Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (page 1 of 145)

I Like Your Smile, But That Ain’t Your Stripe

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Giving Stripey here a try.”

Please stop turning your clothing into characters.

“Well, you know: they have feelings, too.”

They don’t.

“Besides, I’m paying tribute to Prince. So young.”

Bobby, you’re in 1987.

“Sure, sure, but there’s a Thai place that’s gonna open up down the road from me in 2016, so I like to pop in for takeout.”

Goddammit, stop using the Time Sheath to get lunch.

“Dinner, too.”

All meals. Eat in your own reality.

“It’s ’87, man. Everything’s fusion bullshit now.”

Just don’t.

“Probably gonna keep doing it. Hey, why are ducks singing about us?”

Drake.

“Boy duck, girl duck, whatever.”

It’s a person.

“Ducks are people in 2016? Not at the Thai place. They’ll kill one right in front of you.”

No, Bobby. Drake is a person. Well, he’s a Canadian.

“That counts.”

Legally. And he’s a rapper.

“Like Kool Moe Dee?’

Kind of.

“Kool Moe Dee is not related to Rick Dees. You know: the deejay? I found that out the hard way.”

I am not pursuing that.

“So, this Drake fellow. Big time guy?”

Famous as shit.

“Good for him. Music industry is tough on Canadian ducks.”

Not a duck.

“Does he have a human beatbox? I like that routine.”

I dug that act, too, but I don’t think Drake has one.

“Oh, hey, that reminds me: if Mickey asks if you want to see his human beatbox routine, say no.”

Does Mickey just–

“Beats humans with a box.”

–beat humans..sure, yeah.

“Is the duck gonna show up?”

Haven’t decided yet.

“Just lemme know.”

Gotcha.

Cold Bob, And Snow

“…and then they pushed the ice floe out to sea, sending the guitarist back to his ancestors.”

“Why are our myths so odd, Grandfather?”

“Inuit spend 99% of their time trying not to die; doesn’t leave much room for writing.”

“Listen: we get in the kayaks. We keep the beach on our left. We’ll be in San Diego in two months.”

“I can’t have this conversation with you again.”

“IT’S SO FUCKING COLD AND THERE’S NO FOOD!”

OR

“Wampa aren’t real, Mr. Weir.”

“Young man, I have lost three friends to wampa attack.”

“Do you mean heart attack?”

“Maybe.”

OR

The Awesome Power Of A Fully-Operational Grateful Dead #2,012: Bobby found a rando on a fucking glacier.

North To Alaska, South To The Rio Grandee-oh

I was going to be a jackass and make fun of Bobby for playing Happy Hour, but the truth is that our Bob’s a standup guy: David Nelson from the New Riders had some Alaska dates booked, but his shit’s fucked up and so Bobby stepped in and went up to Alaska (in March!) to fill in for David and raise a little money for the doctors. You can kick in a couple bucks here.

“It is Happy Hour, actually.”

I know, Bobby. I was saying nice things about you.

“Yeah? That’s nice of ya. But, you know: 2-for-1 Molsons until six.”

Not a bad deal. How the sandals holding up?

“It’s 20 degrees out there. Had to dig the boots out of the closet.”

Oh, no.

“It’s not optimal. I love David, but next time he gets sick, he better have shows planned in Hawaii.”

Rude of him.

“Beard’s good in the cold, though.”

I’d imagine. You’re a good guy, Bobby.

“You bet.”

Questions For The Seller Of This Couch, Supposedly Belonging To Bob Weir

  • What the fuck? (That’s the main question, I suppose; all subsequent questions are truly just sub-iterations of “What the fuck?”)
  • Did you forget a word, or did the couch own Bobby?
  • Is the couch sentient?
  • And a slave-owner?
  • Are you trying to sell a sentient, slave-owning couch on Ebay?
  • Is this really how we’re using the internet?
  • Assuming that you forgot the word”by,” is this really Bobby’s couch?
  • Is there a provenance?
  • You think I haven’t seen the ol’ “Rock Star used to own this couch” scam before?
  • Think you’re dealing with fucking children here, buddy?
  • If it is Bobby’s couch, was this the couch that Bobby’s wife, Natasha Monster, gave birth to their children on? (That ridiculous behemoth of a sofa actually is large enough to give birth on. You could even have twins.)
  • Is there a possibility that some of Bobby’s change is still in the cushions?
  • Has it been cleaned?
  • Thoroughly?
  • Waved a black light over the sucker?
  • How much of Bobby’s DNA would you estimate is trapped within the fibers of this couch?
  • Could we clone Bobby?
  • Would Clone Bobby have a beard?
  • Has this couch always been in this room?
  • Did you really make this decorating choice?
  • Was the choice between selling the couch or selling all the other furniture in the room?
  • If it’s always been like this, why are you selling it now?
  • Are you getting married and your wife is making you sell it? (This is the only conclusion I can come to.)

And finally:

  • Excellent condition?
  • Excellent condition?
  • Really?
  • Reeeeeeally?
  • Excellent?

We’re A Rock And Roll Band, Ma’am; We Play Rock And Roll Music

It wasn’t a Dead show without a Chuck Berry song, even if they didn’t play one.

  • Around and Around.
  • Johnny B. Goode.
  • Let It Rock. (Dead did it once; Jerry Band played it more than once.)
  • One More Saturday Night.*
  • Promised Land.
  • Run Rudolph Run. (Pig sang it in December of ’71.)
  • U.S. Blues.*

*I know Chuck technically didn’t write U.S. Blues and OMSN, but they are Chuck Berry songs.

77 On Your Scorecard, Number One In Your Heart

Oh, Goddammit, did you make Hologram Bobby?

“I know some guys at ILM. They scanned him from beard to sandals.”

Don’t make Hologram Bobby.

“Don’t tell me what to do. There were some glitches.”

Went rogue?

“Like, immediately.”

Every time the Grateful Dead messes with magical technology, problems happen.

“Sucker went hard light. He could control his tangibility.”

That doesn’t sound like something you should be able to control.

“No, that needs to be a constant in the equation.”

Did Hologram Bobby go insane?

“He did, he did.”

Rampage through the theater like King Kong?

“Yup. Kept putting his arm through people’s chests and making it solid.”

That sounds fatal.

“I know there’s nothing more than fatal, but if there were? This would qualify. It was the fatalest thing I’ve ever seen that the drummers weren’t a part of.”

Wow.

“Ran out of power pretty quick, though.”

That’s good. Phil?

“Don’t be stupid.”

Does everyone get their own iPad?

“How can you rock and roll without an iPad?”

True. Phil?

“One more stupid thing and we’re done. You’re on the thinnest of ices.”

Awesome shirt.

“The three-quarter shirt is the king of all tee-shirts. Keeps your elbows warn, but leaves your Apple Watch and sweatband exposed. It’s literally the perfect shirt for me.”

Happy birthday again.

“Out.”

So Many Rhodes

Precarious?

“Yo.”

What’s the little one on the left?

“Donna.”

Not the little person. The small wooden box on top of the monitor.

“Humidor.”

Obviously.

OR

Keith’s posture can be used to calculate Pi.

Balloon Boys (And Mrs. Donna Jean)

Maybe it was just the ossification of habit, but Brent was always stage left. Keith was left, right, sometimes in the middle, once he was by the merch table.

OR

“Don’t you do it, Weir.”

“What?”

“Step on a balloon.”

“You saw my leg?”

“I saw your leg, man.”

“Hey, Jer.”

“Ah, shit.”

“Y’know, it’s New Year’s Eve.”

“Every fuckin’ year.”

“That means, uh, that this is the anniversary of our friendship.”

“Great, man. Play the song.”

“I got you a little something.”

“You really shouldn’t have.”

“Here ya go, Jer.”

“You went to Jared.”

“I did, yeah.”

“Is this a tennis bracelet?”

“Better. Anklet.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

OR

Later that evening, Mrs. Donna Jean (already in her ceremonial gown) would be thrown into the volcano to appease Gbaja-biamila, the god of backup singing.

Rising From The Depths

Remember when there were stone-cold foxes in the front row?

“Uh, actually, the front row has always looked like this. Just, you know: younger.”

This looks like a fire hazard.

“It’s perfectly safe. Just as long as there’s no fire.”

Sure. Phil?

“What?”

Did you see Putin’s corpse?

“His what?”

His corpse. When he drowned, did you fish him out of the canal and make sure he was dead?

“No, it was time for the second set.”

Sure.

“Elvis killed him. Don’t worry about it.”

“You should vorry. Putin alive.”

Dammit. How?

“KGB dolphins.”

Shit.

“Putin name them Kodo and Podo.”

Don’t name them that.

“Putin is Beastmaster now.”

You are not the Beastmaster! Marc Singer is the Beastmaster! I was on a plane with him once.

“How he look?”

Great. Real tall. No carry-on, just had a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets in his hand.

“Vhat?”

I’ve been trying to figure it out for years.

“This is vild story. Now I vill get revenge on Elvis America.”

Aren’t you a little busy getting your revenge on the actual America?

“Putin kicking your ass.”

Y’know? In an entirely “don’t hate the player, hate the game” kind of way: I salute you, you murderous fuck. You are killing 2017.

“Putin having good year.”

Sure. But here’s the thing: can’t you have a good year without everyone else having a bad year?”

“Nyet. How could Putin be happy if vorld is not suffer?”

Wow.

“Except for Kodo and Podo. They vill never suffer. Be avarded Order of Lenin. Give them pension, dacha by Black Sea.”

Great. Could you play with your dolphins for a second?

“They vork their blowholes to the bone for Mother Russia.”

Sure. Gimme a sec.

“Da.”

Phil?

“Whaaaat? Jesus, you’re a pest.”

Putin’s alive.

“Nah.

I just talked to him.

“Naaaaaah.”

Where’s Elvis?

“At the bar showing people his award.”

Why does he have an award?

“AH WON TRIVIA NIGHT!”

Great. Elvis, listen–”

“DON’T YOU NEVER TELL TH’ KING T’ LISTEN! AH LISTEN T’ JESUS AN’ MAH HEART. THASS IT, MAN.”

Sure, but–

“BOY, YOU GONNA LEMME TELL MAH STORY OF VICTORY AN’ MANLINESS NOW.”

Oh, fine.

“PEOPLE DON’T KNOW THIS ‘BOUT TH’ KING, BUT AH AM A TRIVIA BUFF. AH WAS GONNA BE ON JEOPARDY, BUT THEY WAS ONLY GONNA SHOOT ME FROM TH’ WAIST UP.”

Is that a joke?

“IT WAS, MAN. GOOD EYE. DAMN, ISS NICE HANGIN’ OUT WITH FOLKS WHAT AIN’T TH’ MEMPHIS MAFIA. DUMBER ‘N A COUCH IN A SWIMMIN’ POOL.  LOOKIT MAH AWARD AGAIN!”

Nice.

“MAN, TH’ STARS LINED UP F’R ME! ALL TH’ CATEGORIES WAS VERY FAMILIAR TO MAHSELF.”

Such as?

“KARATE.”

Sure.

“SPRITUALITY AN’ TH’ BROTHERHOOD O’ MAN.”

Okay.

“GRITS.”

Right.

“TH’ FANCIEST O’ JEW’RY.”

That was the name of the category?

“DON’T QUESTION MAH MEMORY, BOY.”

Okay. Excuse me one second.

“YOU ARE EXCUSED.”

Phil?

“Whaaaaaaaaaat?”

Did you rig Trivia Night so Elvis could win?

“Seemed like the nice thing to do.”

Is that one of your gold records?

“I don’t know whose it is. Might be mine. One of the busboys found it in the walk-in.”

That was nice of you, Phil. Elvis loves being presented with shiny things.

“Yeah, sure. Honestly, I just wanted to distract him for a couple minutes. Son of a bitch has gone through nine entrees already. Then he wanted a grilled cheese sandwich.”

I would imagine you could whip that up for him.

“Not his version. A deep-fried wheel of cheese with bagels stapled to it.”

Ew.

“Can’t eat that way for long. No idea how he’s still alive.”

He’s not, Phil.

“You know what I mean.”

Sort of, but not really.

“Hey, is Putin still outsi–”

KABOOM

“The bocce courts!”

Putin! Goddammit, did you blow up the bocce courts?

“Me? Noooooooo.”

I don’t believe you.

“Vhy not?”

The pistol you’re holding, for one.

“Putin love Second Amendment.”

You don’t have any amendments.

“Putin have all the amendments.

Why won’t you leave Terrapin Crossroads alone, Putin?

“Hitting metaphor on head a little hard.”

You think?

“Da.”

Regardless!

“Putin invade playground next. Then take gazebo. No more storytime with Phil Grateful.”

“DAMN YOU F’R RUININ’ TRIVIA NIGHT, COMMIE!”

“Finally. Elvis America vill fight Putin man to man.”

“MAN T’ MAN? NAH. KING T’ FINK. YER A FINK, MAN.”

“Putin does not understand ‘fink.'”

“LOOK IN TH’ MIRROR, MAN. ALL SHALL BE REVEALED.”

“Fight Putin.”

KARATE!

JUDO!

KARATE!

JUDO!

“Is shame readers can nyet have our fight described to them.”

“I TOL’ HIM ALREADY, MAN. ISS AN INNERESTIN’ CONCEIT, BUT IT LIMITS YER STORYTELLIN’ POSSIBILITIES.”

“Da. But makes reader use imagination. Like radio play.”

“DON’T BE STANDIN’ UP F’R HIM! ISS JUS’ PURE LAZINESS!”

“Da.”

KARATE!

JUDO!

“Ve are too evenly matched. Perhaps ve should join forces and rule Americ–”

thwip

“Again?”

flump

You blowdart him again?

“NAH, MAN. AH WAS PREPARED T’ DIE BY MAH KARATE.”

Phil?

Phil?

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?”

Did you blowdart Putin?

“No.”

Okay. So, who did?

“You never saw me.”

Yes, sir. Where’d you learn how to use a blowdart?

“Kenya.”

Right.

Dessert

Is there doobie in that cookie?

“Well, uh, we’re in California. There’s doobie in everything now.”

“Shampoo.”

Amazing.

“I saw something, you know, just amazing at the Erotiquarium the other day.”

The Erotiquarium?

“They sell goldfish and dildos.”

Sure.

“Edible underwear edibles.”

I can’t even begin to comprehend what that is.

“Like regular edible underwear, but infused with pure THC extract. It’s a better idea than you think.”

How so?

“Well, you know: you eat the underwear, get high, and then you get hungry again and you eat what’s under the underwear. Works out pretty well for everyone involved.”

Ew.

“I’m gonna agree with the weirdo, Bob. Ew.”

Thanks, Phil.

“Kiss my ass.”

Can we get back to the storyline, please?

“It’s cookie time, man.”

Have you heard from John?

“He’s more than capable of handling some sorority girls.”

One of whom is your daughter.

“I’ll give him a call right now.”

Sure.

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Mayer.”

“Oh, sorry. I was looking for Josh Mey–”

“It’s me, Bob. Josh Meyers. Where are you?”

“I’m sitting right next to you, you son of a bitch.”

“JESUS! Where the fuck did you come from?”

“San Rafael.”

“No, I mean–”

“Don’t worry about that. You stay away from Lisa-Marie.”

“Your daughter’s name is Monet, Bob.”

“Her, too.”

“You’re a nice kid, Josh, but you’re just too old for her. There’s something just not right about a rock star in his very late 30’s going after teenagers.”

“Really?’

“I’m warning you, Meyers.”

“Bob, I’m not interested in any of the girls here.”

“What about that one there?”

“I’d ruin that shit.”

“You been drinking?”

“Yup. Bobby, why is this picture so shitty and we’re circled?”

“He ran out of good photos.”

“Huh.”

“Hey, where’s Putin?”

“In all likelihood, he’s headed towards Terrapin Crossroads by sea.”

“That sounds like him. I should warn Phil.”

APPLE WATCH NOISE

“Terrapin Crossroads, try the pot roast.”

“Phil?”

“Bob? Where the hell did you go?”

“You wouldn’t understand. You don’t have daughters.”

“Bob, I wrote a song about the relationship between fathers and daughters. Maybe we could play it this summer.”

“I’m already kinda pissed at you.”

“Sorry.”

“May I continue my phone call on my watch?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you. Hey, Phil.”

“Baby Levon does that to me. Whenever I get on the phone, he’s gotta talk to me.”

“Kids.”

“Kids.”

“Yeah, so, uh: Putin’s coming to your place.”

“How so?”

“By sea.”

“That sounds like him. I’ll alert the busboys.”

“Okee-doke.”

“No, wait. I see the little bastard coming out of the canal.”

“Hey! Get out of here, Putin!”

“Putin occupy. Terrapin Crossroads historically part of Russia.”

“We don’t even serve borscht!”

“You will learn to cook. Putin teach.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Putin make changes to restaurant. Install carving station.”

“Carving station? We’re not at a Bar Mitzvah in Syosset.”

“You are Bar Mitzvah in Syosset.”

“That doesn’t even make sense, jackass.”

“Under vetsuit is tuxedo.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“Putin, Vladimir Putin.”

“Seriously, man: fuck off.”

“Vhy you not book Autograph?”

“Who?”

“Autograph. Is rock band. Rock very hard.”

“Never heard of–”

“HERE AH AM T’ SAVE TH’ DAY!”

“Thank God! It’s Elvis!”

“THASS TH’ RIGHT EMOTION YER FEELIN’ THERE, OL’ BASS PLAYER FELLA. AH AM TH’ HERO O’ TH’ COMIC BOOK AN’ ALSO AH AM A SEA CAPT’N, AN’ ALSO MAH GLORIOUS HAIR IS DOIN’ SOME KINDA CRAZY WING THING. ISS A TRIP, MAN!”

“And you have a very nautical scarf.”

“GOOD EYE, BOY! YOU NEVER GONNA GUESS WHO BROUGHT IT T’ ME!”

“Charlie Hodge?”

“MAN, YER SMART.”

“Elvis, listen: it’s Trivia Night and I can’t have Putin invading my restaurant. Anything you can do?”

“Elvis America can do nothing to Putin. Putin is vinner. Elvis is los–”

thwip

“Putin should have gotten on land before taunting man vith blowdar–”

glug glug glug

BLOOP

“OKAY, AH KILLED HIM.”

“Thanks.”

“LEMME ASK YOU SOMETHING, BOY. THAT RESTAURANT O’ YER’S GOT A KITCHEN?”

“Obviously.”

“THEN YOU MAY FEED YER KING.”

“Come on in.”

“AH WILL ALSO PARTICIPATE IN TRIVIA NIGHT.”

“Cool.”

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