Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Phil’s got his gift shop up and running over at the Terrapin Crossroads website; you can get Phil bobbleheads, or stuffed turtles, or whatnot. (Pretty much everything gift shops sell can be categorized as “whatnot.”)
You can also buy this, about which I have no comment:
It doesn’t specifically say that the proceeds from this item go to an organ donation charity, but one would assume.
“Folks, I can’t thank you enough for coming out to Terrapin Crossroads. We’re glad to have to have you.”
“Oh, Phil: we had a great time. Thanks for taking a picture with us.”
“No worries at all. One small question: that confused-looking bearded man–”
“You mean Bobby?”
“–who just left your table? Did he ask you to join the Grateful Dead?”
“He did, yes.”
“I see. Would you excuse me one moment?”
…
“BOBERT HERBERT WALKER WEIR, GET OVER HERE!”
Phil has banned Donald Sterling from Terrapin Crossroads for life.
“It is Phil. Phillip J. Lesh of the Grateful Dead and proprietor of a popular eatery!”
“Um, yeah. The door’s mostly window, Phil. We can see you. Also, this is the popular eatery. And I’m your wife.”
In my little ranting rave about Hannibal and its spectacularness–
Absolutely not a word.
–I indulged in a bit of filigree about the night’s length and terror and ruthless tenacity: this darkness may have to give, but only according to its schedule. We silly primates may have split the atom, digitized the Library of Alexandria, and punched smallpox in it endoplasmic reticulum, but we don’t have a vote on when dawn shows up; never will. That mean old sun is like Phil’s boners: it keeps its own counsel, rises once a day, and shouldn’t be looked at directly. Also, the sun just opened a restaurant in Northern California as a front to steal internal organs from undocumented busboys.
Way too early for this level of libel.
But for all the Sun’s awe-inspiring belligerence, it can be explained, dissected, solved for X. Just a big ball of fusion slamming M’s together at the speed of C (and C again), producing E. Add a bit of Brownian motion through the convective zone and you’re done, pencils down.
So, if–and we’re speaking hypothetically as always–you’re standing next to me watching the sucker rise over the Atlantic, do not say, “It’s a miracle,” because I will go Neil DeGrasse Tyson on your poorly-educated ass.
“Waiter, my mushrooms taste funny.”
“In an hour, the universe is gonna taste funny.”
“What?”
“Um, nothing.”
Phil’s new hash-house/gin joint, Terrapin Crossroads, looks pretty swanky. I understand that they’re going for a more upscale vibe, but I think there are a few marketing possibilities that have been overlooked:
Eat your Phil!
Phil ‘er up!
Phil my mouth with goodness!
This week’s exotic meat dish: Box of Reindeer!
Our food won’t give you Lesh-maniasis!
Lesh is more, due to rising food prices!
Phil-ling the long afternoons between tours!
Our kitchen is not Phil-thy!
No, sir: Mr. Daley no longer dines here, sir. No, sir: we serve no liver whatsoever at Terrapin Crossroads. It sets Sir off. He kind of Hulks out. Except, you know: it’s Phil, so when he gets like that, we call him the Phulk–oh, totes behind his back, we just text, he doesn’t understand–and he rampages through the place demanding people show him their organ donor cards and then he strips to the waist and challenges men and women to fight and somebody always take him up on it and then it gets sexual and–why am I telling you all this? No reservations!
Y’see this is the kind of thing that I write and then I wait and NO ONE from the Grateful Dead calls me and says that I should be in the family and put on salary with a car. I know back in the day, everyone had BMWs, but I know times are rough, so an Audi would be perfectly fine as long as it’s got leather seats and you pay for my gas.
8 – Hallelujah hatracks (Really?)
4 – Dead keyboard players. Not 4 keyboardists for the Dead, 4 dead keyboardists. How is it possible that the mortality rate for musicians in an improvisational country-rock outfit is higher than that of those guys who parachute into forest fires? The family crest of the Dead keyboardist read Pertransiit sine me (Go on without me).
3 – Fancy little shoe racks for TC’s fancy little ankle boots.
210,000 – Number of dollars Lenny Hart stole from the band while “managing” them.
40,000 – Number of dollars Lenny Hart stole during the meeting to try to explain the financial irregularities when someone left the door to the safe open. They were trusting men, at first, our Dead.
88 – Keys on a piano.
176 – How many Keith usually saw.
1 – Number of times a crew member looked Phil directly in the eyes. Just that once.
95 – Live albums released, 110 if you count the Digital Download series (One of which I’m listening to now, the Donna-tacular 4/30/77 at the Palladium in NYC. (Audience copy, if you’re into that sort of thing. Harumph. But, seriously, it’s an AUD: think about whether that’s the person you want to be. AUD guys are to Enthusiasts what fat guys fluent in Klingon are to Trekkies)
13 – Studio albums
2 – That were any good at all.
0 – Number of times the question, “How many fingers does the Grateful Dead have?” can be answered with a whole number.
12,000 – Amount extra versus a standard P.A. it cost to tote the Wall of Sound around. Luckily, it was worth the price because it was “the righteous thing to do, man.” That is an exact quote from Blair Jackson, who was actually talking about something else entirely, but FUCK CONTEXT.
6 – Months it took the righteous thing to do to break the band’s back.
2 – Drummers.
1 – Drummer.
2 – Drummers.
12 – Teenage male hustlers found horribly mutilated throughout the 80’s in a pattern correlating to the Dead’s tour schedule. The culprit was never found, but was described as having luxuriously thick blond hair and singing the high harmony part. The pattern stopped briefly in 1989, but picked up again–far more rapidly now–in 1990, except this time it was females and there’s a weird theory that there were two guys based round this mystery man they call Suburban Lanky. Doesn’t make any sense at all, if you asked me.
40 – Milliseconds after Bobby asked, “Tonight, what if we open…wait for it…with the encore?” that his dick got punched.
300,000 – Dollars spent by Mickey in the winter of 1977 to create his most ambitious percussive masterpiece to date. Mickey planned and rehearsed diligently. He spent over a year writing the score and hired musicians from all over the world, building them a brand-new studio. Then he locked them in that brand-new studio, set it ablaze, and recorded their dying screams. Lou Reed is quoted as saying, “Why didn’t I think of that?” The album was never released, except in Norway where it reached #31 on the Billboard-flurgen charts.
14 – Bucks for the Oven-Roasted Shrimp and Sun-Dried Tomatoes at Phil’s new hotspot, Terrapin Crossroads. Come for the food, stay for the Phil!
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