Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: phil lesh (page 1 of 101)

The Fullest Muppet Possible Given The Genetics

No one gives your ’77 beard enough credit.

“Yeah, she’s pretty manly.”

I don’t know if that sentence makes sense.

“Well, obviously my beard is female.”

Why?

“It’s, uh, sitting on my face. Not to get too Billy about the whole thing, but only ladies are allowed to saddle up.”

Sure.

“But, you know, the characteristics displayed are masculine. Robustness, stolidity, forward-thinking.”

If you say so. Why do you have Dee Dee Ramone’s haircut?

“I asked for it specifically. Gotta keep up with the punkers.”

Okay. Tell Phil I say hi.

“He’s not fond of you.”

I’m aware.

Fare Thee A Little Bit Better Than This

After a great deal of discussion, the school board decided that Heather Has Three Daddies, At Least Two Of Whom Are Schnockered wasn’t appropriate for the library.

OR

Ginge on a binge.

OR

Li’l Orphan Xannie.

OR

“Whose shoulder hurts?”

“Mine.”

“Over here.”

There’s Not Enough Question Marks For This One

The important questions, Enthusiasts. We concern ourselves with only the most vital of the day’s issues. Let lesser sites finger their rosaries over peace, war, coffee cups left on tables, et cetera. These are trifles. No, we’ll not be spending our ever-shrinking lives boodling about in the intellectual shallow end. We’re gonna get down to what’s really real, you and me.

And, thus, we come to our question: Did Phil yoink Bobby’s BMW shirt?

I told you it was important.

An Aesthetic

Precarious?

“Yo.”

Why must there always be pandemonium?

“Referring to?”

The stage. It looks like a woodworking shop had a baby with a Guitar Center, and then the baby exploded.

“Eh. Band liked it this way.”

How could anyone like this?

“Maybe ‘like’ is wrong. How about ‘The band didn’t give a shit if it looked this way?'”

That sounds right.

Acrostic The Rio Grand-ee-oh

W is for water, as in rain, which was dripdripdroppifying all over the scalawags and reprobates and chickies at Woodstock, which is where this photo was taken.

O is for omelettes, which you couldn’t get because there was no food because it was just a fucking field with no amenities.

O is for opera, which is the plural of opus, which just means “work.” When you call something an opera, you’re literally saying “this thing someone made.” Lot less fancy when you know that.

D is for Dirty Dingus Magee. Sinatra was in it. He played a cowboy.

Because when you think “cowboy,” you think “Sinatra.” Blue-eyed Enthusiasts will note the luxurious toupee under the hat; Frank named all his hairpieces, and called that one Husky Boy.

S is for Sly Stone, or perhaps Sha Na Na, (PREDICTION: When the absurd “every single note of every single band” 38-disc Woodstock box set is released, Rock Nerds will all rediscover the Na’s brilliance. Pitchfork is already readying a thinkpiece on Bowser, I guarantee it.)

T is a drink with jam and bread, or crystal meth, or testosterone, or the mohawked muscle of the A-Team, or a square, or one of two events that stop play in a basketball game.

O is pissing me off, honestly. Three appearances in one word is too much, O. Let the other vowels get a chance to play.

C is for Country Joe and his Fish, and I’m gonna pass. Hard pass.

K is allowed to ask me about my business just this once, and also potassium.

Most Of The Cats That You Pet In The Green Room Speak Of True Love

Phil, put that thing down.

“Bite me, dickweed.”

Seriously, man. Put it down.

“And I told you–”

SHLARRRRFHMMMPH

“The cat just threw up a reality made of tentacles.”

Yeah, it’s a flerken.

“It ate Grahame.”

Yeah. It’s a flerken.

“Is this some stupid comic book bullshit?”

It is, yes.

“Those movies are for dumb people and children. And dumb children. Lots of people will tell you that there’s no such thing as a dumb child, but there’s tons of ’em. Grahame couldn’t figure out how to work a door until he was 8. He would just screech at the knob until someone came and helped him.”

You hate to see that.

“Sure. But look at him now.”

He got eaten by an interdimensional portal in the form of a cat.

“He’ll be back. I know how this universe works.”

You’re not wrong.

OR

Can everyone else see the googly-eye face to Phil’s left? Because I saw it, and now I can’t unsee it.

Someone Steal That Man’s Razor

A reminder: Never wear your boots like that unless OSHA demands that you do so.

A further reminder: “Body Positivity” is a scam invented to sell products–some cheese-covered, some not–to fat people.

A farther reminder: Nick Paumgarten fucking loves mountains. Climbing ’em, sliding down ’em, getting drunk with rich fuckers at the base of ’em: the man’s a catholic slopist.

A father’s reminder: Get your hair cut and tell your mother you love her.

A farmer’s reminder: The Grange meeting is Tuesday night.

A Farnsworth reminder: I INVENTED TEEVEE, YOU UNGRATEFUL BASTARDS!

Phillo, Sophist

Hey, Phil. Reading to the kids?

“Gosh, you’re observant.”

Don’t say anything, but I think that little boy in the middle has one of those aging diseases.

“That’s Guberman, jackass. He’s my keyboardist.”

Is this how you pay your band? With stories?

“I’m this close to 86’ing you from TXR.”

But I was looking forward to Psychic Night with Evidential Medium Cindy Kaza. I have some important questions for my father.

“Like what?”

Where he left the remote, for starters. It’s been ten years and we still can’t find it.

“Go away.”

“Have you considered ze locus of power within zis discourse? Also, would you consider peeing on me?”

“Who is that?”

C’est moi.”

“Oh, go away, Mike. No one understands a goddamned word you say.”

Oui. Zis is because you are all–‘ow you say?–doofuses. Zis is correct? Doofus?”

“Escargot away.”

Non! We shall discuss ‘ow schizophrenia is a conspiracy of ze ‘eterosexuals. And zen we shall fist each other.”

“Dammit, man, there are children here!”

“I shall fist ze bearded one.”

“HEY!”

Me?

“Oh, yeah. You. Don’t come around here any more and don’t bring any more perverted philosophers.”

But Lacan wanted to see Moonalice.

“OUT!”

A Giant Among Musicians

Is the Stealie so you don’t forget what band you’re in?

“Why am I in every post tonight?”

It’s Passover.

“So?”

Phil Lesh is Mr. Passover. All Jews know this.

“I never even heard of the holiday until I met Mickey. And if I can be honest, I find it a bit creepy.”

Is it all the murdered children?

“Yup.”

Well, you have to understand: Pharaoh was being a dick.

“And?”

Bad decision. Old Testament God didn’t like backtalk. He was really more of a I say ‘leap,’ you say ‘How high?’ kind of deity.

“So why didn’t he kill Pharaoh instead of all the first-borns?”

Pharaoh was spared due to professional courtesy. God went to Choate with Osiris. It’s all who you know.

“That’s enough. Go away.”

Tell Precarious he did a wonderful job with the gear.

“No.”

Why Is This Jam Different Than Any Other Jam?

“Good evening, ticketholders, and welcome to Terrapin Crossroads’ annual seder dinner. Since Passover happens to fall on 4/20 this year, we’ll be combining the two celebrations with a very special meal and haggadah. We’re calling it the haggadoobie. Rabbi, would you like to lead us in the prayer over the edibles?”

“Not a rabbi, Phil. I’m Ross James.”

“You do look rabbinical.”

“It’s just the beard. Half the guys in here look like me.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll do it myself. I don’t actually know Hebrew, so bear with me. Ahem.”

Barack Obama Illinois
And-a hey-ho melon something something
A chair, Miss Ivana, Bar Mitzvah Dave
I gotta lick shells.
Passover.

“That was great. I did a hell of a job. And with no rehearsal! Okay, how about the Four Questions? Rabbi?”

“Still not a rabbi, Phil.”

“Again, I will take care of this. Okee-dokee, remember everyone: we’re combining the seder with 4/20. Everyone got it?”

“They remember the premise, Phil.”

“Y’know, you’re awful talkative for someone who isn’t a rabbi.”

“Sorry.”

“If I may continue. Where did I leave the paper with the questions? Did anyone see it? Ross? Did I leave it in my coat? And those were the Four Questions. Now it’s time for the children to find the afikomen.”

“Here I am!”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s me, haredi yoga instructor Afi Komen.”

“This has gotten a bit surreal.”

“I’d like you to meet my wife. She doesn’t have a name.”

“Why not?”

“We treat our women like shit.”

“Happy Passover.”

“And a bitchin’ 4/20 to you, boychik.”

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