Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (page 1 of 166)

Sign Your Name

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“I am, uh, enjoying my notoriety.”

Looks like it. The Dead were just the right amount of famous, huh?

“Oh, yeah. You don’t wanna be too famous, otherwise people won’t leave you alone. And, uh, not being famous at all sounds terrible.”

It is.

“Yeah, we were in the Goldilocks zone. Plus, you know, we were locationally famous.”


“Walk in a head shop or onto a college campus? Boom. Famous as hell. Go to, you know, Nordstrom’s and no one had any clue who you were.”

What about now?

“Well, uh, now our fans have Nordstrom’s money, so it’s a bit more of a hassle. I gotta go to Nascar races with my sister-in-law–”

Lilian Monster.

“–now to be anonymous. Folks there thought I was an Oak Ridge Boy.”

Why would they think that?

“I kept singing Elvira.”


“You said it.”

Cuz When You Smile For The Camera…

It’s like a denim farm exploded.


I would throw these men out of Starbucks.


Is Bobby playing the ‘There was a fly on your head’ game? Yes, Bobby is playing the ‘There was a fly on your head’ game.”


Just don’t look at him.


Ten bucks says Mickey called what he was smoking “SEE-gars.”


Seriously, don’t look at him.

Finders Keepers

“Gimme my beard back.”


“I said, ‘Gimme my–‘”

“I can’t hear you.”

“‘–beard back!’ You can hear me, dickwad.”


“I need it, man.”

“I need it, too.”

“Can, uh, you two stop fighting?”

“Shut up, Bobby.”

“Zip it, Weir.”

Here She Come, Finger-Poppin’, Clickety Click

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Well, uh, it’s the 80’s.”

Oh, yeah.

“So, I’m taking advantage of the fact.”

The only way this photograph could be more 80’s is if you were playing Dig Dug.

“More of a Crystal Castles man, myself. There’s something soothing about the trackball.”

I agree completely. Who’s the lady?

“Got me.”

Where’d the tie come from?

“Same answer.”

Your hair looks awesome.

“I go through six blowdryers a tour.”

Worth it.

“I think so, yeah.”

Meadow, Beddo

“Josh, slow down.”

“You’re like 40 years off, Weir.”


Nothing says “professionalism” like a couch pillow lazily stuffed in a bass drum.

It’s A Pig’s World

Hey, Pig. Whatcha doing?





“Doin’ it, y’know!”

You were the hardest working man in show business.

“Nah. The ol’ Pig was lazy as sin an’ you know it! I liked to screw an’ watch teevee!”

Nothing wrong with that.

“Me an’ Garcia met the Godfather. I ever tell you this story?”


“1969. Him and us was both playin’ in New York City, so we went uptown to see him. Invited us backstage, gave us cold beers, treated us real nice. Talked to the man for twenty minutes!”

About what?

“I got no idea!”

Sounds right.

“Couldn’t unnerstand a damned word!”

I’ve heard that about James Brown.

“An’ then he fined us fifty bucks apiece.”

I’ve heard that, too.

“We tried tellin’ him that we wasn’t even in his band, but he jus’ doubled the fines on us. That man ran a tight ship!”

You guys played one of his songs.

“It’s a Man’s World. Yeah, I liked doin’ that number.”

Why didn’t you do more of James Brown’s songs?

“Heh. We ain’t got the right kinda bass player.”

Nope. Why do you have two tambourines?

“You only got one, it gets lonely.”


Bottle Of Dead, Bottle Of White

You’re done with the La Croix, huh?

“I, uh, don’t need your commentary on my drinking hobby.”


“They’re virtually the same word if you have a speech impediment.”

That’s not a metric we judge vocabulary on.

“You play your game; I’ll play mine.”

You ever think of getting any tattoos?

“Sure, yeah. I was gonna get a big swastika on my chest. But, uh then I remembered that I wasn’t a Nazi.”


“Or a Buddhist.”

You’re close.

“Yeah. I’m Buddhish. I was thinking about maybe an eagle on my face.”

Do not get a tattoo of an eagle on your face, Bobby.

“It would really up my Soundcloud clout.”

Bad idea.

“Maybe some pot leafs on my cheeks.”

Are we still talking about your face?

“I think so.”

Don’t do it. Whenever I see someone with tats, I wonder what they’ll look like when they’re 70.

“Well, uh, that was last year for me.”

Oh, right. Get all the ink you want.


Black-Toasted Crowe

Bobby. Buddy. I want you to concentrate on your cheeks. The muscles in there. Pull them upwards.

“My smile isn’t free.”

Fine, I’ll pay.

“You don’t have enough cash.”

True. What’s going on here?

“I think this is my uncle.”


“Elderly cousin?”


“Do I have an older brother?”

You don’t. That’s Chris Robinson, and he is 20 years your junior.

“You’re, uh, shitting me.”

Swear to God.


What’s in the La Croix?

“Straight tequila.”


Bobby Catches Up On The News

“So, uh, you’re a weatherman now?”

“No, Bob. I’m interviewing a woman named Stormy.”

“Ah. And this gal is who?”

“She is an adult actress.”

“Like Betty White.”

“Not that kind of ‘adult,’ Bob. Pornography.”

“Keith did that for a while. Not a pleasant-looking man, but he had a hog on him. He went, uh, what’s called ‘gay for pay.’ Although sometimes he would work directly for drugs, and he called that ‘straight for weight.’ Keith would stick it anywhere if you paid him.”

“I have no idea who this Keith person is.”

“Now, uh, why are you interviewing this sex-lady?”

“Because she apparently had an affair with the President and then got paid off to keep quiet.”

“To keep quiet? Billy used to pay chicks to tell everyone how well he humped.”

“I don’t know who these people you keep talking about are.”

“They’re top men, Whitey.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“And, uh, now this Stormy woman is the Special Counsel?”


“I thought we were talking about Stormy Mueller.”

“We weren’t. And there is no such person.”

“Well, then, I’m lost.”

Baby, Grand

Why do you keep stealing children?

“Hey, Thoughts on my Ass! Look! I got tykes.”

Where did they come from?


Not what I meant.

“And balls. Kids are stored in the balls before they get scooched out the wowzer. This is basic stuff, man. Your dad should’ve had this conversation with you.”

I know where babies come from, Billy. I meant these specific children.

“They’re my grandkids.”

Oh, that’s sweet. How many grandchildren do you have?

“At least two.”

Sure. What are their names?

“Buddy and Sweetheart.”

No, that’s what you call them. What are their actual names?

“I got no idea. Remembering names is a mother’s job. I’m a grandpa: I pull quarters out of ears and eat gross shit in front of ’em. Good kids, though.”

All kids are good kids.

“Nah. Kids are just little people. Some of ’em are complete assholes. But these ones are all right”

Is your grandson playing with Bobby?

“Yeah. Weir’s yelled at him twice to slow the fuck down.”

The circle of life continues.

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