That poster was the source of the Branford rumors.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: dead50 (Page 6 of 7)
Hey! Captain Jack Sparrow! Loved you in that movie, liked you in those two movies, then did not see you in that last movie.
“Thank you. But, I’m not him.”
No?
“No.”
…
Hobo Rob Zombie?
“We do have the same jawline.”
Weirdly enough.
“But: no.”
Do you live on a post-apocalyptic prison planet?
“I’m gonna walk away from you.”
Wait, wait: one question.
“Go.”
The hat and the hair: still two things or has there been fusion?
“Yeah, it might take some doing to get the ol’ girl off my head now that you mention it.”
Awesome. You ever stabbed a guy?
“Shit, I stabbed lotsa guys.”
Ever get stabbed?
“Shit, lotsa guys stabbed me.”
…
Can we be best friends?
“Oh, no.”
Good decision.
“Oh, yeah.”
You have a good show.
“You, too, brother!”
The Fare Thee Well shows in Chicago saw Deadheads from all over the country attend, including these two from Florida.
Honestly, though: these guys were great. People talk shit about gators–reptiles in general–and it’s not deserved. Frank the Tank and Scaly Joe could not have been nicer. They said please, and thank you, and waited patiently in line for tacos. Then, they ate the girl in the food truck.
Aliens?
Oh, yeah. No doubt in my mind.
Walk me through your thinking.
You’ll notice that what I will now begin to refer to as “The Mothership” without any evidence is purple?
I did notice that.
Classic alien right there: fuckers love purple.
Yeah?
If a Roman Senator was a Prince fan, he wouldn’t love purple as much as aliens.
Continue.
The shakiness?
Yes?
A by-product of simultaneous existence in five dimensions, seven bimensions, and two trimensions.
That sounds confusing.
M.C. Escher draws their pornography.
Wow. Keep going.
They’re at a Dead show, so this is further evidence. Aliens love the jams, man.
Aren’t you usually the sober, Fred Ward-like character?
Not when it comes to aliens, brother. I gotta spread the gospel to the sheeple.
I guess we all get one thing.
Yup.
Can we narrow down the identification any further?
Off-hand, we might be dealing with Cat People of Felicidae IV.
Throne-world to the Felis Empire?
You’ve heard of it?
People like telling me things.
This is, of course, Phil’s actual birth-place and they like to keep tabs on their boy.
Sure.
Beyond that, I can’t be sure.
What can you be sure of?
Like, absolutely and completely?
Yes.
Aliens.
Good to know.
The blimp floated in what was close enough to a circle. There was a loop going, if a poky one. The giant LED screen showed some bears, because that is the law; and they showed the Stealie with the 50 on it, because that is how branding works; and they ran lyrics from Dead songs.
There was the one above, from a song the Dead forgot to play that Trampoline would have utterly slaughtered, and also “Nothing left to do…” and prehaps some others. There were, of course, many other things considered to be broadcast.
Rejected Lines for the Blimp Display:
- “Bigger than a drive-in movie, oo-wee.”
- “We ball all night.”
- “Ice Cube’s a pimp.”
- “Picasso moon, fractal flame.”
- “This is the blimp pilot, and I’m drunk.”
- “I didn’t grow up wanting to fly a blimp.”
- “I wanted to fly jets like my brother Reagan.”
- “He was my hero.”
- “But I have the eyesight of a star-nosed mole.”
- “Look them up; they’re fascinating.”
- “So the best I could do was blimps.”
- “It’s still flying, right?”
- “Reagan didn’t think so.”
- “He called me the Blimp Wimp.”
- “That’s not right to do to a person.”
- “I’m a man.”
- “And I have a blimp.”
- “Watch me crash it into you.”
- “HEY, GET OFF ME.”
- “You can’t touch me, I’m the Blimp Captain.”
- “I AM IN COMMAND OF THIS BLIMP.”
- …
- “Yay, Grateful Dead.”
- “I need authorities to meet me at the Blimpport.”
The DirecTV Blimp was there all weekend, and I’ll gladly spell their ridiculous name right because you know what? Blimps ain’t cheap. Someone had to pay for the blimp, and the folks who are not your cable company, but are probably just as bad, stepped up.
Ain’t no party like a blimp party.
The lighter-than-airship got fucked: one rough landing. Planes killed people at an almost 100% rate for the first twenty years of their existence. Boats have been getting swallowed by the ocean since their invention, we still have those. Cars were hilariously lethal for decades and we built an entire society dedicated to their comfort, at the expense of ours.
A few rich Germans burn to death on film, and it’s bye-bye airships.
So, perhaps it was advertising, and God only knows who got paid what or why or how: who gives a shit. For three nights straight, I had a blimp and that is how life should be.
Everyone deserves a blimp once in a while.
The only way Billy could afford these tickets to the Dead show is by playing in the Dead show, thereby defeating the purpose.
In another life, TotD watched an LA Kings game from the serious-money box seats and it’s a different, and better, world in there. For instance, there is no limit on hot dogs, and then, when you vomit because no one stopped you from eating nine hot d0gs, the staff will act like they’re not disgusted. They will also keep bringing you hot dogs.
The nice folks at CID (Capitalus In Domino) were responsible for the luxury boxes in Chicago, and the amenities were super. You could pick out any fan in GA and have him or her brought to you, for eating or sexual purposes.
CID guests that took in the shows from our Praetor’s Villas also had access to:
- Attractive people could bathe you at set break.
- Or, if that’s not your thing, ugly people could throw turkey sandwiches at while you tried to pee. Either way is good.
- Many cakes.
- A similarly large variety of pies.
- Like, any sandwich you can imagine.
- Imaginary meats in between impossible breads and slathered with legendary spreads and/or condiments.
- Dragon on gluten-free pumpernickel?
- You want a pickle with that?
- You get pickles with fucking everything at the Praetor’s Villa.
- CID staff will accommodate any food allergies or sensitivities with a smile, because if you’re rich enough to be in this joint, then you have food allergies and/or sensitivities.
- Rich people are bored, I think.
- Massages upon request.
- Licensed physiotherapist or sex slave off the highway: whatever context you like strangers to grab at you in.
- We can also get fat ladies to do stuff to your feet, or with your feet, or on your feet.
- If you want to get your feet together with fat ladies, we can make that happen in almost any way, is what we’re getting at.
- Private bathroom, or security to escort you to the common facilities.
- If you request, the security will push everyone else out of the way so you can go first, and then throw money at them while you tinkle.
- Complimentary, exclusive, limited-edition Dead 50 merch, such as t-shirts, hoodies, and cock rings with Bruce Hornsby’s disapproving glare printed on them.
- “Bruce says, ‘What are you gonna do with this boner, you filthy perv?'”
- Free parking, OR
- Shuttle bus to the hotel/after-party, OR
- Piggy-back ride to the nearest guy selling balloons, OR
- Skinned and dumped in an alley.
- Private, secure suite with 4 55″ HD sets playing the shows and a 7.1 surround-sound system with an EXCLUSIVE sound mix just for the Praetor’s Villa done by Bear’s Ashes.
- Fully-stocked bar.
- Experienced and attractive bartender with pretty much everything else you’d need in his backpack.
- So much shrimp you deny Christ’s divinity three times before morning.
- Ninjas on-call.
- Really complicated deserts that require fire, for some reason.
- John and Katy might stop by at set break.
- Full complement of armed guards in case the Poors decide they’ve had enough and/or want your shrimp.
All in all, CID’s endeavors were a success. All of the Praetor’s Villas were sold out, and none of the illiterate wastrel scions of the nation died on premises, so legally that’s a win.
I haven’t yet publicly thanked my new friends Chris and Martin, who invited me to Chicago and put me up and gave me tickets for no other reason than I made them laugh. This has been an oversight: these are good men, and while I like to percolate on shit, they should have been appreciated and thanked prior to now.
Thanks, guys.
Thanks to everyone else reading all this nonsense, but in a much, much lesser way. Not even comparable amount of thanks that the guys who miracled me three fucking nights in Chicago and a couch and HOLY SHIT one of ’em made me FUCKING BREAKFAST and the rest of you sit there expecting THE SAME KIND OF THANKS AS THESE TWO ANGELS OF HEAVEN?
Not on my watch: all the thanks for Chris, ditto for Martin. If, while consuming their thanks, scraps fall to the ground, you may fight over them. Stories about them soon; thanks, now.
You’re getting weird earlier and earlier lately.
Humanity’s anthills are better than the ones ants make, mostly due to the electricity and rebar and coffee places. The lack of pupae helps, too. Pupae are the grossest part of the whole insect thing, which is already completely disgusting.
Beavers gotta dam, birds gotta nest, people gotta city: we’re all the same.
Everyone needs to stop with everything, please.
First off: petitions are for bored lesbians in college towns. Grievances need no redressing; let’s not involve clipboards and the entrances to supermarkets. Grateful Dead gonna do what Grateful Dead gonna do.
Second: first rule of show biz is to spell the name of the band right.
© 2026 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments