Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (Page 7 of 198)

This Is Not My Beautiful Wife

February 5, 2020 / / 2 Comments

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Well, uh, you know my wife–”

Natasha Monster.

“–Natasha Monster. We’re seeing the sights.”

That is not your wife, Bobby.

“Huh. Well, whoever she is, she’s a great tour guide. Really knows Miami. Took me by the shop where Pitbull has his trousers shortened.”

Wow.

“And where Jackie Gleason ran his Cadillac into those kids. One of the places, at least. He was a terrible driver, apparently.”

The Great One was a drinker.

“Oh, yeah. But, you know: that was the 50’s. America was making a lot of children back then. We could afford to lose a few now and again.”

Glad you’ve made a friend. Hey, I got a question.

“I’ve told you a million times that I don’t have Eric Bogosian’s phone number.”

That’s not the question.

“Wish I did, though. That guy can tell a story.”

Uh-huh. Did the Dead know the Cockettes?

“Joe Cocker’s backup singers?”

No. The Cockettes. They were a drag queen commune that did shows. They lived right down Haight Street from you.

“Ah. The glittery fellows.”

Yeah.

“Once. It went poorly. There was a misunderstanding involving Ramrod’s nickname.”

Sure.

Everybody Said They’d Stand Beside Me When The Game Got Rough

February 3, 2020 / / 1 Comment

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Well, if I’m honest, I’m stewing. Just, uh, mad as hell.”

Why?

“I flew all this way and I’m not even on the roster. Not saying I should start or anything, but I’m ready to come off the bench for my Chiefs.”

…

Different Chiefs, Bobby.

“Not the Tamalpais Chiefs?”

No. Kansas City.

“Ah.”

Besides, you don’t have the right shoes.

“No, no. These sandals have spikes on ’em.”

Really?

“Sure. The carpet in the luxury suite looks like it had smallpox.”

Okay. You get to hang out with any famous people?

“Ran into Joe Montana.”

How was that?

“Like talking to Walton, but you don’t get as bad of a neck cramp.”

Sounds right.

“And I got to meet the young lady who’s doing the half-time show. I think her name is Shipoopi.”

Shakira.

“No, that’s a Jewish holiday. The Dead never scheduled shows that night because the place would be half-empty.”

The woman’s name is Shakira, Bobby. She’s Colombian.

“Was she the one with all the hippos?”

That was Pablo Escobar.

“Shaniqua?”

Shakira.

“Sharkattack?”

Shakira.

“Not a large gal. I could fit her in my fanny pack and wouldn’t even have to move anyone’s stash.”

Petite frame on her.

“Y’couldn’t cast her as Red Sonja I’ll tell you that.”

American Dirt Live Again!

January 31, 2020 / / 1 Comment

“All I’m saying is that fiction writers should be free to write about anyone.”

“Weir, for the last time: I haven’t read that damn Mexican book.”

“Its an American book, Jer. It’s in English.”

“Don’t care, man. I like science fiction.”

“So you would read a book about Space Mexicans?”

“What the hell are Space Mexicans, man?”

“Gosh, I dunno. Maybe the piñatas are full of lasers.”

“How would that even work?”

“Crafty people, those Space Mexicans. Give a whole new meaning to the term–”

“Don’t say it, man.”

“–illegal aliens.”

“You said it.”

“Can’t keep ’em out with a wall. You’d need a Dyson Sphere or something. And, uh, he’s busy with vacuums nowadays. Completely out of the sphere business.”

“Just play the song, Weir.”

Nowhere To Go, Just To Hang Around

January 27, 2020 / / 3 Comments

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Well, uh, someone has stolen my chair.”

I don’t think so.

“Then explain my current posture.”

You’re exercising, pal.

“Ah. That makes much more sense.”

Is that your barbell behind you?

“Oh, yeah. Deadlifting.”

Deadlifts are done from the floor.

“No, no. Every lift I do is technically a Deadlift.”

I see what you did there. Clever.

“I’m working out my body and my mind.”

Very efficient. What exactly is this exercise for?

“This one’s for the core. And, uh, the armpits. Core and pits: it’s like I’ve finished a fruit salad.”

You look very healthy.

“Got a magazine shoot coming up. Me and Young Josh are going shirtless.”

You sure about that?

“Yes. His name is Josh.”

No, about posing half-naked in a magazine.

“Yeah, I’m good with it. Mostly cuz it’s the top half that’s gonna be naked. If they wanted the bottom half, then I’d have to pass. Full nudity would be fine, but no one wants to see a fellow in a shirt and no pants.”

That’s called the Winnie Pooh maneuver.

“Huh. We used to call it ‘The Billy.’ Matter of fact, we still do.”

Billy does that?

“Yuh-huh. And he likes to put his foot up while he’s talking to you. Like that alcoholic pirate.”

Ew.

“It’s a sight.”

That Time Phil Was Fatter Than Garcia: A Half-Assed Investigation

January 25, 2020 / / 8 Comments

As is by now cliche, the Grateful Dead’s career can be sorted into chapters: Baby Dead, Single Drummer, Double Drummer, Brent, Vince, John Mayer; even the noobiest of noobs knows this. These chapters can be  further broken down: Baby Dead can, like the years that followed–be sliced into Single/Double Drummer, and then Vince be split into Bruce/No Bruce, but the Brent Years can be shaved the finest. There’s Pre and Post Coma, obviously, but there was also a magical and mostly forgotten period towards the beginning of Brent’s tenure: That Time Phil Was Fatter Than Garcia.

We can eyeball it to Fall of ’80, but exact dates for TTPWFTG are unknown as of now.

It couldn’t have lasted more than one tour. This shot’s from 9/6/80 in Lewiston, Maine, which for some reason I thought was the Dead’s only trip up to Massachusetts’ vestigial tail, but they went there a lot. As you can see, Phil had been indulging in Maine’s signature dish, which is a deep-fried plaid hat slathered in mayonnaise. (Phil also broke into Stephen King’s house after the show, as he did at least once during each of the Dead’s visits to the state.)

Speaking of plaid:

We see that in October of the same year, Phil is still a huffalump.

By March of ’81, however, the Lord has reasserted His hand on the wheel, and normalcy reigns once more over the lot, as Phil and Garcia retake their appropriate positions on the Axis of Dead Chubbiness.

Lo, do you hear the winds a-winding? Feel the earth ‘neath your feet, or knees, or whatever you’ve got pressed up against the earth? Are you reeling in the years? Will you one day dandle your tyke ‘pon your knee and teach the old stories, the cruel stories, the lost jewels of birthright? Will you tell your child about That Time Phil Was Fatter Than Garcia? Will you do that for me?

Stop typing.

Okay.

Do something useful with your life.

Don’t wanna.

The Days Of Skull And Roses

January 16, 2020 / / 2 Comments

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Scat singing.”

Really?

“Bee-dee-lee-diddly-bop.”

Yeah, that’s scat singing. Anyone told you to knock it off yet?

“Billy’s been, uh, winging drumsticks at me for a few minutes.”

That counts.

“But the sweater absorbs most of the blows.”

Hell of a sweater, pal.

“It might surprise you to hear that–”

Someone’s old lady knitted it for you.

“–it was handmade. Uh, yeah.”

It’s got that look to it.

“Toasty sucker, too.”

Sure. Hey, Phil.

“Eat it, pud.”

Good to see you, too.

You Had To See It Coming

January 12, 2020 / / 1 Comment

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“I have, uh, joined Goose.”

No. No, no, no.

“The ol’ Bobber can tell which way the wind is blowing. And it’s blowing Gooseward.”

Okay, first of all: “Gooseward” is not a word.

“It’s a direction.”

Second: that’s a duck.

“Duck are baby geese.”

They are not. They are absolutely not.

“Regardless. I had Irving Azoff make a call and, uh, now I’m in Goose.”

Fine. Whatever. When do rehearsals start?

“Oh, we won’t be rehearsing.”

Obviously.

Bobby Serenades The Youth

January 9, 2020 / / 2 Comments

“And, uh, that’s why you can’t date either of my daughters. They’re off the market since that traveling salesman’s car broke down in front of the A-frame. Nothing but hijinks that evening.”

“I don’t wanna date your daughters, Bobby. I’m in the band.”

“Ah. I see it now. You’ve cut and dyed your hair.”

“I’m not Jeff Chimenti, Bobby.”

“Most people aren’t. Vast majority of the population, in fact. No one in all of China is Jeff Chimenti, and there’s a billion of ’em. Those kinda odds, you’d figure there’d be three or four Jeffs over there, but not one.”

“Matt. My name is Matt. I’m in the band that’s playing Sweetwater tonight.”

“I know that place.”

“You own it.”

“Your statement doesn’t preclude mine.”

“Yeah, true. When did you decide to buy the place?”

“My, uh, accountant actually made that decision for me. At a certain point, it became financially smarter to buy the joint than to pay my bar tab.”

“I feel like I’m learning a lot about the music industry.”

“Me, too.”

Pinky Swear

January 7, 2020 / / 3 Comments

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Thinking about the how life combines cyclicality with a linear momentum.”

Uh-huh.

“And learning how to play the slide.”

I see. Let’s talk about the first thing.

“Well, I’m in 1979. Problems with Iran. And, uh, you’re in 2020 and the same nonsense is going on.”

Yup.

“You could even extend your mind’s eye way back. Persia and the West, man. Hoo boy.”

That might be the only fact we know to be true right now.

“Sure, yeah. The frog of war.”

Fog, Bobby. The fog of war.

“Y’don’t say.”

I do.

“That saying never did make any sense to me. I always pictured a giant armored war-toad hopping through a city. Although, that would confuse the hell out of you. The frog of war would produce the same effect as the fog of war.”

Have you always looked like Chevy Chase, or is it just the angle?

“Just the angle.”

Okay.

The Grate Gatsby

December 31, 2019 / / 3 Comments

Hey, Bobby.

“You watching Splosh?”

Phish.

“Yeah, them. They’re, uh, like the Dead without the dead people.”

Kinda. You excited for your New Year’s Eve show?

“Oh, sure. Been drinking champagne all day. Well, not champagne. Pinot blanc mixed with lime Claws.”

That sounds disgusting.

“The first six or seven don’t taste so good, no.”

It should be cool to have everyone dressed up like it was the 1920’s.

“1920’s? No. 1620’s.”

What now?

“Everyone’s getting the plague. Bill Walton’s gonna infect everyone. We even got him one of those scary bird masks. Tough to find in his size.”

Sounds fun.

“Fitting end to the year.”

You’re not wrong.

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