This is the most Grateful Deads that have ever been assembled at one time.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: bill kreutzmann (Page 50 of 88)
It’s like they were in four different bands.
Using all the research skills that TotD has at his disposal (got halfway through a Google search, page froze, said “fuck it,”) this photo can now be definitively (not in the slightest) proven (again: nope) to be the earliest sighting of Snake T-shirt.
This shot is reportedly from one of the Oxford Plains, ME, shows in 1988. Bobby has paired Snake T-shirt with his usual short shorts and a pair of Ugg boots. (Bobby had been warned on numerous occasions not to use the Time Sheath technology to go shoe shopping, but he countered by saying that they were “sooooooo totes comfy” and that everyone was just “jelly” and “haters” and then he went to Starbucks for a latte.)
Mickey is a lifeguard.
Hey, Garcia. Doing the ol’ Acoustic Dead thing?
“Yup.”
Billy unconscious?
…
“Looks that way.”
Hey, Billy. Whatcha doing?
“Drumming. Being a crazy old fuck. Same old shit.”
Nice. You looking forward to the Farewell Shows?
“Yeah. No. Sure. The money. I mean, don’t get me wrong: I played with those fuckers for 25 years. Gonna be fun to do it again and Trey’s just the tits, y’know? But it ain’t the Dead. The Dead was me and Garcia, the sound of it. We never really got close, did y’know that?”
No.
“There was the early, acid stuff: that whole bonding and living on top of each other thing. But I had a wife and a kid real early, always had my own place. Never really…here’s the main distinction: he took out his negative emotions on himself; I took out my negative emotions on others. Socially, we couldn’t understand each other like we could musically. But that was what mattered, right?”
Yup.
“Ah, hell: at least it isn’t any of those fake Jerry assholes. I can’t stand them fuckers. Sound like your damn self. I don’t mind playing the old shit: I still play all the old shit with my new bands. But we play ’em our way. Trey’s gonna play his way.”
I think this is the most we’ve ever talked.
“It was nice.”
Yeah.
Billy has been deflating eleven out of every twelve balls he comes in contact with since around 1971.
- Did a gypsy steal Phil’s shoes?
- Speaking of which, why is Bobby wearing Marty McFly’s future sneakers?
- How long has Mickey been a lesbian park ranger?
- Trey’s driving?
- Really?
- Couldn’t resist those fucking bears, couldja?
- Would anyone really want to be rained on by Cloud Garcia?
- Speaking of which, why is Billy a cloud?
- How is he gonna play drums? Someone’s gotta play the drums while Mickey fucks around with his tar, don’t they?
- Why not just put all of them on the hot dog?
- Do you think that’s not going to cause jealousy?
- “Why does Billy get to be a cloud?”
- “Well, why wasn’t I even asked if I wanted to be a cloud?”
- Won’t that giant hot dog smother all the people in Soldier Field to death?
- Why a hot dog, anyway?
- Is that some dopey Phish bullshit, the hotdog nonsense?
- Do we need to have a talk about keeping one’s toys in one’s own side of the sandbox?
- I mean: the first motherfucker that WOO’s during the Farewell Shows knows he’s getting punched, right?
Randomly:
- Phil is roughly 1.29 Mickeys high.
- Brent is straight-up jingling his keys. doing his Hanon exercises, counting his change, milking his shake, shaking his milk, putting away his toys, stroking the place that makes him a bad boy.
- Bobby and Garcia heard you been talking shit.
- Things Mickey does because it is his nature: drum, physically assault people, wear Dead stuff, assume superhero poses whenever a camera’s present.
- Phil wants to show you his imported tentacle porn.
- Or his van.
- Or his deathnipples.
- Billy never had these feelings before. Especially not about Mickey: Jesus, he was the man’s brother drummer! That would be like getting wood from your sister and banging her in the closet of Uncle Al’s 60th birthday party. (After Uncle Al walked in on the incestuous closet-banging, he had a massive heart attack, so the theme was quickly changed to “wake.”)
- But there it was: that tingle in his dingle which meant Billy’s heart had a boner. And Billy’s boners weren’t like the dumb boners of old, just chucked out of the trousers in vain hopes of hitting the ground; no, Billy’s boners were like today’s smart boners: steerable, programmable, and deadly accurate; one made it down a chimney once. This boner had a name on it, and the name was Mickey.
- Billy was desperate: perhaps Mickey had secretly been a stone-cold teen fox all this time? Like a Mrs. Doubtfire deal? Billy rejected that one on the grounds that he had seen Mickey naked 18 billion times. That’s a conservative guess.
- A potion? Voodoo? Santeria? Any other of the ethnic magics? A curse from an ancient Eastern European, one of those places where everyone there is an 85-year-old woman? Had that goddamn Time Sheath technology spawned another zap gun that turned people gay? (Again.)
- No matter: Billy’s hand was creeping towards Mickey’s crotch, that heaping bowl of potato salad, and creeping slowly but steadily and then Mickey…
- “HIYA!” and smacks Billy’s hand.
- “You were up to your no-good dickpunching ways, William.”
- “Huh? I wasn’t…YES, I was going to punch you in the dick. Because I’m Billy and that’s hat I do to dicks. Punch them.”
- “But I thwarted you with the Judo that America taught me while I served in her Air Forces!”
- …
- “Why are you talking like Superman?”
- “It’s a photo shoot thing. I stand like this, and sometimes–“
- “Oh, right: you get into it.”
- “–I get into it and kinda get all Clark Kenty. What were we talking about?”
- “I don’t remember.”
- No joke: Garcia and Bobby are sending some folks to the hospital tonight.
The only reason Mickey is doing the Farewell Shows is because there will be tons of new Dead clothing on sale, which he will steal and wear every single day.
“Look at me, Mrs. Donna Jean! Hear my thoughts as I send them out towards your pigtails and modest, yet form-fitting, dress. READ MY MIIIIIIND, woman! Broadcast, Bobby does, his neurons and synapses doing…their…thing. I do not know what neurons and synapses do: no matter, my love!
“I know what my dong does. I know what it does to you. Remember that time you were going to sneeze, and I stopped up your nose with my penis? You thanked us both that day. Then, you sneezed on my penis. I was cool with that.”
“Shut up, Bobby. I’m ignoring you.”
“You CAN hear me!”
“You’re basically screaming across the psychic plane. My telepathic powers enable me to hear you if only you speak quietly.”
“It’s weird we’ve never discussed these telepathic powers before.”
“It is. Maybe we’ll discuss them at length in the coming days and then discard the idea again.”
“Love me, Mrs. Donna Jean! Love me back! Feel my gaze on your beauty, and my hands on your booty.”
“If you guys are done, Billy’s got a bunch of lines back here.”
“Who is this?”
“Get off the line.”
“It’s Phil. You two gotta cool it. Keith’s gonna figure this out.”
“Phil, you know that Keith is unable to hear any psychic conversations!”
“I did not know that. And it seems awful convenient. Irregardless, he wouldn’t even have to.”
“Yeah, Bob: your neck’s kinda losing its mind there.”
“Garcia?”
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Bobby, I gotta agree with everyone: you got a needy vibe coming off ya.”
“Who is this?”
“The skull Mickey’s holding.”
That’s enough.
© 2025 Thoughts On The Dead
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑
Recent Comments