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

Tag: steve parish (Page 1 of 7)

On Behalf Of The Group…

Hey, Bobby. You let Parish on the mic, huh?

“This one’s on me, yeah. He said he was gonna introduce the band.”

Is he telling a story that starts off about Garcia, and then switches to being about the best weed he ever smoked in Fresno, and then about different apartments he rented over the years?

“Oh, you’ve heard that one?”

I have.

“Now he’s pitching the crowd on time-shares in Oaxaca.”

Bad investment.

“Sure. Smart money’s in Chiapas.”

I read that.

I’m Trying To Use The Phone

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Wriggling away from Parish.”

I see that. What’s the matter?

“Well, you know I love the guy.”


“The man’s my brother. Parish has even, uh, been my Parish on many occasions.”

A Rock Star needs his Parish.

“Knight’s nothing without a squire. Can’t even get on his horse.”

The armor was heavy. What’s going on with Parish?

“He won’t stop bugging me about investing in his weed company.”

That doesn’t seem so bad.

“Uh-huh. Literally every white person I’ve met in the past decade has bugged me to invest in their weed company. It’s been, like, my number one conversation for a while.”

I can see that happening.

“Now that I mention it, it seems obvious, right?”

A little. Why don’t you just start a damn weed company? Mickey’s got one. Hell, Garcia’s got one, and Texas was still executing pot smokers when he died.

“True, yeah. I just don’t wanna be a bad role model for my girls.”

Didn’t you recommend to one of them last week that she take LSD for her migraines?

“I didn’t recommend it. I presented it as an option.”


This FaceApp Thing Is Out Of Hand

“Who’s this jamoke?”

“This? He’s, uh, Top of the Pops. Tom of the Dell. Something in that neighborhood. He writes about us.”

“Seems squirrely. Want me to bop him?”

“No, no. He’s okay.”

“I got my knife. I could saw through his achilles tendon real easy.”

“Overkill. Parish, he’s fine.”

“I got my eye on him.”

“Why do you think I’m so relaxed?”



“What, uh, exactly is going on with you and that blonde guitarist who’s young enough to be your granddaughter?”

“Purely Platonic.”


“In the sense that Plato was Greek, and so I meant we only do anal.”



“Why are you doing Superman chest?”

“I like to. Makes me look powerful. I may have gotten old, but I can still kick your ass.”

“I know, Parish.”

“Not talking about the general ‘you,’ either. I meant you. If anything happens to Wolf, I’ll put you in hospice.”

“Jesus, man.”

“You would skip the hospital and go straight to the hospice. The violence would be overwhelming in both speed and breadth. I would be everywhere, and all at once.”

“Y’know, I do a bit of MMA training.”

“John, kid, I like you a lot. You’re family now, man. You’re helping to keep Garcia’s music alive, and I love that. But it would be like a polar bear raping a kitten.”

“Jesus, man.”

“And take all that shit off your right wrist, and shift your belt buckle around to the side.”

“Hold up now, buddy–


“Did you just Little Bunny Foo Foo me?”



“Be careful with the guitar.”

“I’m beginning to hate this deal.”

“Pray I don’t Little Bunny Foo Foo you any further.”

Hangin’ Over My Head



I’m speechless.

“Here’s what you gotta understand about that strap: that’s professional-grade canvas.”

Which means what?


Sure. Did the giant speaker need to be placed directly above Garcia?

“I would argue your adverb. That speaker is mostly above Garcia. It would clip him, at best.”

Still bad.

“The man’s got quicker reflexes than you’d think.”

It’s like the Sword of Damocles.

“Nah. It’s fine.”

What if there’s wind?

“There shouldn’t be any wind.”

That statement could be taken two ways.

“Choose one. Free country, man.”

Let Parish Sing?

“Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma! Tu pure, oh Principessa!”

That sounds terrible.

“I’m not warmed up, man.”

And you can’t sing.

“Hey, neither could Lesh, but people still wanted to hear it.”

Don’t sing opera. Did you steal that shirt from Sinbad?

“That guy’s great, man.”

We’re talking about the same guy, right? The comedian?

“Yeah. Big colored fellow.”

Black. We just say black now, Parish.

“Oh, I don’t know about ‘black.’ Sinbad’s kinda of cafe au lait-colored.”

Stop saying colored. Why do you know Sinbad?

“After Garcia died, I stayed out on the road for a while. Sinbad needed a tour manager and the pay was right. Lot less to take care of than the Dead. The whole package is him and a case full of fanciful vests.”

Sinbad started wearing vests in the 90’s and never kicked the habit.

“Man loves his vests.”

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