Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bill kreutzmann (page 2 of 80)

Right Behind You

You may make Hologram JPB. He would think it was funny.

When The Boys Were Boys

There was a good two or three years in the beginning where Pig–God bless him–looked like a swamp monster.


Check out the JFK-cut on the square on the right. That’s a hairdo that’ll stand up to Communism.


Until rather recently, you were allowed to smoke around any machine, no matter how complicated and expensive and fragile.


Thick air, man.

There’s No Frizz Like Show Frizz

If you just ask Bobby–

“Get stuffed, man.”

–he’ll help you with your hair.

“Beat it.”

You look like the dude from Coheed & Cambria.

“Oh, they’re great. I caught their show last week.”

Please stop using–


–the Time Sheath to check out bands from the future.

“You heard my answer, man.”

Keith’s Left, Keith’s Right, He’s Gone



Why did Keith’s piano move from one side of the stage to the other, depending on what show it was?

“Two reasons.”

Were they shits and giggles?

“Little bit, yeah.”

Why would you do that?

“Gotta find your fun somewhere. We’d put his piano stage left for a few shows, then shift it to the other side, and he’d get so confused. One time, he just sat on a road case and started playing a monitor.”

That is kinda funny.

“Yup. He kept tweaking Bobby’s nipples trying to turn himself up.”

That’s damn funny.

“Certainly was.”

We Were Having A Thigh Time

These men got groupies.


Younger Enthusiast, this cannot be explained away by invoking “it was the fashion of the time.” When the Dead wore rainbow trousers and fringed jackets and frilled shirts: well, it was the 60’s. That was what hip young men wore to attract groovy young ladies. But this bullshit? This bullshit right here? This bullshit was not the fashion of the time. This bullshit was not the fashion of any time in human history.


It is rare, exceedingly so, that Bobby’s short shorts are the most acceptable pant on stage: if a bit risqué, they are still basic and classic jean shorts. Whereas Phil is wearing sky-blue velour and holy fucking shit there are cuffs on Garcia’s.


None of their shoes are helping, either.


If Phil sits down, his balls are escaping. That’s a fact.




Is Brent’s monitor on an end table?



“Coffee table was too low.”


Coot And The Maytalls

“Ass! How ya doing?”

Can’t complain. Where are you?

“Some shithole.”

Nicely done.

“Thought it was a good idea to get off the island for a while. People are pissed!”

No duh. You sent a false alarm to millions of people telling them they were going to be nuked.

“And I said ‘My bad.’ I don’t know what else people want from me.”

Maybe a better apology than “My bad.”

“Hey, whatever’ll get everyone off my nuts. I apologize for taking a shit in that elevator; I totally didn’t see the nuns.”

That’s not what you’re apologizing for.

“The naked hang-gliding?”

Why would you do that?

“My balls need to feel free.”

Well, no. Not that. Say you’re sorry for the Emergency Alert that scared the shit out of an entire state.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry everyone’s such a pussy.”


“If anyone was offended, I–”


“I came of age in the culture of the 60’s and 70’s, when it was okay to–”

Stop it.

“This political correctness is killing art, man.”

It is not. And what you did has nothing to do with political correctness. It wasn’t political, and you weren’t correct.

“Will it help if I promise not to appear in any more Woody Allen movies?”

Has he asked?


Billy, take this seriously. I don’t know if you’ll be able to go home.

“Then I’ll stay here. Same weather, and these fuckers love me. Watch. Hey! Trump sucks!”


“Obama forever!”


“See? Black guys love me, man.”

You’re impossible.

False Alarm, The Only Game In Town

“Hey, Ass. Listen, before you get all bitchy–

Were you responsible for the Emergency Alert about the missiles?

“Not entirely.”

Goddammit, Billy. What did you do?

“Well, I was over at the Office of Emergency Management. I had gone to do chair-stuff to a chick named Gretchen.”


“You know. Chair-Stuff.”



That wasn’t helpful at all.


Hey, don’t play with the fonts, please. Let’s just assume “chair-stuff” is icky and move on. Why were you at the OEM?

“Government agencies are full of skank, man. They wear those sensible pumps, and then they pump ya real sensibly. Ever bang a DMV worker? That’s your tax dollar at work right there, but you have to be careful about the hair. Don’t touch a DMV worker’s hair.”

You’re going somewhere with this I won’t permit.

“Okay, so I was neck-deep in Gretchen when I remembered those videos of Trump with the porn stars we were talking about.”

Holy shit, I’d already forgotten about that.

“Everything’s going faster. That’s why I’m banging so much, man. Living on borrowed time, spooging on borrowed skank.”

What did you do, Billy?

“Ok, right, so Gretchen’s taking care of herself and this chick I picked up at an airport bar, and I try to find my emails on her machine.”

Which was connected to the Emergency Alert system.

“I pressed the wrong button. That’s on me. My bad.”

You scared the shit out of millions of people.


That’s not funny.

“It’s a little funny.”

Not at all! Tourists were texting “goodbye” to their loved ones back home!

“It’s not my fault!”

Why not?

“Because I don’t want it to be.”

Just stop being involved with day-to-day events in the news.


Can’t you at least stay away from computers? What are you doing?


Goddammit, Billy.

In The Midst Of A Stormy I’d Rather Forget

“Thoughts on my Ass!”

Hey, Billy.

“You’ll never guess who I plowed!”

Stormy Daniels.

“Stormy…aw, you suck.”

Everyone saw it coming a mile away, buddy.

“She saw it coming right up close.”

Here we go.

“We met in a Kauai bar called Banana’s. She talked about astrology and immigrants. I told her I was in the Grateful Dead and took my dick out. What a magical evening.”

You’re the last of the hopeless romantics.

“Bet your ass I am! So, I banged her against the cigarette machine. And, you know, that’s some uncut skank right there. Porn star against a cigarette machine? Top that shit. That’s like the Everest of skank. And I didn’t need any of those little snow-dwarves to carry my balls, either.”

Those people are called Sherpa.

“Brought her back to house, did a little backyard renovating.”

That’s a euphemism?

“Oh, yeah.”


“For anal.”

Got it.

“Strong anal. It was somehow more anal than anal normally is. Like, if a butthole had its own butthole? That’s what we were doing.”


“Lot of footplay. You know how Brazilians keep the soccer ball up with their feet? Juggling it? Like that, but it’s a chick with a Brazilian and the soccer balls are my nuts. I was swollen but smiling.”

I don’t think we need the details.

“Problem is: I think I gotta start supporting Trump now.”

What? Why?

“We shared skank, man. That’s a bond.”

You’re gonna need to overlook it.

“The guy ruined red hats. Remember my red hat?”

You loved that hat.

“Psht. Gone. I like the black one, though.”

Are we talking about hats or presidents?

“Hats. Eh, both.”

Did this Stormy person mention Trump at all when you banged her?

“Shit, yeah. We may or may not have been smoking meth–”

Goddammit, Billy.

“–and she was showing me all these pictures and videos of the shitstain. Got a pecker like a thumb, and he’s bright-red from all the Viagra. Just lays there.”


“It’s Stormy and this other chick, Harriet Tuggjob.”


“They’re skanking all over each other. He’s got a cheeseburger. Teevee’s on. Guy in the corner in a trenchcoat and furry hat is filming the action. There’s piss everywhere. He’s doing his hand gesture.”

You’re kidding.

“Nah. Shit, she e-mailed some of them to me.”

Lordy, you have the tapes?

“Yeah. Are they on the machine or in my phone.”


“At least I think she e-mailed them. She might have ‘shared’ them. Is that the same thing?”

Ah, right. Sometimes I forget you’re 70. Go to the machine.


Open your mail.

“Which button is that? I have a couple toolbars here.”

Toolbars? Why do you have toolbars? I told you how to get rid of those.

“I forgot.”

Are you clicking on things again? Stop clicking on things.

“I don’t!”

Obviously, you did. Whatever, just hit the little cartoon mailbox.


And now–

“Oh, that looks fascinating.”


“Okay, my screen is now bright red and nothing works and it says I have to call a number and give them money.”

Goddammit, Billy.


Springtime Chillers

Dammit, Bobby: your other left.


No one show Mrs, Donna Jean’s coat to Josh.


A rare instance of Billy winning the Posture Game.


Legally, if you assemble this many Grateful Deads, someone has to be wearing the lady in the background’s hippie vest. (I think they hand those vests out at vegan bookstores.)


Mrs Donna Jean is a Crip.

Does Billy Dare To Eat A Peach?



I don’t…someone please…wha?


Not okay.


Seriously: wha?


You gentlemen mind if we dance with your dates?



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