Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (page 1 of 151)

A Never-Before Seen Publicity Photo Of The Grateful Dead In 1977

That look on Bobby’s face? That’s the look you get when Bono starts talking to you.

OR

That’s Dick Durbin from Illinois on the left, and Patrick Leahy is next to Mickey, but does anyone know who the tall lady and the round man are?

OR

“Bob. Can I call ya Bob?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Otherwise, you know, I won’t know I’m part of the conversation.”

“Bob, what d’ya know about African debt?”

“Just what I hear on the radio.”

“Tremendous problem in th’ Third World.”

“Y’know, when I have money troubles, I do a tour and get a new business manager. Has, uh, Africa considered that?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Always worked for me.”

“Bob, there’s one more wee matter.”

“Shoot.”

“Can you get John Mayer to stop trying to join U2?”

“Who?”

“Tall kid, wears clothes.”

“Oh, Josh. He doing that to you, too?”

“No, U2.”

“We’re both correct here.”

“Bob, it’s got to stop. The Edge is gonna punch him.”

“You really call him that?”

“The Edge? Of course.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okee-doke. I’m gonna talk to anyone else.”

OR

Durbin’s shitfaced.

OR

Seriously, look at him. Schnockered. Trying to stand perfectly still, keep a neutral expression on his face: Durbin’s laced.

OR

Is Bono just allowed to come and go from secure buildings at will? Can he wander into the Situation Room? Can he play basketball in the Supreme Court’s court? (The Supreme Court has a basketball court in it. The building, I mean. Not the nine people who we refer to collectively as the Supreme Court. You could not fit even part of a basketball court in Ruth Bader Ginsburg. She is tiny.)

To Leahy Me Down

“Psst. Weir.”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“Who’s this?”

“Senator from Vermont.”

“Not–”

“No, no, no.”

“Oh, good. That guy shows up and white people start arguing.

“This is the one who likes to be in movies.”

“He’s got the looks.”

“Handsome devil, yeah.”

“Hey, Weir.”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“I think we made the right decision not tucking our shirts in.”

“We’re rockers, Mick.”

“Totally. This place have a Hostility Suite?”

“Yeah, but they call it the Cloakroom.”

“Cloakroom?”

“Yup.”

“Does that mean–”

“It’s not a room full of cloaks you can yoink.”

“–that it’s…okay, just checking.”

“Try not to steal anything while we’re here, Mick.”

“I promise nothing.”

High Level Meeting

Frankenflesh, baby. That little sliver o’ calf? Sexiest part of an aging white man. It’s dad-cleavage.

OR

Mickey is drunk, thinks he’s at the hotel, and has been sticking that keycard into the door latches of Senators’ offices all day. Mitch McConnell had Capitol Police place Mickey into a wheelchair, and then drag him out of it.

OR

The frame/art ratio is off, isn’t it? Shouldn’t the art be bigger than the frame? I’m not exactly Robert Hughes, so I’m not to be trusted on matters of art, but I always thought the art should be bigger.

OR

Goddammit, Bobby, you couldn’t even put on your socks?

OR

“Psst, Weir.”

“Yeah, Mick?”

“He really loves that fucking song.”

“What’s it been?”

“Twenty minutes straight.”

“He doesn’t even know we’re here. He’s just talking.”

“Well, yeah. He’s a Senator. That’s what they do.”

“You think they told him who killed JFK?”

“His co-worker’s dad did it.”

“Oh.”

OR

That Calhoun fellow’s got a flash haircut, man. Dunno where I’ve seen it before. (Okay, fine: would someone PLEASE ‘shop a beard onto John Calhoun?)

You Got To Tear Down All The Buildings And Rub Out All The Laws

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Waiting for soundcheck. This is the weirdest venue on the tour.”

That’s the Capitol Building, Bobby.

“No, that’s a tall, round building in Los Angeles.”

Not the Capital Records Building. The Capitol.

“Where bills become laws?”

Yes.

“Billy became a law once. Well, he put on a Judge Dredd helmet and ran around shaking his dick at people screaming, ‘I AM THE LAW,’ but you get my drift.”

Not really.

“Thought about running for Congress a couple times.”

What happened?

“Sobered up.”

Sure.

Beck And Will Call

This might be the only time I can say this: Bill Graham is adorable.

OR

That woman’s hair is crooked.

OR

Those are Ovation guitars, Young Enthusiasts. They were made of polymers and petroleum squeezings, and their backs were big salad bowls made of tacky, thick plastic. They were popular because they were (one of) the first acoustic-electric guitars, which meant they had built-in pickups and you could plug them right into the amp. Before this, you would hold your acoustic guitar in the vicinity of a microphone; this would produce a sound made of 90% feedback, 5% extraneous noise, and 5% music.

Any song you played on an Ovation sounded like Bon Jovi.

OR

That couch is mostly semen and marijuana seeds.

OR

Seven drinks for five people. Sounds like Grateful Dead math.

OR

“Um, excuse me.”

Oh, hey, Bobby. What’s up?

“You seen my beard?”

Look to your left.

“Okay.”

And twenty years in the future.

“Ah, there it is.”

OR

Hey, David Gans, author of This is all a Dream we Dreamed. Is that you next to Bobby?

The Wrinkle Was Sold To Me As A Crease

This is from Rolling Stone back in May. The great Jesse Jarnow interviewed Bobby about Dead & Company, and the new ’77 box set, and bliss. I was not mentioned, even obliquely, and the article lacks for my absence. Bush league move, Jarnow.

Stop that.

People should talk about me more.

Okay, champ. Get to whatever stolen premise you’re gonna half-ass while you procrastinate doing your big-boy writing that you’re so proud of that no one will pay you for.

Ow.

Point out the lie.

It’s all true, but the tone was a bit much.

You deserve it, plus more.

That’s true, too, but it still hurts.

Get to it.

Anyway, Dead & Company’s summer tour is well underway and Enthusiasts everywhere are still a bit perplexed as to what this so-called “wrinkle” is. It must be subtle, whatever it is, so allow me to make some guesses and also steal some from the internet:

  • Entire band going commando for performances. (“It makes the jams freer,” Oteil says. “Makes it easier to take my dick out,” Billy adds.)
  • Jeff Chimenti changed conditioners.
  • Some video screen bullshit?
  • It can’t be Mickey’s clogs; though I have no evidence, I will state definitively that the wrinkle is not Mickey clip-clopping away back there.
  • And it can’t be Oteil singing lead, either, not from the sentences that follow the stuff about the wrinkle.
  • Bobby, what the fuck are you talking about?
  • I demand the great Jesse Jarnow get Bobby on the phone and make him explain himself.
  • Everyone go bother Jesse on Twitter about it.
  • Give him no respite until he answers our questions.
  • Call him names!
  • I’m not gonna tell you to stop again.
  • I was done.
  • Good.

Friendly Fire In Rando War

“Rando.”

Which one of you is speaking?

“Me.”

That doesn’t help.

“It’s, uh, me. You know: me.”

Oh. Hey, Bobby. Not a rando.

“No? Wait. Ah. He’s my manager?”

Are you basing that on his Semitic looks?

“Little bit.”

Not your manager. That’s Al Franken.

“From Trading Places?”

Yes.

“Huh. Guy’s a heck of an actor. I really believed he was a baggage handler.”

“Handle this, Bob. Rando War is won, bitch.”

Jesus.

“Look at these randos.”

Okay, first of all: not randos. Second: stop calling Bobby a bitch, Amir Bar-Lev.

“Man in this sweater can call anyone he wants a bitch.”

That’s not how it works.

“Bitch.”

Stop calling me a bitch. Those are not randos. The one on the left is Whatsherface, and the one on the right is Amy Adams’ mom or something.

“Sounds pretty rando to me.”

Dude, in this photo? You are the rando.

“Wow.”

Sorry to be so blunt.

“Hurtful.”

Well, I’ve never seen you on Law & Order, and both of these ladies have been on multiple iterations of the show.

“Don’t talk to me.”

Don’t be this way.

“You’re an asshole.”

Yeah?

“Yeah.”

Okay, sure.

“AAAAHHHHHHHH! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?”

I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.

“You’re FUCKED, man!I’m a goddamned midget!”

Little person.

“No, I can say midget. It’s our word.”

You’ve been this way for 20 seconds.

“I’m adaptable.”

Sure.

“Change me back!”

Apologize!

“Never!”

Director’s Cut!

“Never!”

You’re just impossible.

“Y’know, when I made that movie about Penn State, I got death threats.”

Yeah?

“That was better than this.”

I’ve heard that from people.

The Faster Weir Goes, The Rander Weir Gets

“Look what I got.”

Randos?

“The randiest. Although, this guy to my left keeps telling me go home and get my shinebox.”

Yeah, don’t murder him. It comes back to bite you in the ass.

“I’ll try. But, you know, if he keeps disrespecting me my hand will be forced.”

Don’t do it.

“Forced.”

Hey, Bobby.

“Yup.”

Don’t make it obvious, but check out the piece on the guy to your far right.

“Oofah.”

Right?

“Garcia’s was better.”

What?

“Jer wear a toupee. From about 1972 onward. Went to the same guy as Gene Simmons.”

This is not a fact.

“Oh, yeah. Real human hair, too. Parish used to get it for him. Sometimes, there’d be chunks of scalp still attached.”

“We doing group randos now? You got nothing, Weir.”

Not randos, Phil. That’s your band.

“This can’t be my band. Where are my children? I made my band with my own balls.”

Ew. And it is definitely your band. That’s Melvin Seals.

“Which one?”

The one that looks like his name should be Melvin Seals.

“I still think I’m winning Rando War.”

These aren’t randos!

“Agree to disagree.”

“They aren’t, Phil. Now this is a rando.”

No, Amir Bar-Lev. That is Michael Moore.

“He smells.”

I would imagine.

“And he won’t stop talking about Bernie.”

I would also imagine. You should get away from him before he rubs off on you.

“His bad luck?”

No, he physically rubs off on people. On the other hand, you might want to stand next to this fucker forever.

“It’s a good contrast, right?’

Totally. Your face has, like, bones in it.

“He just asked if I had any candy.”

Okay. Abort, abort. Get away from Michael Moore. The man makes awful movies and his voice makes me envy the Deafheads.

“But I look so good.”

Find an ugly fucker who makes good movies.

“Hmmm. Wait, I got it.”

“BOOM.”

Dude, you killed it.

“I rocked this shit.”

Why wasn’t the ’81 European tour covered in Long Strange Trip?

“Al Franken made me cut it.”

Oh.

Staredown Street

“Who the hell is that?’

Which one?

“White.”

John Mayer.

“Who?”

Josh Meyers.

“Still nothing.”

You okay, Bobby?

“I was bored before the show, so my shoulder started hurting.”

Stay away from those goddamned pills, Weir.

“Not pills.”

Good.

“I crushed ’em up.”

Dammit.

Rando War: The Push Zoom

Please don’t–

“Rando War on the bocce courts!”

–join the Rando…dammit. Hasn’t there been enough tragedy on those courts?

“Why do you think I built them?”

Oh, God, you’re burying bodies in there, aren’t you?

“No.”

Are the busboys?

“Yes. Sometimes, Grahame does it.”

Why?

“If he doesn’t do his chores, he doesn’t get his allowance.”

Sure. Are you blessing that rando?

“Swatting a horsefly.”

Sure.

What is this, theme night?

“The, uh, framing of the pictures?”

Yeah.

“Huh. Looks like it. Little bit of randian synchronicity.”

You having a press covfefe?

“Yeah, apparently.”

What’s Mickey doing there?

“Not much. He’s gonna slap Branford’s flip-flops together for a while soon.”

So, the usual?

“About that, yeah.”

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