I guess they ran out of money for posters before they ran out of tour, huh?
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: dead & company (Page 15 of 38)
Bobby’s jersey says LORAX.
Also, Jeff Chimenti is my favorite person. Look at him, all goony and happy and magical. If you catch Jeff Chimenti, then he must grant you wishes; if you made a paintbrush from his hair, the art you create would go with any sofa. Jeff Chimenti talks in his sleep, but only inspirational messages and compliments. An anagram for “Jeff Chimenti” is not “Wow, he’s great.”
Also also: the fun and games are over. I need to know where Billy was.
Oh, hey: there’s a Dead show tonight, kinda, sorta, if you squint. You can listen to a crappy AUD of it here, complete with randos and chompers (I learned a new word and I’ll tell you all about it, I promise) chit-chatting* the night away. There is no official audio stream, because something something revenue source something something LiveNation.
(Remix of tonight’s poster by Spencer, who invented the remix. I know Puff Diddy says he did, but it was a Canadian farmer. I would not lie to you about this: Spencer invented the remix.)
*At this point, I feel the warning to abstain from chatting in rooms needs not be stated.
The theme for tonight’s poster is “poster,” I guess. It’s poster-shaped, and gives you the information you need, plus it’s that shade of red that’s generally saved for brothel wallpaper. Other than that, there’s not much going for it.
Also: 10:18? Why 10:18? Artist’s birthday? Just trying to get the hands of the clock in complementary positions relative to the points on the lightning bolt?
Also also: so glad they changed the name of the venue. Alpine Valley Pine Knob just didn’t have the poetry of “DTE Energy Music Theatre.”
In addition to general awesomeness, Bill Walton watches from the pit. He could sit backstage, but he likes to stand in the crowd and dance with the Deadheads. I’d never see a show in GA again, and I haven’t had anything surgically reconstructed, let alone everything.
Also: no one better Photoshop a ball and hoop into this picture so it looks like Bill Walton is dunking over randos.
- Didn’t wanna.
- Underestimated an edible.
- Perfectly estimated an edible, but ate nine of them.
- Just can’t look at any dude feet right now.
- Halfway through a Settlers of Cataan game and needs to manage his lumber.
- Halfway through a divorcée from Aurora and needs to manage his lumber.
- Wandering around the lot handing out rolling papers and screaming, “CAN YOU DIG IT?” at Deadheads.
- Nap time.
- They didn’t have a jersey with the number 69 on it, so Billy refused to participate.
- Murdering Benjy for old time’s sake.
Five minutes into the honky-horn symphony, Billy looked backstage and noticed a roadie who had clearly been beaten to death with honky-horns. Then, he looked down and noticed Mickey’s baseball gloves and all of a sudden Billy knew he’d been set up.
OR
The geese came suddenly and with anger. Billy accepted his feathery death; he was laughing as the birds ate his eyes.
OR
I guarantee these things come with a lecture about how “everything’s a drum, man.”
OR
Holy shit: Mickey is not wearing a Dead shirt. AND he doesn’t have his Stealie earpiece in. Mickey is momentarily bereft of Dead bullshit; he’s had nightmares about this for years.
OR
“Billy?”
“Yeah Mick?”
“They’re like boobies.”
“They totally are.”
OR
Shortly after this picture was taken, the rest of the band joined the Rhythm Devils for Drums, except for Bobby, who took one look and started making calls about the next Ratdog tour.
Listen, I’m just saying.
All I’m doing is saying.
“Who’s that sexy tall thing singin’ my song!?”
What?
“Next Time You See Me! That’s a song the Pig done penned!”
You did not write that, Pig.
“But I made it mine!”
Sure.
“Now they got some sweet l’il filly warblin’ my tune!”
Um.
“Although just between you and the Pig, I dunno bout that lass! Haircut’s awful suspicious!”
Please stop being from the past.
“Like to climb that mountain.”
That’s a guy, Pig.
…
“Okay. Yeah. I see it now.”
His name’s John.
“Well, he should grow hisself some damn whiskers as to not confuse the public!”
I’ll tell him.
“And tell him he can keep singin’ Next Time! He didn’t fuck it up too bad, I guess.”
Wasn’t a train wreck.
“But if he gets his skinny l’il ladyfingers near Two Souls in Communion, he’s gettin’ a Pigtergeist!”
I will definitely tell him.
Here’s the secret to this photo: that woman is 6’8″. Swear to God.
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