Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: monet weir

An Open Letter To Monet Weir On The Occasion Of Her Joining Twitter

October 31, 2019 / / 5 Comments

Dear Monet Sunbeam Ladychief Weir-Monster,

Hi. How are you? I’m fine. Did you see Joker? It sure wasn’t a joke how he danced down those stairs! How is Instagram going for you? I see you have not yet been hired to endorse Bang! Energy Drinks, and that makes me happy. You are better than Bang! Energy Drinks, Monet. Maybe Fashion Nova or KO Watches, but not Bang! Energy Drinks.

Anyhoo, I see that you are now branching out from the ‘Gram to Twitter, and I humbly offer up some small pieces of advice that I pray with all my heart you will not respond to with “OK Boomer.” (Oh, by the way: Could you film yourself saying “OK Boomer” to your dad and then let us all see it? It would be the greatest Christmas present ever.) Feel free to imitate the rest of the world and ignore me, but please know that I want only the best for you, even though “the best” is not a concept on Twitter, as it is an untended compost heap of journalists, Nazis, Kpop fans, and roaming swarms of artificially semi-intelligent Russian bots.

My first piece of advice is this: Don’t. Stay on Instagram. Twitter rewires your brain. Young lady, I’m gonna tell you a little secret: Twitter has made me love Donald Trump.  Every single day, usually before I’ve even gotten out of bed, that suckfaced nincompoop does a new moronic thing that Twitter can meme about and lampoon in every which way, and it fills me with glee. I tell myself that he’s enabling a takeover of the Judiciary that will fuck up the country for decades to come, and then he fucks up handing out candy to trick-or-treaters and I think about voting for him in 2020. This does not happen in other mediums. Reading books about the current administration takes me forever, as I generally fling the volume across the room in fury once a chapter or so. The sight of him on teevee makes me switch the channel. But on Twitter, I open the app daily hoping he’s broken another law, because on Twitter he’s not the greatest threat to our republic since the Civil War, he’s Doofus Grandpa. That is a pernicious modality of thought, and Twitter does it to you.

Second: seriously, don’t. Monet, I hate to do this, but it’s for your own good.

See that bullshit? You’re gonna attract that. It’s not an “if,” it’s a “when.” Worse than Instagram, right? You just see the text of the comment over there, but Twitter’s got avatars. I’m trying to put myself in your shoes. My dad wasn’t even a little famous, and if someone tweeted at me with his picture as their avatar and demanded I show them my balls, my day would be ruined. I would need to lie in a darkened room for a good long while, but maybe you’re made of stronger stuff.

If you refuse to apply good sense and run screaming, then at least remember the following:

It’s so much easier to piss off Twitter than you think it is. I once got yelled at by dozens of people for pointing out the fact that the Disco Biscuits only sound good when you’re on drugs, and even then only specific drugs in near-lethal quantities.

Never engage with randos Earlier today, you were kind enough to respond to my little joke welcoming you to Twitter. BIG MISTAKE, MISSY! Look where we are now: I’m writing you a thousand-fucking-word letter. You’re gonna get Deadhead Reply Guys; do not encourage them. They WILL try to slide into your DMs.

Consider learning drums and forming a metal band with Grahame Lesh and Wolfgang Van Halen. That’s not Twitter-related, but I wanted to include it. You guys would rock, and I think a cool name would be Sins Of The Fathers. That would be metal as fuck.

Don’t talk your dad into taking over his account. Bobby–that’s what we call him around here–has a Twitter account, but he doesn’t run it. His feed is 80% promotional and 20% workouts, and all of it is ghosted for him by his social media manager. We don’t get your father’s raw and unmediated thoughts five or ten times a day, and that is the way it should stay. Even if you start having a ball on Twitter, don’t make it seem like too much fun in front of him.

Don’t be racist. Although, you know: that should go without saying. I am not in any way accusing you of being racist, I’m just saying that if in the near future you decide to become racist, don’t do it on Twitter.

Watch for red flags. Ironically, one of the biggest Twitter red flag is an American flag. You see an American flag emoji in the handle, run. Anime character as an avatar? Run very fast. The initials “JRE” in the bio? Sprint. Conversely, anyone announcing their pronouns is trying to trick you into cancelling yourself.

In conclusion, be careful and be smart and be safe and think about the heavy metal band idea. I know a guy who could be your manager. Do you know Benjy Eisen?

Sincerely,

The King of the Deadhead Reply Guys

Family Feud

August 6, 2019 / / 0 Comments

“Just, uh, keep an eye out.”

“Dad, you have to let this Huey Lewis thing go.”

“Never. I’m gonna piss on that son-of-a-bitch’s grave.”

“Wow.”

“You think they’ll bury him in one of those colorful suits he favors?”

“I don’t know, Dad. To tell you the truth, I barely know who Huey Lewis is. He wrote the song about wanting a new drug, right?”

“Yuh-huh. Another thing he stole from the Dead. We invented wanting drugs. That was our thing.”

“Please let it go.”

“Head on a swivel, Chloe.”

“Monet.”

“All right, sure. THERE! I see you, you easy-rocking bastard!”

“Dad, that’s not him.”

“No, no. Listen to your father.”

“Daddy is always right.”

“Have you ever googled ‘duck penis?'”

…

“Uh, yeah. You may be right, Money.”

“Monet.”

“Okee-doke. THERE!”

“Dad, no.”

“That’s Hugh Laurie.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“There’s only way to be sure. Let’s wait five minutes and see if there’s a saxophone solo.”

“Dad, this is getting–”

“THERE!”

“No. I think he was in one of the Harry Potter movies.”

“Huey Lewis is in movies.”

“Not British ones, Dad. That guy’s name is David Thewlis.”

“You’re a regular ICBM, sweetie.”

“IMDB.”

“And I am BW.”

“Dad, I’m gonna ask you something and I don’t want you to be offended.”

“Shoot.”

“Was your shoulder hurting earlier?”

“No.”

…

“It was my knee. THERE!”

“Nope.”

“You can see the resemblance, though, right?”

“Not really.”

“But it is a Huey.”

“Can we go inside, please?”

“Lead the way, Mopface.”

“Monet.”

“Sure.”

…

…

…

“Psst.”

Me?

“Yeah. Is Bobby gone?”

Uh-huh. Who is this?

“It’s me.”

Hewis!

“Don’t call me that. I can’t deal with Weir anymore, man. The guy’s a nut.”

His alignment’s a couple degrees off-center, yeah.

“You know what I’m talking about. Hey, lemme ask you a question.”

Is the question How old is Bobby’s daughter?

“Yes, it is.”

You may not ask me that question.

“All right. Am I pulling this pose off?”

No man has ever pulled that pose off.

“That’s what I thought.”

Bob Weir and His Daughters Talk About His Iconic Grateful Dead Looks

May 31, 2019 / / 4 Comments

TotD: Okay, this is somewhere in the late ’80’s. What do we think, girls?

Monet: This was before we were born. I feel like I would have put a stop to it. Tried to, at least.

Chloe: Are those Bobby Shorts?

Monet: I don’t think so. I think Bobby Shorts are strictly jean shorts.

Chloe: So what are those?

Monet: They’re just shorts.

Bobby: Now, uh, what you gals aren’t realizing is the amount of storage space those babies had. I could carry a dozen peoples’ stashes in ’em. A solid short. Obviated the need for a fanny pack.

TotD: Obviated?

Bobby: Yuh-huh.

TotD: Chloe, these are Bobby Shorts:

Chloe: Dad.

Monet: Dad.

Chloe: Dad.

Monet: Dad.

Chloe: Mom!

Monet: Moooooooom!

…

Natascha Monster: Oh, my God. Snake Tee-Shirt! He’s still around here someplace, isn’t he?

Bobby: I think he’s in the room where you wrap presents.

Natascha Monster: We don’t have one of those, hon. You’re thinking about the Spelling Mansion.

Bobby: You got a room just for wrapping presents, you live in some swanky digs. We live in a nice neighborhood, but that’s real high-end.

Monet: Dad, concentrate. This was before you married Mom, and way before we were born. So, like, we didn’t know this guy. Tell us about this guy. And help us understand his choices.

Bobby: So, uh, as you can tell from Uncle Mickey’s wife-beater, it’s pretty hot.

Chloe: Don’t say “wife-beater.” It’s a problematic term.

Bobby: Okee-doke. As you can tell from Uncle Mickey’s spouse-beater, it’s pretty hot. And I just wilt in the heat, man. Much prefer a temperate clime. And, uh, don’t gimme any of that “dry heat” horseshit. Humid heat is worse than dry heat, but any kind of hot is awful. That’s where the shorts came from.  Plus, you know: someone had to be the eye candy.

Monet: Daaaaaad.

Chloe: Ew. Did girls in the crowd ever, like, throw their underwear at you?

Bobby: Not that I recall. And that seems like something I would recall. And, uh, a lot of the women who came to our shows couldn’t throw their underwear cuz they weren’t wearing any.

Monet: The boots, Dad.

Chloe: Dad, the boots.

Bobby: You see the circumferential bulges? Those boots were an experimental temperature-regulation system called Podiatherm. They wick sweat away from your feet, distill the water from the sweat, then cool and circulate the water. They were based on the stillsuits from Dune. But, uh, just for your feet.

Monet: Did they work?

Bobby: Very well, very briefly. Then they heated up to an alarming degree. Which you’ll recognize as irony. Precarious had to cut me out of ’em right onstage. As you’d imagine, none of your uncles shut up about it for months.

Nixon: Dammit, boy, who taught you to dress yourself?

Nixon: This is how you wear shorts. Genie-style! Never let your enemies see your bellybutton. That’s not an option for men like us.

Chloe: Dad, where did Nixon come from?

Monet: WHAT THE FUCK?

Nixon: Silence your daughters, Bob. Join me in Puerto Rico. You don’t even have to change your money. They take the dollar here. By God, they take the dollar here. Other islands, tropical locales, they’ve gone straight Red. Terrible situation. But the, uh, Puerto Rican is by nature family-oriented. Familia is their word for family, I’m reliably informed.

Bobby: Girls–

Chloe: AHHHHHHHHH!

Monet: Where’s the gun!?

Bobby: –are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?

Swole In What’s Left Of My Reason

May 5, 2019 / / 0 Comments

What’s going on here, Bobby. Walk me through it.

“Oh, you can’t walk through it. The machine’s solid.”

It was a euphemism.

“Ah. So, uh, this here is a piece of apparatus meant to stimulate your latissimus mueslix. People don’t know this, but every muscle has a foreign name. They’re not just your hammies.”

I think people know that.

“The trick is to not get too swole. I got a tendency to slap on the muscle, and then I look like Lou Ferrigno. Not great for the act. I got a hippie crowd, they’re not about that.”

Sure.

“That’s my one true regret. That I didn’t get jacked.”

Really?

“Sure. In, like, the 80’s. Made friend with some of the guys sitting on Muscle Bench. Got some of those crazy pills and salves and whatnot. Bought one of those belts. You know the belt?”

I know the belt.

“Made out of leather. Real thick. I feel like I had the genetics to become what’s called a mass monster.”

Hippie crowd, Bobby.

“We’re all allowed to dream, man.”

Redondo: Better Than The Other Dondos

May 4, 2019 / / 0 Comments

I sincerely believe your leggings are tighter than your daughter’s, Bobby.

“I put ’em on straight from the washer. They dry on me, becoming a second skin.”

What is this?

“Robusto Bay”

Redondo Beach.

“Ah. There’s some sort of festival. We’re all at the hotel.”

Didn’t you used to share a room with Garcia at the Motel 6?

“I did, yeah. This is better.”

Can’t argue with you.

“Marked improvement in every way. Jer was my brother, he was best friend, he was my hero, but you didn’t wanna bunk with him.”

Sure. Bobby?

“Yuh-huh?”

Don’t ever look at the comments on Monet’s Instagram page.

“You betcha.”

Pappy At The Grammys

February 18, 2019 / / 3 Comments

Hey, Bobby. Hair looks perfect.

“Thinking about stopping at Trader Vic’s later.”

You’re a good dad, man.

“Oh, yeah. Earning some points here. Feet are killing me.”

Well, you’re wearing shoes.

“Not optimal. Tried my best to find patent leather sandals, but it turns out that’s not a thing.”

Anything’s a thing if you pay a cobbler enough.

“Yeah, sure.”

What’s in Monet’s clutch?

“Garcia’s stash.”

Still?

Said Bobby To A Girl Child, What Would You Like Most To Get?

August 19, 2018 / / 1 Comment

Can you adopt me?

“Absolutely not. One’s all I can handle.”

You have two daughters, Bobby.

…

…

…

“Yes. Yes, I do. There’s this one and, uh, Lilly Saint.”

No, Bobby. Your other daughter is not named Lilly Saint Weir.

“Should’ve been.”

Oh, I agree. But I think it’s Chl–

“Chlorophyll!”

–oe. Chloe.

“Sounds very familiar. If I’m honest, that’s one of the things that my wife–”

Natasha Monster.

“–handles. It’s a partnership, marriage. She remembers stuff, and I buy all the sports cars.”

That’s fair. I’ve said it before, but: your kids are having a much different childhood than you did.

“Oh, yeah. This is a step up from a semi-stolen Ford Cortina.”

Little bit. God bless the child.

“She’s got her own.”

Weather Report Gifting Suite

January 30, 2018 / / 1 Comment

“When did he have time to do the mining? What with being king of the jungle and all?”

Not Tarzan, Bobby.

“Does this have anything to do with Black Panther?”

No. It’s Tanzanite. It’s just a pretty rock from Tanzania.

“What does it do?”

Catches the light in a way pleasing to the human eye.

“I used to do that.”

True.

“Can I be honest with you?”

Don’t eat it, Bobby.

“It looks like a delicious hard candy.”

It is not.

“The lady took the rock back.”

We’re you–

“I was putting it in my mouth.”

–putting it in your mouth?

“I understand those kids and their Tide Pods now. Are you sure it’s not lozengial?”

Lozengial?

“Having the properties of a lozenge.”

Don’t do that to words. Monet looks interested.

“She is, uh, having a very different childhood than I did.”

Yes. But she’s 20 or something like that. You were in the Dead at her age.

“Sure, sure. But we were not allowed in gifting suites at the time. First off, you know, because they didn’t exist.”

Right. And?

“That’s it. Something not existing at the time is one of the best reasons to not have done something.”

You guys would have loved the gifting suite, though.

“Oh, yeah. The drummers would’ve shown up with shopping carts.”

Is there anything there for you?

“They have a sign for me to hold.”

Oh, Bobby.

“I better be getting some serious good-dad points for this, man.”

You are absolutely right.

“And, uh, I need to go on tour right fucking now.”

You absolutely do.

“Maybe I could do that thing Josh does. Kinda jam around with an up-and-coming African-American comic.”

I guess.

“What’s Franklin Ajaye doing now?”

It’s really not your best idea, Bobby. You have the Mexican thing coming up, and the mini-tour with Phil. Oh, who’s gonna be doing those shows with you two?

“Well, now I wanna work with Franklin Ajaye.”

Forget about Franklin Ajaye, Bobby.

“You think Jimmy J.J. Walker would be a better fit?”

I do not.

“Y’know, towns used to pass laws to keep me and my friends from playing there. We used to scare the straights.”

Everything changes; nothing lasts.

“Yup.”

The top half of Monet’s face is your wife, and the bottom half is you.

“I told you to look at me, pal.”

Gotcha.

“Pain enough trying to keep her away from Josh. You know he wrote her a song?”

No. That’s terrible.

“Yeah. Writing a song for a chick? You do it right, and there’s no defense. It’s like the crane kick.”

What’d you do?

“I learned the song and sang it around the house all the time.”

That must have killed the romance of it.

“Oh, yeah.”

You ever do that?

“Write a girl a song? No. I would write ’em a little part of a song and promise to finish it, but it would take me five years.”

Sure.

Oh, God, Bobby.

“Help me. I’ve never asked you for help before, but I want you to help me. Send Precarious. Or Elvis or Katy Perry or Billy. Send Benjy.”

You look like a rancher watching his last cattle die.

“Goddammit, you help me.”

I’m sorry, but you have to ride this out. It’s gonna be over soon. Besides: it can’t get worse.

It got worse.

“They’re called Fingerlings.”

Oh, Bobby.

Bob Weir: Grammy Attendee

January 29, 2018 / / 2 Comments

Bobby?

“Hey.”

What are you doing at the Grammy Awards?

“I was gonna ask you.”

I have no idea, man.

“It’s, uh, some show. You know that fellow Bonobo?”

Bono.

“He’s done nine numbers. What, uh, part of America is he from with that accent?”

The part that’s Ireland.

“Huh. That’s a misplaced, but strenuous, patriotism he has, then.”

Well put.

“And what is this right here? Chubby Charlie.”

His name is James Cordon.

“I don’t care for his antics.”

Bobby, you sound like you’re in a mood.

“Well, you know: this really isn’t my scene.”

I know that. I totally know that. That’s why I began by asking you why you were there.

Ah.

“Eyes on me, mister.”

Yes, sir.

“Monet wanted to go to the Grammys, so I took her.”

And she wanted to go to the gifting suite, too?

“She and her mother–”

Natasha Monster.

“–were quite vociferous.”

So, you just stopped in on the way to the show?

“No. No, didn’t just stop in. Spent a while.”

Oh.

Narrate this picture for me, Bobby.

“I’m making sure there’s no bar. That’s what I’m saying to the fellow. ‘No bar? At all? Even a cash one?’ And he is informing me that there is not.”

That’s a shame.

“Verging on a crime. You should see this place. It’s like Samuel Delaney designed a mall.”

Ew.

“Agriculture and cities may have been a mistake.”

Maybe.

“I’m two seconds away from my shoulder hurting.”

“My shoulder hurts.”

I feel you. Do you still have Garcia’s stash on you?

“Natasha Monster wouldn’t let me wear my fanny pack.”

That harpy.

“I know, right? It was my formal fanny pack, too.”

Hey, you’re at the Grammys, right?

“Yup.”

Do you see Lil Pump?

“I don’t.”

Lil Yachty?

“We’re nowhere near the river.”

Lil Uzi Vert?

“Now you’re just making noises.”

Okay, just look for a tiny teenager with tattoos on his face and hair that looks like a neon tarantula is fucking his skull.

“Yeah, there’s like four of those.”

One of them will have something for your shoulder.

“Talk to you later.”

Stay frosty.

The Stacks

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