Continuing with the WTF theme of the evening, we come to this photo. Google tells us little: is it real? Anybody got this one?
I need to know.
Thoughts On The Dead
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Page 785 of 1031
Hey, Billy.
“Yo! Thoughts on my Ass!”
Oh, good: a nickname.
“How the fuck are ya?”
I’m, uh, good – Billy, why are you still at the Cannabis Cup?
“Love it here.”
It ended a week ago.
“Yeah, fuck that. Paying these fuckers behind me to keep the party going.”
Billy, we’ve talked about this sort of thing.
“I’ve set myself up to be a sort of god-king. Colonel Kurtz kinda thing, y’know.”
Jesus, man.
“A little pricey, but worth it.”
I’m sure it’s fun, but the income is no longer there for stunts like this, buddy. There’s no fall tour to replenish the coffers anymore. You got this one big payout coming and then you’re going back to the farm to surf and shoot at wild pigs.
“And the book.”
There’s no way you haven’t spent the book money already.
“Plus, ol’ Billy’s got an ace up his sleeve.”
Robbery or kidnapping?
“After the last show in Chicago, I’m gonna follow Phil back to his car and mug him for his cut.”
…
That’s not how…no. No, you can’t do that.
“Sure, I can. Already got the baton to hit him with: one of those collapsible fuckers the police use.”
Oh, you can hit him–you shouldn’t, though–but he’s not going to have “his cut” on him, Billy. This isn’t the old days: at no point will a fast food-bag full of well-handled twenties be involved.
“Well, now who’s being naive?”
What the fuck is this?
“Oh, hey. This is Bjork, possibly.”
I’m pretty sure that isn’t Bjork.
“It might be that Zooey Deschanel gal.”
I don’t think it is.
“She’s a triple threat.”
…
“I was told it was Bjork.”
It’s not Bjork. Bjork can’t play the fucking sitar: we would’ve heard about that by now.
…
She is giving you the look of love, though.
“Still Bobby after all these years, brother.”
Worst freak show routine ever.
OR
I like how, even though they’re just taking a picture and holding the guitar, 50 years of muscle memory won’t let their hands do anything but play the thing.
OR
What is that? It looks like something Picasso doodled on a napkin to get out of paying for dinner.
OR
Jack Casady either needs to stop dying his hair or start paying more money to dye his hair. You should go to Big-Dicked Sheila’s with Phil.
OR
I mean: Phil’s gotta dye his hair, right? He’s 74.
OR
This is just a little crystal meth away from being a lemon party. Just saying.
You can’t be in the Grateful Dead, John Mayer.
“I remember thinking — and this is a very important feeling — that I could go anywhere with this watch, because I couldn’t be lost,” he said. “I could get lost in Paris, but I had my watch. Now, on its face, no pun intended, it doesn’t make sense. All your watch does is tell the time. But why do you feel strapped? Why do you feel equipped?
“It would take a lot of poetry to explain it.”
Everyone hates you John Mayer, and you’re terrible.
After a decade of serious collecting, he was established enough as a connoisseur to ask Patek Philippe (the Geneva-based maker of ultra-high-end watches, founded in 1839) to make him unique pieces by request. One was a white gold 5004G with luminous hands, typically a feature associated with casual sport watches. He needed to see them on stage, he told the company.
Where do you have to be, John Mayer? Do you have a curfew? Is there another interview for you to say something idiotic at, you pretentious piece of cowfuck?
“I’ve always pitched this theory of, if a guy comes up to a restaurant in a red Ferrari, you kind of recoil,” he said. “But if you find out that the guy owned 14 of them and he writes a blog on them, then you can appreciate it, because you can trust that there’s a depth to it.”
You’ve pitched that theory, have you? You’re the Niels Bohr of store-bought cool. Tell me more about the research you’ve done. School me on intention vs. action.
Where’d you get your ink done, man? Show us your tattoos, John Mayer.
“We’re all going to end up with the Apple Watch, I don’t care what you say,” Mr. Mayer said. “Even if you have to wear it on your right hand. Even if you wear it as a pocket watch, because I have a concept that you can slot the Apple Watch into a pocket, as a pocket watch. I think it’s a cool device, but there’s got to be another place to put it. I can’t give up precious wrist space for an Apple Watch.”
Hey, everyone: gather round and listen to John Mayer’s concept. He’s invented the iPhone.
His wrist space is precious, but he’ll let out the bit between his ears for cheap.
“My first tattoo looks nothing like my last tattoo, and they’re the same thing,” Mr. Mayer said. He pulled up the right sleeve of his T-shirt to demonstrate.
“That’s the best koi fish you can find,” he said dismissively, nodding toward the crude fish tattoo he got at 18. “And that,” he said, pulling up his other sleeve to show off a lovely reinterpretation he got at 32, “is the koi fish that you want.”
He lowered the sleeve. “It all represents the trip through knowledge.”
1. Judging from the stickers, this was a pre-planned photo session, so the shirts are understandable, but if you met a Grateful Dead by accident, would you want to be wearing a Dead shirt? Or, would you feel goofy? I would feel goofy about it, especially if it was a Garcia shirt.
“Hey, Phil. You remember your dead friend? He’s on my shirt. Have a good rest of your day thinking about mortality, buddy.”
2. Glad that guy’s giving the peace sign. Otherwise, we might not have known he was a hippie-type.
3. “What’s got two thumbs, a new set of teeth, and some new breathing exercises to do when Billy calls? This fucking guy right here.”
I don’t know what’s happening here.
“The beginning of something beautiful that will take place in the men’s room five minutes from now?”
How you getting that thing off her, buddy?
“Absolutely nothing needs to come off for what I’m thinking of.”
Ew, Billy. Just: ew.
What’s the state of your trousers? Are they intact or holier than the Pope’s mother? Does every little breeze seem to whisper Louise on your nethers and privates? If you are a stone-cold teen fox, can you feel the wind on your sweet and pink little nubbin? If you are old, is there a draft hitting your stained and crusty asshole?
Has your dick and/or balls fallen out today? And, not “fallen out” like it usually does: an actual accident.
If so, try Bobby Patches! They’re iron-on patches, which means you place the patch on the spot you desire, let the iron heat up, place a thin towel over the whole shebang, and press down with the iron really hard for a minute. After that, get a needle and thread and sew the thing on* because the ironing never worked.
* WARNING: Do not sew Bobby Patches© over eyes in hopes of looking like Bobbeard the Pirate. You will not be able to see and you will crash your Honda.
“What I want is a 2 and 5/8ths rondelling around that frambercoil here. Now, these welds are going to have to be redone, and much sloppier, too. The, when you’re finished, I’m going to need the joists re-hoisted. Get to work.”
…
“Was any of what he just said a thing?”
“Fuck, no. When he drinks, Mickey thinks he’s a foreman.”
For the completist, masochist, or wheezing fetishist, the show the Boys (the ones that could be bothered to show up for the press conference) were promoting with the United Nations was 9/24/88 at MSG.
It is not recommended that you listen to that show, honestly. The West LA Fadeaway with Mick Taylor from the Stones is good, but a few songs later, Garcia painfully whiffs the “Take me to the leader of the band” line in Ramble On, Rose and the entire band takes it like a gut punch and the rest of the night is mostly shitty.
In his (and everyone else’s) defense, this was the ninth show in eleven nights, which is a bit much. This was ’88: Garcia was probably still getting medical bills from his coma.
Pictured is Suzanne Vega, who sat in with the band for two songs, and whom Garcia porked. (He was clean at the time. When Garcia was clean, he porked like a rock star.)
© 2026 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments