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

Tag: peter shapiro (Page 2 of 3)

Black Rockn’

sandy rando tush burning man

Your outfit is culturally appropriative.

“It doesn’t look anything like Princess Leia’s slave outfit; furthermore, Alderaanian is not a recognized culture.”

I can’t believe you just said that.

“Funny how liberals defend that place, but no one wants to talk about Alderaanian-on-Alderaanian violence.”

So order is the highest priority?

“People have always demanded a strong man lead them.”

But that never ends well.

“People never end well.”

Is there sand in your cooch?

“Yes, there’s sand in my cooch.”

Is there life after death?

“Most people don’t have a life before death.”

All the lonely people.

“Yes.”

Where do they all come from?

“Winnipeg.”

How many roads must a man walk down before he admits to himself that he’s lost?

“Not all who wander are lost: some are just dipshits.”

All the dipshit people.

“Yes.”

Where do they all come from?

“They come from Winnipeg, too.”

It’s no Toronto.

“Now that’s a world-class city.”

Have you never been mellow?

“There’s no way to answer that question grammatically.”

Let’s date. I can overlook your hair.

“I cant overlook yours. Besides, I’m in a relationship.”

Oh, of course. What stupid bullshit is it this time? Bottlenose dolphin with an eyepatch?

“No.”

Unappealing rando?

“No.”

A high-out-of-his-mind Peter Shapiro and a bank-robbing unicorn?

“How’d you know?”

peter-shapiro-unicorn

“GET AWAY FROM MY PRINCESS LEIA OR I’M BANNING YOU FROM MY BOWLING ALLEY!”

Settle down, Shapirstein.

“LAST WARNING, OR I START TELLING STORIES ABOUT BLUES TRAVELLER!”

TotD out.

They Did The Monster Mosh

peter shapiro happy

Did you wear your Phish shirt on Friday and Sunday?

“Don’t bust my balls, jackass.”

Great show this weekend.

“All the bands were great, weren’t they?”

God, no. Several stinkers. I was talking about the production side of it. Looked good, everyone sounded happy, big crowds.

“Shitload of VIPs.”

Sure.

“Fewer skunk ape attacks than ever.”

That’s good.

“Only two kids eaten by Shenandoah Howlers.”

Okay.

“The Snallygaster invasion was repulsed.”

How many cryptid species are involved with Lockn’?

“There’s also the Lockn’ Ness Monster.”

Walked into that one.

“Honestly, the place is rife with monsters. It’s how I got the land so cheap.”

This makes perfect sense, actually.

Pete?

“Yeah?”

I can’t tell you’re stoned.

“Oh, good. I was worried.”

An Open Letter From Peter Shapiro About His New Website

Screen Shot 2016-08-25 at 12.42.35 AM

Everyone’s favorite concert promoter/bowling alley owner Peter Shapiro has a new data-mining company social media platform: it’s called Fans.com, and it’s another “Facebook for XXXXX” deal, but I hope it does well. You can post stuff, or chat, or hack into other users’ webcams. I signed up and have already begun several arguments with strangers, so in a way it’s also like Twitter. Go read about it in the Times, or just go and poke around.

On the site, Shapiro posted a note explaining his reasons for starting the site, and what he hoped to achieve with it. The open letter went through a number of drafts, of course, but thanks to Wikileaks, TotD can provide you with the first version, which I believe is a far more interesting read.

By Peter Shapiro, FANS Founder

Today, The New York Times, which is very unfair to me and has a very low readership, very low, published an article about me and my latest endeavor, FANS.com.

Picture it: Minsk, 1882. My great-grandparents, Yussel and Blinky Shapiroberg, began promoting small shows around their village in order to raise money to put out the fire in their kitchen. Life was hard in those days. Then, Cossacks hit them in the head until they moved to Brooklyn.

Fast-forward to 1991: I’m working as a production assistant for a Bob Dylan concert at Northwestern, which is where I went to college even though I was accepted at several Ivy League schools. (Not just Brown. Real ones.) I did everything from carry ice, to work the phones, to babysit the band, but mostly what I did was keep an eye on the merch table, which was doing gangbusters business. Also, everyone was all happy and dancing or whatever.

The next year, I went to my first Grateful Dead show at Giant Stadium. The choogle hit me like a choog-choog train, and also a girl in front of me and my friends took her shirt off to dance, and her boobs flopped around. I was a Deadhead, and later went on to make a documentary called And Miles To Go: On Tour With The Grateful Dead.

In 1996, I bought Wetlands, which smelled like a hobo’s dick, but still drew crowds and served as a home for New York’s jam band community, and the site of literally infinite drug deals. Literally infinite. There were all kinds of bands, and all kinds of people, but what brought them together was a love of live music, and a high level of tolerance for bathroom cleanliness.

Since then, I have expanded my jampire. (Jampireā„¢ is a registered trademark, Dayglo Industries.) I now sell t-shirts in bowling alleys, casinos, New Jersey, magazines, and–once a year–a field. We aim to create community, and work towards that end in every show we promote, and every venue we open.

But once the fans leave the show, that community vanishes, along with their ability to impulse-buy merch. The online world is segregated into small pockets, and unconnected silos. Grateful Dead fans prefer Facebook. Phish phans enjoy being mean to each other on Twitter. Festival-lovers use Instagram to post pictures of themselves at festivals, because what’s the point of going to a festival otherwise?

Recently, I saw Uncle Floyd on the subway, and I jumped on the internet to tell everyone, but I didn’t know which site to go to first: that’s why we need Fans.com. Live music lovers will finally have a place to come together as one, with each group’s fans all mixed up in unmoderated chat rooms, and I’m sure nothing awful will come from that.

Fans.com! Come on in, the music’s fine!*

Sincerely,
Peter J. Shapiro

*That slogan is probably going to be changed. I think we can do better than that.

Some Medical Advice From Peter Shapiro

peter shapiro drunk

“AWWWWW. Didja hurt yer footie-wootie?”

I don’t need your help.

“Poor widdle baby. You should…you should…fuck it, do whatcha want.”

Peter, I–

“WOOOOOO!”

–truly do not need–

“WOO!”

–your help.

“Iss a party.”

I see that.

“Yer a pussy an’ lemme tell ya why.”

Please don’t.

“Iss becuz…iss becuz…ah, fuck it: c’mere an’ lemme pour some booze on it.”

No, I would prefer ifYAAAAAAAAAAHMOTHERFUCKER!

“Thass the way men do it.”

It is not! It’s not the way anyone does it! It’s a burn, not a cut! And even if it were a cut, humanity has progressed beyond using whiskey as an antiseptic!

“Ahh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m…I’m…I’m sorry. I’ll make it up ta ya. Le’s you an’ me go smoke a doobie, you an’ me.”

Yeah, okay, I guess.

“I got Josh Meyers’ phone number. We c’n prank him.”

Lead the way, Shappy.

“Don’ call me that.”

Don’t Cross The Revenue Streams

You’ll excuse me, Enthusiasts, if I repeat myself, but this question has been fingering my mind’s butthole all evening.

Ew.

Shut up, you. Anyway, to recap:

billboard money

WHAT THE FUCK DOES “FAN DEMAND” MEAN? That phrase refers–and this is the closest I can get to a precise definition–to an assumption based on an aggregate sample of emotions. You send up a publicity trial balloon and then read the response: this gives you an idea of what “fan demand” is. It’s not an actual financial metric.

It’s like McDonald’s reporting their earnings as being higher because of “customer demand” (“Those folks were really hungry, so we figured that was worth a few hundred million dollars.”)

It makes no sense: I thought at first that “fan demand” referred to the projected earnings (the estimated profit) and that the Dead had shattered those projections, but that can’t be right: the Dead knew how much they’d make just as anyone with the ability to do basic math did. (Number of seats x price of ticket) + (Number of seats x average merch purchase) + non-attendee merch + sale of access to the band + webcasts. Hell, I did the math. Peter Shapiro sure as shit did the math.

So: what can it mean? Was there some sort of Kickstarter I wasn’t aware of that raised the initial funds necessary just to get everyone in the same room? A petition written down on $10 million in small, non-sequential bills? I don’t know, and the article does not explain it.

I am genuinely stymied and would like someone to tell me what is happening, please.

There are also many missing revenue sources in this graph, some more legitimate than others. Spies in the Dead’s accountant’s office have slipped me the full story; TotD can now present Additional Incomes From The Farewell Shoes:

  • Since around ’89, Billy has employed a team of orphans as pickpockets; they made a bundle in Chicago.
  • Kickbacks from the taco truck.
  • Ad deal with DirecTV for the blimp.
  • Bribes from Creepy Ernie to wear his clothes.
  • Several thoroughly-insured guitars got “stolen.”
  • Mickey’s mallet endorsement.
  • Payment from artificial rainbow company to advertise their product (Santa Clara only).
  • 20% cut of all sanctioned Three Card Monty games in the stadium. (There were a suspicious amount of Three card Monty games going on in Chicago. Ask anyone who was there. Martin and I had figured out the game and were about to win us some money when Chris–whose brilliant book Paradise Now can be purchased by clicking here–stopped us, as he was raised in New York City, and is therefore street-smart. A very nice street, but still: very smart.)
  • If you gave Peter Shapiro five grand in cash, he would let you watch the spy cams he had installed in the band’s dressing room for a couple minutes.
  • Jeff Chimenti and Bruce Hornsby broke into the 49ers locker room and stole a bunch of shit.
  • Jeff Chimenti and Bruce Hornsby broke into the Field Museum and stole the T-Rex skull and sold it on Ebay.
  • Trey made Mike Gordon pay for his ticket.

Whoopee Wednesday: Part Three: The Dirty Talkening

Inappropriate Dirty Talk:

  • Baby, my dong’s the IRS and I’m about to audit that butthole.
  • Jumanji!
  • Peter Shapiro!
  • While some of the criticism of Hillary Clinton is obviously misogynistic blather, we shouldn’t disregard her spotty record of corruption and warmongering.
  • Honey, have you always had this mole?
  • Your dick is much bigger than your brother’s.
  • I’m Batman.
  • Wow, your nipples are odd.
  • You’re being secretly recorded.
  • Pick a card, any card.
  • Is Elie Wiesel still alive?
  • This is the best family reunion ever!

Phil Lesh: Bullet Dodger

phil laughing sweater lindley bw
Hey, Phil. Whatcha laughing about?

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

The latest debacle?

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

What pushed you over the edge to hilarity? Brett Ratner?

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Is it that it turns out that Peter Shapiro is actually a stand-up guy who understands the Dead?

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Will you be doing any free shows?

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Good talk, Phil.

“Brett fuckin’ Ratner.”

I can’t see: are you making the jerk off motion?

“Better believe it.”

Lockn’ Lol

This is Saturday's lineup at
I’ll see you there, right? Highlight of my year: pooping in a Virginia field in September. Sleeping in a tent next to humping strangers, eating while I stand up, Warren Haynes: man, this is gonna be great.

TotD is not particularly fancy. I slept on a couch last month, but it should be noted that it was a leather couch in an AirBnB in a rapidly genritfying neighborhood. My living situation is allowed to be scruffy, but it must be permanent; I will not sleep under a nylon roof. Camping is just not for me.

Jews and camps…

Anyway, if you’re there or going or streaming it or whatever: have a blast, but I will be making love to my air conditioner. I do have some random thoughts, though:

  • Fishbone’s still around? Didn’t half of them get thrown in jail for kidnapping the other half?
  • Will Robert Plant be not playing Zep songs at the crowd again? Those fuckers at the Grammys rewarded him one time for not playing Zep songs and now all he does is not play Zep songs. Fuck that guy: play Zep songs.
  • Did anyone ever answer Robert Plant about the remembering laughter thing?
  • No Umphries? What the fuck, man.
  • Once again: fucked by Peter Shapiro.
  • I think Peter Shapiro’s in love with me the amount he fucks me.
  • I mean, the String Cheese Incident is gonna be there, so that’s awesome.
  • But, no Umphries.
  • Was Billy’s departure and Phil’s arrival worked out between the two camps as to not have them in the same place at the same time?
  • Just asking questions, man.
  • But, if so: you know Billy put Benjy on the phone to handle it just to be a dick.
  • Can you see Jill and Peter Shapiro pushing the phone back and forth at one another?
  • “You do it.”
  • “This is what you get paid for.”
  • “I don’t get paid enough for this.”
  • And so on.
  • Again: just asking questions.
  • Man.
  • Steve Earle is the musical version of The Wire.
  • Decipher that how you will.
  • WAIT: Billy is playing with Jefferson Airplane on Friday right after Phil!
  • Fun.
  • Also: Jefferson Airplane sucked. In every incarnation and in every way, and they are celebrating their 50th anniversary in a pasture in Virginia instead of a football stadium.
  • They’re not even headlining.
  • (Although, this group of musician is so far way from being the actual Jefferson Airplane that it includes G.E. Smith, who is still performing despite having the worst case of Les Palsy known to man.)
  • Hey! You got your String Cheese in my Doobie!
  • Hey! You got your Doobie in my String Cheese!
  • Well, you should probably just throw the results out, as it will surely be terrible.
  • Is Michael McDonald even going to be there, or just the guy who looked like he was the lead on WKRP?
  • The Oh Hellos, you go to your room and don’t come out until you’ve thought up a good band name.
  • You, too, Slightly Stoopid.
  • In fact, Slightly Stoopid: go fuck yourself with your deliberately shit band name.
  • Put some effort into life.
  • Mickey just announced that he would be playing with Bobby on Saturday night, and if Bobby doesn’t play Lost Sailor, I will lose all respect for him
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