Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (page 1 of 159)

What’s The Opposite Of General Admission?

Yes, Enthusiasts, the tour you’ve all been waiting for is here, for a certain value of “all.” (The value is 0. I’m not saying no one is now looking forward to the shows, just that no one was anticipating them. This morning’s announcement was as much of a surprise as this morning’s announcement that Mario Batali was a pussygrabber wasn’t.) (We should call it that. Let’s just call all the media and business and political assholes that get fired for sexual harassment/assault pussygrabbers. That way, every time you say it you remember, “Oh, right. The president bragged about doing that.)(I feel we’ve forgotten about that part of the Access Hollywood tape: Basketball Head was trying to impress Billy Bush. Donald Trump needed Billy Bush’s approval. That alone should have disqualified him from owning a Taco Bell in Schenectady, forget about being the president.) (Speaking of Taco Bell–

STOP STRINGING PARENTHETICALS TOGETHER.

None of those thoughts were germane to the main point.

Do you have a point?

I have a collection of jokes and a distinctive voice.

Just do whatever it is you do here.

Anyway, Bobby and Phil are going on tour: six shows in three cities at a moderate pace. According to Jambase–and fuck my life for having to start a sentence like that–they’ll be playing two sets, one acrostic and one eclectic, and there may be guests. The guests will not be the drummers.

But, TotD, you’re asking: is there a VIP package available?

Ah, I would answer. I did not realize I was speaking to someone who was Very Important. Of course there is, sir and/or ma’am but most likely sir.  Follow me, won’t you?

And you’d purse your lips slightly, as if you were looking at a poor person.

To which I’d respond, My thoughts exactly, sir. I was just showing you that so that you’ll know what the new money is getting. For you, sir, we have another class of accommodation. For you, sir, we have the Praetor’s Suite. Allow me to list your amenities.

  • One (1) seat wherever the fuck you want to sit. Upfront, behind the soundboard, in Bobby’s lap: wherever. And if someone’s in the seat already, your exclusive Executive Goon will move them as violently as you’d prefer.
  • Invitation to attend Bobby’s daughter’s next sorority function.
  • The openest bar you’ve ever fucking seen. And the good stuff, too. Not the swill those assholes who buy the Enhanced Experience get. You may also direct your Executive Goon to take drinks from other patrons and give them to you.
  • One (1) exclusive poster produced on-site by that evening’s artist while you watch and heckle.
  • One (1) Bitcoin.
  • Private time with Bobby OR Phil (Private time will contain, but is not limited to: Garcia stories, discussion of why blue fin is such a trash fish, watching Baby Levon while Phil takes a piss, thumb wrestling.)
  • One (1) song request, plus you get to specify the tempo.
  • If Jeff Chimenti is one of the guests, then you will be allowed to brush his hair.
  • Private merch fashion booth.

You approve? I hoped that you would. Shall we have your people handle the financial matters? Of course, sir. Talking about money is for poor people. We’ll see you at the show.

Marching Two By Two

“Phil, hear me out.”

“No.”

“We call it Dead & Family. You, me, Josh, New Brent, and that kid from the cover band who plays too fast on drums.”

“No.”

“Fine, Grahame can be in the band.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Short tour.”

“Bob, I don’t wanna tour anymore. I’ve told you this a million times.”

“Short. Real short. 14 cities in 18 nights. Northeast in March.”

“That sounds like a sentence. A judge would literally have to force me to do that.”

“March is a lot warmer than it used to be up there.”

“Hard pass, Bob.”

“Ten shows, ten night, ten cities.”

“I would die, Bobby. That would kill me.”

“You’re healthy as a horse.”

“No, I mean I’d fucking kill myself rather than do that.”

“Four cities, spaced out over a week-and-a-half, really nice hotels.”

“Which cities?”

“New York, Boston, DC, and Chicago.”

“I don’t wanna go anywhere near DC.”

“Done. It’s out.”

“Three cities?”

“Just three.”

“No Josh. We get someone else.”

“He’s, uh, come a long way. Really played his way into the music.”

“Yeah, I know. I listened to a couple of shows from your last tour. It’s just that we’d just have to pay him too much.”

“Ah.”

“I got a restaurant full of Fake Jerrys that’ll do it for a grand a night.”

“Keeping money is better than giving it to someone else.”

“There you go, Bob.”

“All right.”

“Weir, I want you to look me in the eyes and promise me you’re not gonna call me in a couple days trying to work the drummers into the mix.”

“No drummers.”

“No BIlly, No Mickey, none of Mickey’s weird little foreign friends and their weird little foreign drums.”

“Nope.”

“I don’t even wanna hear their names. If a Disney cartoon comes on, you say, ‘Hey, there’s Minnie Mouse’s husband.”

“Gotcha.”

“When you’re singing Ramble On Rose, you change the line to ‘Just like Kiddy Fun Day.'”

“Sure. What is, uh, Kiddy Fun Day?”

“We do it out back by the bocce courts every weekend. Weather permitting.”

“Everything depends on the weather.”

“Sure does. We clear? No drummers.”

“Okee-dokee. But that means we can’t call it Dead & Family.”

“Who gives a shit?”

“Can’t use the Stealie.”

“Who told you that? That thing’s public domain by now. Every asshole on the internet slapped it on a bumper sticker and we never sent ’em any threatening letters. That sucker belongs to the people now, comrade.”

“Yeah, maybe. You in?”

“I gotta talk to Jill.”

“Make sure you mention that Radio City has a capacity of 6,000 with a per-seat estimated average of $211.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“Lead with it.”

This Fucking Guy Right Fucking Here

“This guy right here is the guy.”

“No, folks. Don’t listen to Bobby. He’s the guy.”

“Aw, no. Too kind. So much bliss. So, uh, Josh: I heard you went out with William Bendix.”

“Almost. I had my appendix taken out.”

“Oh, sure. Well, that’s better. I hear Bendy had quite the problem keeping his hands to himself.”

“Okay.”

“You feeling all better?”

“Nearly at 100%. Another couple days and I’ll be right as rain.”

“Hey, at least you yoinked a pair of scrub pants out of the deal.”

“These are not scrubs, Bob.”

“Hey, hey, hey: I’m not calling you a scrub.”

“Bobby.”

“I would never accuse you of hanging out the passenger side of your best friend’s ride.”

“Bobby.”

“Would that be Andy Cohen? Or me? And, you know, if I’m gonna be your best friend, then you need to know I already have one.”

“My best friend is Jimi Hendrix.”

“They’re not scrub pants, Bobby. They’re Visvim, and they cost four grand.”

“Uh-huh. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you spend that much money on trousers? I don’t know if we’ve ever officially had ‘the talk,’ but you’re kinda the Bobby now. You don’t need to dress up to get laid.”

“It’s not about getting laid. I have an appreciation for fashion.”

“Y’know, if you added up the cost of every single piece of clothing the other five guys onstage are wearing, I don’t think you’d hit four grand. I don’t know if you’d hit four figures.”

“Oh, I’m sure that everyone’s outfits add up to a thousand bucks.”

“Nah. Every tee-shirt but yours was yoinked.”

“Yeah, true.”

“My pants are from Costco.”

“I thought I spied the world-famous Kirkland hem.”

“Billy stole his new hat from a scarecrow.”

“Okay.”

“One of us, uh, doesn’t even own shoes.”

“You might be right.”

“Well, anyway, I’m just glad you’re all right.”

“Gee, thanks, Bobby.”

“Oh, and there’s a $50,000 deductible on the show-cancellation insurance, so that’s gonna be on you. Maybe you could sell some of your robe-thingies.”

“They’re called toppermosts.”

“I’m not saying that word, and you can’t make me.”

“Fair enough.”

Overheard At The Hospital

  • Mickey, put the nurses’ scrubs back.
  • Has anyone seen the pharmacy?
  • No, Bear, please don’t rewire the public address system aaaaaaaand you fried the entire building; thanks for that, genius.
  • Who put tequila in all these IV bags?
  • Well, look around for it; it’s gotta be here; livers don’t just walk away.
  • Nurse, a shoeless black guy and a white guy with hair like a unicorn just stole my food.
  • No, not the contents of the pharmacy; the pharmacy.
  • Paging Dr. Beechwood.
  • Paging Dr. Schott.
  • It’s a lovely house, Bobby, but we need those tongue depressors for the patients.
  • You dosed the otolaryngologist? I dosed the otolaryngologist. Jesus, how many people dosed the otolaryngologist? We should check on him.
  • The opening to the gown is supposed to be in the back, Billy.
  • Yes, it’s a problem that everyone can see your dick.
  • No, we’re not “all professionals here,” Billy: we’re in the cafeteria.
  • Security to the parking lot: two ambulances have been stolen and are being repeatedly crashed into one another; approach with caution, as suspects are armed and married.
  • The whole pharmacy is gone, all of it, it is not there anymore, I don’t know how much more clearly I can put this.
  • If you don’t lock the morgue up, the road crew are just gonna steal more parts.
  • HOLY SHIT, are you smoking in the fucking burn ward?

Bandmates, Identical Bandmates

Holy shit.

“What?”

You’re starting to look like him.

“Xavier Cugat?”

Garcia.

“Alfredo Garcia?”

Jerry. Your friend and bandmate.

“Ah. Y’think?”

Little bit. Of course, it took you til 70 to look like he did at 40.

“That’s clean living for ya.”

You said it. How’s John?

“Who?”

Josh.

“Better. Getting his strength back. This afternoon, he was able to solo briefly.”

Good to hear. You yoinking his pain pills?

“Absolutely not.”

Is he sharing them?

“Yup.”

Gotcha.

An Important Announcement From Dead & Company

Oh, no.

“The Florida shows are back on.”

Bobby, do not invite Sammy Hagar to join the Grateful Dead.

“The show must go on.”

No. It truly doesn’t. Besides, “The show must go on” is propaganda. Vaudeville owners used to tell the acts that to get ’em to work while they were hurt.

“Huh. Is that true?”

Sounds plausible, doesn’t it?

“Sure. Listen, the Deadheads deserve a concert and Sammy’s available. He knows the songs.”

Does he?

“Three Lock Box of Rain.”

No.

“Eyes of the Best of Both Worlds.”

Nuh-uh.

“Well, don’t know what to say. He’s in. We took a vote.”

You took a vote?

“Well, the four of us who get votes did.”

You do realize how bad of a look it is to not allow Oteil a vote, right?

“Who?”

Black Phil.

“Hey, uh, White Phil didn’t get a vote either.”

Bobby, this is not a good idea.

“I think it is. And Sammy’s all in. Right, Sam?”

“WOO!”

“You heard him.”

“WOO!”

“Okay, Sam. I’ll tell him. Uh, Sammy doesn’t like your negativity.”

What? How did you get that from “WOO?”

“I can translate Sammy Hagar into English.”

“WOO!”

“Sure, Sam. I’d love a cup of coffee.”

“WOO!”

“Yes, I still do take it with cream and sugar. How thoughtful of you.”

“WOO!”

“You’re my best friend, too, Sammy Hagar.”

“WOO!”

“Except for Jimi Hendrix. Right, right.”

What the fuck is going on?

“Have you seen Guardians of the Galaxy?”

Sammy Hagar is not fucking Groot, Bobby.

“WOO!”

“Calm down, Red Rocker. He didn’t mean anything by it.”

“WOO!”

“You better wrap this post up. I don’t know how much longer I can keep him calm.”

Nothing fucking makes sense around here.

Ready For The Feast

Was John Mayer not invited or did he have Celebrity Thanksgiving to attend?

OR

Why is Oteil not sitting with the rest of the band? Is it because he wore sweatpants on Thursday?

OR

Is Matt Busch wearing a fucking Islanders hoodie? Unacceptable, Matt Busch.

OR

“Who’s the youngest here?”

“Black Phil.”

“Thanks, Billy. Black Phil–”

“Oteil. My name is Oteil.”

“–will you read the Four Questions for us?”

“Wrong holiday, Bobby.”

My Guitar-Playing Friend

“Oh, hey, are we back at Woodstock?”

Stop it, Bobby.

“A lot of people don’t know this, but I spent most of that weekend with my best friend, Jimi Hendrix.”

That is not true. The Dead camped in a motel miles away and held the promoter up for more cash, then played terribly.

“I snuck off. Me and Jimi had a blast. Talked about the old days, engaged in free love, got disco fries.”

They had disco fries at Woodstock?

“No, but we had a helicopter.”

Sure.

“Much different vibe than the West Coast.”

How so?

“Longitude was off.”

Bobby, I need you stop fibbing. You didn’t hang out with Hendrix at Woodstock.

“Oh, yeah. Jammed with him a bit onstage.”

No.

“I was, uh, the black guy playing congas.”

Nope.

“Wailed on those suckers, man.”

Bobby, knock it off.

“Okay.”

Okay? Just like that?

“This is the last of these pictures that Spencer sent. Bit’s over.”

Oh.

“It wasn’t great.”

No, but now I have to think up something new. I hate that.

“Preaching to the fire, and into the frying pan.”

You understand me.

When They Say Your Name, You Walk On Stage

“Would you like to take a picture with a Grateful Dead, young man?”

“Bobby, I’m in the band.”

“I’m pretty sure the new guy’s black.”

“No, I’m the old new guy. Jeff.”

“Not ringing a bell.”

“Jeff Chimenti.”

“New Brent.”

“Oh, hey. Didn’t recognize you standing up.”

“Sure.”

“I think we’re gonna have a great show. Let’s, uh, just have some fun out there.”

“Sounds great, Bob.”

“But, you know, not too much fun. Or I’ll yell at you in front of the whole crowd.”

“Okay.”

“Speaking of yelling at people, you see the drummers lately?”

“They’re in the parking lot trying to sell counterfeit Bitcoins.”

“Oh, yeah. I bought a couple.”

“They’re fake, Bob. They’re not worth anything.”

“They are when I sign ’em.”

“Huh. Smart.”

“I got a lotta tricks up my sleeve.”

“You really do.”

“Bob, do you have any food?”

“I’m not going though this again, New Brent. You wanted to eat, you should have joined The Eagles.”

“I hate The Eagles, man.”

“Everybody hates The Eagles, but they lay out a spread.”

Crickets And Cicadas Sing A Rare And Looney Tune

“Whatchoo say, Bobert Weir!? Repeat that statement!”

“The coyote was gonna fuck the roadrunner.”

“Lesh, you hearin’ this!?”

“I’ve tried to explain it to him, Pig. Leave me out of it.”

“Dammit, Weir, the coyote is whatchoo call a carnivore! And a roadrunner is what a coyote might call lunch!”

“Be that as it may, I always saw a subtext.”

“Ain’t no subtext in a kiddy cartoon!”

“Wile E. is a boy, right?”

“I suppose.”

“And Roadrunner is a girl.”

“Roadrunner is a roadrunner! Where you gettin’ a female vibe?”

“The eyes. The legs. The adaptiveness.”

“You boys on that lightning juice tonight?”

“No, nuh-uh.”

“Be honest.”

“Cross my heart, Pig. I just, you know, think the coyote wanted to fuck the roadrunner. The eating was symbolic.”

“You’re thinkin’ of Pepe le Pew!”

“Him, too. All of ’em. Foghorn and the Bantamweight, Sheepdog and the Wolf, Bugs and Everybody. At the heart of each is a seduction story.”

“Stop talkin’ foolishness, Weir.”

“He’s right, Pig! All those cartoons were about fucking, man!”

“Garcia, you stay outta this!”

“When, uh, the coyote falls off the cliff? That’s an orgasm.”

“No, it ain’t!”

“That’s what ‘That’s all, folks’ really means, which actually has a double meaning. The first is: I just came. The second? Remove the comma and you have ‘That’s all folks.’ What’s made of folks? Semen. The double-meaning doubles back on itself. Chuck Jones was really playing the long game.”

“Weir, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m gonna go find me a fox.”

“Ooh, good idea. Grab me one.”

“The ol’ Pig’ll see what he c’n do.”

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