Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (Page 44 of 198)

Bowling With The Homies

September 13, 2017 / / 2 Comments

Hey, Holly Bowling. Whatcha doing?

“Me? You have to bother me?”

Phil yells at me, Bobby has too much crap in his sweatpants, and Jim James kinda scares me a little.

“What about Ross James?”

The whole James family scares me. Beardos.

“Great.”

So, how you doing? I see you brought your hat.

“Leave the hat alone.”

Does it have a road case?

“Please stop talking to me. I’m concentrating.”

What are you playing?

“Dark Star.”

It’s just a jam in D minor.

“Please don’t say–”

The saddest of all keys.

“–the saddest…you’re so original.”

How’s that all-girl jam band coming together?

“It’s not. I’m very happy with my career, and I don’t need advice from you. Holy shit, do I not need advice from you.”

Oh, no. You’re right. I give terrible advice. You need a manager.

“I have a–”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Where is that coming from? Bobby’s sweatpants?”

He really does have a lot of junk in there.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I left my phone backstage.”

Check your hat.

“Stop making fun of my hat.”

I’m celebrating it. Check under your hat.”

…

“Yup. Phone.”

Told you.”

“You’re rolling with Bowling.”

“Great phone greeting, Holl. Perfect.”

“I know this rasp.”

“Holly, it’s Benjy Eisen in a chipmunk costume.”

“Where’d you get a chipmunk costume?”

“Stole it from Brent.”

“Why are you in a chipmunk costume?”

“Don’t worry about the chipmunk costume. This is not about the chipmunk costume. You’d look great in a chipmunk costume.”

“What do you want, Benjy?”

“I wanna take your career to the next level.”

“No, thank you.”

“Listen to my idea first.”

“What?”

“Jam-themed holiday album.”

“No.”

“It’s called Have A Holly, Holly Christmas.”

“Nooooooo.”

“What if I told you I could get you a sponsor?”

“A sponsor?”

“Absolutely. How do you feel about wearing a chipmunk costume onstage?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Is Billy there?”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY MORE

“Can you leave me out of your little make-em-ups, please?”

I promise nothing, Holly Bowling.

“You suck.”

Do you consider your last name to be more of a gerund or a participle?

…

Holly?

…

Holly?

“HEY!”

Oh, hi, Phil.

“Fuck off!”

Your hair looks great.

“I know. Fuck off.”

Okay.

The James Gang

September 11, 2017 / / 1 Comment

“I’d like you to meet my son.”

Not your son, Bobby.

“We’ve got the same beard.”

You don’t.

“Well, he’s already in the will, so it’s a moot point now. What, uh, is his name?”

Jim James.

“Nah.”

Swear.

“If I told you my name was Bobby Roberts, what would you say?”

Fake news.

“There you go. Have you, uh, met my nipple?”

I haven’t.

“Brought the little guy out with me today. He gets all cooped up sometimes.”

Sure

“Besides, I wanted my nipple to meet my son.”

Right.

Having Fun With Mickey And Bobby Backstage

September 6, 2017 / / 1 Comment

What are you guys laughing about?

“Bliss.”

“Drums.”

Sure.

OR

You know that TotD does not look kindly upon gatekeeping, but if you didn’t recognize Mickey’s jacket, then you’re not a Deadhead.

OR

Shortly after this picture was taken, a Jewish chick and a black dude set all the film on fire, killing a bunch of Nazis and ending World War II early.

Cuz When Bob’s On The Mic, Bob Rocks The Mic Right

September 1, 2017 / / 0 Comments

Oh, God, what is this?

“I am, uh, hipping and hopping.”

Please don’t.

“Rap-rock. Next big thing.”

It’s not.

“Well, my well-worn copy of the Demolition Man soundtrack begs to differ.”

Bobby.

“Call me Big Yachty.”

Absolutely not.

“But I love it when they call me Big Yachty.”

Still not gonna happen.

“Y’know, Billy used to have a human beatbox routine.”

Really?

“Oh, sure. He would beat a human with a box.”

I walked into that one.

“I actually am far more familiar with the hip-hop scene than you would think. Josh is teaching me about it. Kept introducing me to a rapper during the last tour.”

What did the rapper look like?

“Shoeless, mohawk. Big fan of the Dead, too.”

Bobby, that was Oteil. He’s your bass player.

“Ah. That would explain him playing bass.”

Right. Please no rap-rock, Bobby.

“Step off, bissh.”

Jesus.

“My daughter taught me that one.”

Jesus.

The Parentage Trap

August 29, 2017 / / 19 Comments

Esteemed Commentator Tor Haxson brings to the table an important question, and because I am currently avoiding writing several vital e-mails, I shall attempt to answer this most ponderous of mysteries.

Which Grateful Dead would you want as a parent?

See, I told you it was an important question.

We must start out by noting that none of the Grateful Dead’s children have rampaged through a Burger King, nor been indicted on racketeering charges. Not a one of them has ever been arrested for pissing on a stewardess while yelling “DO YOU KNOW WHO MY FATHER IS!?” They’re all presentable. Any honest reading of the situation must led to the conclusion that the Dead were, at least, decent parents.

But who would be preferred? All members of the band have their pros and cons. To have Phil as a parent means that you would be tall, and have a beard. If that’s how you’d prefer to look, then you should choose Phil. If, on the other hand, you would rather be a hot chick, then Bobby is your best bet. If you’d like a wholesome, hard-working, American name such as Stacy or Justin, then you need to go with Billy; for a hippy-dippy, godless, communist name like Taro or Raya, then Mickey is your man.

Mickey is also an excellent choice because he’s so easy to buy presents for.

“You got me a drum! How did you know what I wanted?”

“Just guessed, Pop.”

Are you going anywhere with this?

Honestly? No.

So why did you write this?

If I stop writing, I’ll die.

Even it’s complete shit?

History will decide its worth.

Go put your head in the stove.

It’s electric.

Put a gun in your mouth in your head in the stove.

Suicide by syntactical recursion. I like it.

Do it.

On The Internet, No One Knows You’re A Grateful Dead

August 29, 2017 / / 5 Comments

“So, y’see, the guy is holding the girl’s hand–they’re going steady, I suppose–and, uh, the guy’s looking back over his shoulder.”

“At another girl!”

“Right? I mean: the audacity.”

“Ballsy dude.”

“And people, they change stuff around. Like, uh, the guy’s holding hands with capitalism, but turning back to look at socialism.”

“The Scandinavians have so much to teach us.”

“It’s a meme.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of those. Is this it?”

“No, there’s more than one.”

“Wow. Can I see them on my phone, or is just on yours?”

“They’re everywhere.”

“The future.”

“Sure looks like it.”

OR

They’re reading Thoughts on the Dead.

Who’s That Clown?

August 26, 2017 / / 7 Comments

You found your sandals.

“I did, yeah. Turns out Red Metal Stool had stolen ’em to sell on Ebay.”

Oh, no.

“Terrible breach of trust.”

Sad what happens to people.

“Or stools.”

Them, too. What is all this?

“This is, uh, the Super VIP tent. People pay a little more and they get to hear Phil sing Bird Song in a tent.”

How much more?

…

Fuck, man. Two grand?

“Hey, if people wanna waste their money, I’ll take it.”

Good point. You gotta meet everybody?

“Nope. Say hi, play Samson too slow, and pick up the check.”

I should’ve been a rock star.

“There are worse gigs.”

What’s on your iPads?

“Gonna keep an eye on the fight.”

Who you got?

“Hagler in six.”

Good call.

Gawk In The Sunshine

August 22, 2017 / / 0 Comments

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Dark star.”

Right.

“The, uh, song’s not about an eclipse, though.”

What is Dark Star about?

“Usually about 20 minutes.”

Nice.

“That tune is actually perfect for a dyslexic.”

How so?

“If you mix the words up, it doesn’t make less sense.”

True. You enjoying the eclipse?

“It’s magical. You know when the guy pulls the rabbit out of his hat?”

Sure.

“This is better. Like, at least three times better.”

The Dead had some history with eclipses, didn’t they?

“You bet. Phil bought one in ’91. Crashed it in, uh, ’91.”

Everyone needs to stop making that joke.

“And, you know, Egypt.”

That’s what I was talking about. There was a lunar eclipse the last night while you guys were on.

“Right, yeah.”

Did you see it?

“Well, here’s the thing. Y’know those giant lights at rock concerts?”

Uh-huh.

“They’re generally pointed directly in the band’s eyes. Plus, we were too busy playing poorly.”

You did play poorly in Egypt.

“Oh, yeah. Well, you know, it was a big show. We pretty much had a rule about that.”

No “pretty much” about it.

“I remember having a band meeting on the plane ride over discussing how we were gonna fuck it up. And, uh, damnedest thing: Billy broke his own wrist right in front of us.”

That’s dedication.

“And then when we got to Egypt, uh, he stabbed four successive piano tuners.”

Billy’s pretty much the MVP of the trip.

“No ‘pretty much’ about it. He made us buy him a trophy.”

Any final thoughts on the eclipse?

“I need someone to help me up.”

Senior Tour

August 18, 2017 / / 2 Comments

What is this?

“I’ve taken up golf.”

Oh, God, no. Not golf. Anything but golf.

“I’m, uh, all in. Found some bliss out on the links. That’s what we golfers call the course.”

Thank you for defining that completely foreign term.

“Lotta fun. It’s actually a very Grateful Dead activity.”

How so?

“Lasts forever, you get fucked up while you do it, and the equipment is stupid expensive.”

Yeah, okay.

“Had to order a custom pair of spandals.”

Spandals?

“Spiked sandals.”

Ah.

“You know that there’s a cart that drives around with liquor on it? They bring it right to you. America, huh?”

Bobby, please don’t become a golf guy. Do any other rich white person thing. Take flying lessons. Learn to paint. How about tennis?

“No tennis. I find the scoring system impenetrable and counter-intuitive.”

And golf’s better?

“Oh, yeah. Much easier.”

Really? What’s a birdie?

“A feathered fishie.”

What’s a scratch golfer?

“The one that doesn’t show up. You scratch him off your program.”

That’s horse-racing.

“Horse-racing and golf are strangely similar.”

What’s your handicap?

“Dyslexia.”

Walked into that one.

“A little bit.”

Very upsetting. Hey, Phil.

“Fuck off.”

Gotcha.

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