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

Tag: bob weir (Page 69 of 198)

Gong, Show

bobby-donna-campus-stadium

In the distance, where the hills ran parallel to the stream of frissile blue water his best goat drowned in summer last, there were Comanche; The Guitarist had seen them, once, outside of a town whose name was unknown to him. The fierce horribles, gnashing ghastlies in mufti and chaps; some naked, and painted, not with paint; one had a stovepipe hat and a slavewoman’s ass for a saddle; blood-eyed mustang unsaddled madness in the red-specked snow of a winter that doesn’t belong to the white man around here.

And Mrs. Donna Jean thought, “Oh, not this shit again.”

OR

We’ve got ourselves an old-fashioned chin-off, Enthusiasts.

OR

Aw, they gave Bobby the clavés.

OR

This is another pic from FoTotD Ste4ve (pronounced Stuh-FOUR-vuh) and maybe if you say nice things to him in the Comments Section, then there will be more. or maybe not: people with numbers in their names are often squirrelly, as exemplified by New York Times reporter Jennifer 8. Lee. That woman’s squirreliness is off the charts.

Campus Rumpus

bobby-jerry-parish-drumz-campus-stadium

Parish had been a drummer for the Grateful Dead for five minutes when he threw a tantrum, punched the rest of the band, and flew home.

OR

“It feels nice on your back, Jer.”

“Don’t rub my back, Weir.”

“Your front?”

“Parish! Oh, you’re right there.”

OR

Either Mrs. Donna Jean is shaking her maracas, or Phil has the daintiest hands I’ve seen on a man since politics politics politics.

OR

In a karate fight with improvised weapons that took place in a drum store, cabasa vs. maracasa is an even match up: cabasa is good for a hammer-type blow, while you can wield the maracas like sai. Obviously, a guiro is of no use whatsoever in karate fighting. Optimally, you would stand at a distance and frisbee ride cymbals at your opponent’s neck as hard as you could.

OR

This shot’s from 6/4/78 at the University of California at Santa Barbara. (Go Banana Slugs!)

Deaf, Dumb, And Blind-Drunk

billy-fingers-bobby-pete-townshend-jerryBilly’s punching himself in the dick; he got bored, I guess.

OR

In my heart of hearts, I wish that were a Planet Hollywood jacket on Garcia, but it probably isn’t.

OR

“Jerrrrrrrrry. Where. Is. My. Nobel. I wan’ one. Gimme.”

“I don’t think you’re getting any sort of prize, Pete.”

“Wan’ it!”

“Okay, man.”

“Hey. Jer. You wan’ come look a’ stuff on my ‘puter?”

“Absolutely not.”

OR

This is the photograph that would scuttle any Presidential run by Billy:

“Can you explain the gesture, Mr. Kreutzmann?”

“Ahh, c’mon. It was locker room stuff! My finger was a dick! And I was banging Bobby’s pussy-fingers with it. Everybody does it! Also, this photo has been doctored by the Jews.”

OR

Pete Townshend is so drunk he can’t make a peace sign.

Go And Fetch The Preacher

bobby-wedding-ipad

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to cele–”

IPAD NOISE

“–brate…hold on, I’m getting a FaceTime from my wife, Natasha Monster. I’ll call her back. Ah, shit, I closed the thing with the vows. Hold on.”

KUH-CHICK

“I just took a selfie by accident. Huh. Is my mustache really that big? Okay, okay: wedding. Lemme juuuuuuust…got it, okay. Harrumph.

“Family, friends, road crew, Irving Azoff, VIP guests who have purchased the Praetor’s Suite package, randos: welcome. We are here today to celebrate the union of Anderson Cooper and a lady younger than him, but not too much. Right in that sweet spot.

“Now, some of you might be asking why I am officiating this ceremony. Well, it turns out that a Grateful Dead has the authority to marry people at a show. It’s like a captain on a ship. Plus: when I was a kid, I watched the Beatles on Ed Sullivan and thought, ‘I’d really like to officiate weddings.’ Things came together with, you know, synchronicity.

“So, uh, I’ve actually been marrying couples since around ’72. Started as a way to pad out the per diem, but I got into it. I really found some bliss. Meet nice folks, get paid in cash. Won’t lie: banged the brides quite a lot. And there’s always cake. I hope the two of you have brought a cake, because otherwise I’ll cross my fingers during this and it won’t count.

“Married some of the Dead. I mean, I didn’t get married to any of ’em, except once to Brent by accident and another time for tax purposes, also to Brent. I did the vows, stamped the paper. When Phil was drinking, he liked going down to the bar and getting hammered and marrying three or four women a night, and I helped him out with that. Cut him a bulk deal.

“And I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but I’m a bit of a trailblazer. Been marrying same-sex couples forever. Mostly due to not paying attention, but I think my heart was in the right place. Groups, too. I’ll marry a group, sure. One time at The Omni in Atlanta, I married the audience to itself, like a Sun Yung Moon kinda deal. I did the paperwork, too, so it was legal. Bunch of people wrote in saying they had been charged with bigamy, but that’s love for you.

“Anyway, you two crazy kids are gonna–”

IPAD NOISE

“–make it…dammit, I thought I turned it on vibrate. Hold on, it’s FaceTime.”

FACETIME OPENING NOISE

“I can’t talk.”

“WE DEMAND VEGAN WEDDING CAKE!”

“It’s my sister-in-law, Lillian Monster.”

“STOP THE SLAUGHTER OF MOSQUITOES!”

“Sure, okay. Call you back.”

FACETIME CLOSING NOISE

“Where were we?”

A Terrible Poem About Wonderful Hair

donna-phil-jerry-campus

Mrs. Donna Jean Godchaux,
How, oh how, does your hair grow?

“A hundred strokes of brush and then,
Another hundred strokes again.
Flaxseed oil, shampoos of beer,
(I only cut it once a year.)
I simonize and wash and dry,
And when the moon’s full in the sky,
I sacrifice a virgin fair,
For Sassoon! (He’s the God of Hair.)
The salty blood of my selection
Stains the mouth of my reflection.
Demon? Monster? All beware?
Kiss my ass: I’ve got great hair.”

That got weird.

“You asked, sugar.”

The Title Of This Post Is Not “Bob Weir And Phish”

bobby-phish

“Billy, you look terrible.”

“I’m not Billy, Bob.”

“Mickey?”

“No, we’re Phish.”

“You look like men.”

“With a ‘ph,’ Bob.”

“Obviously: around 7.4, fairly alkaline.”

“We are not the Grateful Dead, Bobby.”

“Not with that attitude. And, uh, actually: one of you is a Grateful Dead. Decade from now or so.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Listen: I’m standing in the middle of musicians being the best-looking one. Sounds like the Dead to me.”

“I’m sorry your friend died, Mr. Bobby. My gerbil died and I cried so hard.”

“Thanks, Page.”

Let Jersey Choogle

band-roosevelt-stadium-72

“Jer, y’think we should have a backdrop or something? Maybe, you know, a cleaner kinda look?”

“Huh, yeah, that would look better. But the show starts in an hour, Bobby.”

“That’s enough time. Precarious?”

“Yo?”

“Think you can rustle up a backdrop before the show?”

“Saw a high school a mile away. High schools have auditoriums.”

“You know what to do.”

“Gotcha.”

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