Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (page 1 of 162)

And Those That Could Not Sink Or Swim Were Just Left There To Float

Hey, Bobby. Put your nipple away.

“He’s, uh, on vacation, too.”

True. Whatcha doing?

“Puzzling at this fellow’s choice of beach-footwear.”

I probably wouldn’t go with a loafer.

“Gotta let the dogs out when you’re on vacation.”

He’s not on vacation, Bobby. He’s at work.

“I kinda am, too.”

Not that you’d know it. What happened with the livestream?

“It’s better now. I started taking palmetto root.”

Not that stream. I’m talking about the webcast.

“Exterminators took care of that.”

The internet, Bobby. They usually play your shows on the internet.

“Do they now? Wow. 21st century, huh?”

The stream on Thursday night was shitty to the point of people complaining, and then nugs.net canceled tonight’s ‘cast without much of an explanation.

“Ah.”

Any idea what happened?

“Sunspots?”

No.

“Rebels in the hills?”

There are no rebels in the hills, Bobby. You’re on the Mayan Riviera.

“Weird how the Mayans named their coast something French.”

What I’m hearing is that you have no idea what happened.

“In my defense, there’s, like, eight layers of people that bullshit has to flow through before I get involved.”

True. Follow the rules of water safety.

“Always assume the boat is loaded, and keep your finger off the rudder.”

Close enough.

Dancin’ In The Streets

The Grateful Dead wasn’t a political band; remember that. When the kids took the campus, they showed up and choogled, but they weren’t political. They played benefits in support of the Black Panthers and against the death penalty, but they weren’t political. They raised money for the rainforest, and for Amnesty International, and…well, here:

What the organizations above have in common is this: they represent the little guy.

That’s what politics is. It’s a fight between the big guy and the little guy. And the Dead have always taken David’s side.

But remember: they weren’t a political band.

The Measure Of A Man

What is going on here?

“I’m getting a fitting. I’ve gone into acting, and I’m appearing in an adaptation of Dumas’ The Count of Monte Chocula.

Not true.

“Getting reskulled.”

Also not a thing.

“This lady’s wearing a tailor’s scarf.”

It’s called sewing tape.

“So I, uh, must be getting measured for something. Iron Man suit?”

I doubt it.

“Am I Abe Lincoln now? I don’t wanna be. Too many letters to write.”

You’re not Lincoln, Bobby.

“Then, you know, I got nothing. But the ladies are being real nice, so I’m gonna be polite and just, uh, experience my experience.”

I wish more people had your attitude, Bobby.

“Be a more blissful world.”

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.

OR

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

OR

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

OR

Thick air, man.

I’d Like To Eyes Of The World A Coke

“Yo.”

Precar–oh, you’re already here.

“It’s load-bearing.”

The Coke cup?

“Yeah.”

How?

“We managed.”

Monitors look nice.

“Well, we considered the aesthetics.”

And?

“And then we said, ‘Fuck it,’ and left ’em unpainted.”

Sure. You were joking about the Coke cup, right?

“Shit, no. You move that and we all die.”

Makes sense.

Trivia Time!

Okay, Enthusiasts: this is a tough one. Name:

  1. The show.
  2. The activity.
  3. The song that caused the activity.

Winner gets an angry cat thrown at them. GO!

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–

“No.”

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

“You heard my answer, man.”

Have A Safe Trip

Precarious?

“Yo.”

Were you trying to kill them?

“Who?”

The band.

“Eh.”

I can’t even begin to count the safety violations in this picture.

“Ah, they’ll be fine. Big babies. I wrapped the cable around the mic stand.”

You honestly think that counts.

“I do.”

Is that plank of wood attached to anything?

“Attachment leads to suffering.”

Wow.

I Said “No Pictures”

This is in Toronto, during the shit-dumb Festival Express that bankrupted a few hippies, enriched a few liquor store owners, and excreted a half-decent movie worth it if only for the scene of an unfathomably drunk-and-stoned Rick Danko, Marmaduke Dawson, Janis Joplin, and Garcia and Bobby wobbily circling through No More Cane on the Brazos. You’ve seen it, or you haven’t.

There. Now you have.

Anyway, this was 1970–long before the invention of security–and that doofus with the Nikon must have gotten up into Garcia’s face, unleashing the rarest Garcia of all: Scary Bear.

Legend has it that Garcia mauled and devoured the photog, but you can’t trust John Legend.

Everyweir And Everywhen

You still can’t get out of the gifting suite?

“I made it to the red carpet.”

And?

“The paparazzi are made of infinity.”

That’s no good.

“Not at all.”

What’s with that ring? It’s not your wedding ring.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Is it a Bohemian Grove thing?

“I said not to worry about it.”

Bohemian Grove thing. Got it.

“Uh-oh.”

What?

“My soul is doing something.”

Uh-oh.

Hey, you found Kenny Aronoff again.

“His vest was like a beacon in the timestream.”

Sure. He really wants everyone to know he’s not an accountant.

“Kenny dresses with flair. Also, I think he just got divorced.”

That is absolutely a “drummer who just got divorced” outfit.

“Uh-oh.”

Again?

“I’m having a transmigratory kind of weekend.”

Sorry, Bobby.

“Hey, you know: it happens.”

“I think I’m back at the gifting suite.”

You are.

“This guy keeps calling me Daniel-san.”

Keep that to yourself.

“Sure, sure. Wonder what comes next.”

Oh, you can leave now.

“How do you know?”

I’m out of pictures.

“Ah.”

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