 2019 / / 5 Comments

“One, two, three, four–”

DON’T YOU DO IT, MOTHERFUCKER!

“–I declare a Rando War.”

Goddammit. Rando War is like the herpes of this site. So it makes sense you’re responsible.

“I don’t have herpes.”

Lie to randos, Josh, not me. You have at least one of every herpe. You collect watches, clothes, and herpes. You’re like that seed bank in Norway, but for herpes.

“I can’t hear you. I’m winning Rando War.”

“Rando War back on? We’re in.”

“Look at these randos! We got four. Beat that, Meyers!”

“Yeah, beat–”

“SPEAK WHEN SPOKEN TO, NEW BRENT!”

“Not in front of the randos, Mick.”

“You wanna keep flapping your gums, boy? You’re getting clogged!”

PERCUSSIONIST CHASING KEYBOARDIST WITH A PAIR OF ATTACK CLOGS NOISE

…

“Are, uh, we doing a Rando War?”

Bobby, that’s your family.

“Ah.”

Doesn’t count.

“Well, you know, they’re randos to somebody. Like Doctor J.”

What about Doctor J?

“He’d consider both women to be randos. He’d, uh, probably be nice to ’em ’cause they’re pretty, but they’d still be of the genus rand. So, uh, pretend I’m Doctor J.”

Absolutely not.

“Remember that ball we used to use in the ABA? The red, white, and blue one? Stylish ball.”

Stop it. You are not Doctor J.

“Oh, yeah. I can slam that rock. Put that biscuit in the gravy.”

“Does Bobby think he’s Doctor J again?”

Who’s that?

Oh, hey: it’s Bobby’s Parish, Matt Busch.

“That’s not my job title.”

It’s not wrong, though.

“No. Anyway, does Bobby think he’s Doctor J again?”

Yes.

“Dammit. Ah, well, it’s better than when he thought he was Marvin ‘Bad News’ Barnes.”

I didn’t know Bobby was so into the ABA.

“He’s obsessed with failed sports leagues. The ABA, the USFL, that soccer league that had Pele for a while in the 80’s.”

Wow. Never would’ve guessed. Oh, yeah: what are you doing here?

“Rando War.”

That’s George R.R. Martin. He writes the books with the snow and the zombies and the castles and all that shit.

“Sure, but he’s a rando to someone.”

NO. Not entertaining this stupid argument anymore.

“I win Rando War.”

Yes, you do.

“I’m a dog now.”

Yes, you are.

That Damn Polar Vortex

January 31, 2019 / / 4 Comments

Walk me through what’s happening here.

“Well, uh, I’m in a theater somewhere playing Looks Like Rain. Same as most nights.”

I meant your outfit.

“Layers, man.”

That’s just a blanket, Bob. You’re wearing a blanket.

“Oh, no. This is, uh, a tactical serape.”

Not a thing.

“Sure it is. You just wouldn’t have heard about it because, you know–”

I’m poor.

“–you’re poor. Yeah. This is one of those secret garments for rich people. Like my bobbermost, which I am wearing underneath the tactical serape.”

What’s so tactical about it?

“Pockets.”

Okay.

World-Famous Guitar Center

January 27, 2019 / / 6 Comments

What is going on with you? You look like Kenny Roger’s best friend in one of his teevee movies.

“Well, uh, I don’t know if you know this, but it’s the Year of Coziness.”

Stop taking fashion advice from Josh. Wait. Is that a toppermost?

“No.”

Oh, thank God.

“It’s a bobbermost.”

I praised too soon. What the hell is a bobbermost?

“It’s sort of a robe, and almost a kimono, but definitely not a jacket.”

Yes, that’s what a toppermost is.

“I didn’t finish.”

Sorry.

“And only rich, famous guys named Bob are allowed to know they exist.”

Ah.

“De Niro’s got two dozen. He’s very active on the bobbermost subreddit.”

I don’t know how I feel about this.

“I feel coze. There’s just so much concentrated coze in this garment.”

All of you need to stop saying “coze.” It’s not a word.

“Y’know, I’ve spoken to you about your prescriptivism before, and I believe I made myself quite clear.”

NOT A WORD! That’s it! I’m pissed! I’m gonna take a walk.

“All right, then.”

…

…

…

You just gonna stand there?

“Yuh-huh.”

Okay.

“All right, then.”

« Older posts Newer posts »

The Stacks

Follow Us

Google Verification

Follow Us

Follow me on Twitter

© 2026 Thoughts On The Dead

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑