Thoughts On The Dead

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

For The Benefit Of Mr. Barlow


Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Group shot.”


“Benefit for Barlow. Hospitals are expensive.”

Better than the alternative.

“Depends on your level of Buddhism, I guess.”

I have zero Buddha-nature. I have Daffy Duck nature.

“I can see that.”

How many of these people can you name?

“I could give ’em all names, if I wanted to.”

No, I meant their actual names.


“Well, there’s Ramblin’ Jack.”

Of course.

“Other folks.”

There ya go.

“Wait, wait. That’s my keyboardist.”

And his name is?

“I stopped learning their names three or four keyboardists ago. You get attached.”

Sure. Keep going.

“Is the guy on the end Sir Paul McCartney’s daughter?”




“Is it about the shirt?”

It’s about the shirt.

“It’s me.”


“And it says ‘STFU.’ That means ‘Stop Talking, Focus Up here.'”

It doesn’t.

“Then my daughters are messing with me again.”

Probably. Baller move wearing a shirt your own face on it.

“Victory Lap, man.”

Oh, no capitalizing.

“Billy got to capitalize Summer of Skank.”

It’s October. Summer’s over.

“Nope. Fall of 2016 is officially the Bob Weir Victory Lap.”


“I should probably steal the Earthroamer.”

Yeah, okay.


  1. I only recognize Les Claypool. You think he’d have enough sense to stay away from Bob Weird.

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