Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (page 2 of 155)

On The Internet, No One Knows You’re A Grateful Dead

“So, y’see, the guy is holding the girl’s hand–they’re going steady, I suppose–and, uh, the guy’s looking back over his shoulder.”

“At another girl!”

“Right? I mean: the audacity.”

“Ballsy dude.”

“And people, they change stuff around. Like, uh, the guy’s holding hands with capitalism, but turning back to look at socialism.”

“The Scandinavians have so much to teach us.”

“It’s a meme.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of those. Is this it?”

“No, there’s more than one.”

“Wow. Can I see them on my phone, or is just on yours?”

“They’re everywhere.”

“The future.”

“Sure looks like it.”

OR

They’re reading Thoughts on the Dead.

Who’s That Clown?

You found your sandals.

“I did, yeah. Turns out Red Metal Stool had stolen ’em to sell on Ebay.”

Oh, no.

“Terrible breach of trust.”

Sad what happens to people.

“Or stools.”

Them, too. What is all this?

“This is, uh, the Super VIP tent. People pay a little more and they get to hear Phil sing Bird Song in a tent.”

How much more?

Fuck, man. Two grand?

“Hey, if people wanna waste their money, I’ll take it.”

Good point. You gotta meet everybody?

“Nope. Say hi, play Samson too slow, and pick up the check.”

I should’ve been a rock star.

“There are worse gigs.”

What’s on your iPads?

“Gonna keep an eye on the fight.”

Who you got?

“Hagler in six.”

Good call.

Gawk In The Sunshine

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Dark star.”

Right.

“The, uh, song’s not about an eclipse, though.”

What is Dark Star about?

“Usually about 20 minutes.”

Nice.

“That tune is actually perfect for a dyslexic.”

How so?

“If you mix the words up, it doesn’t make less sense.”

True. You enjoying the eclipse?

“It’s magical. You know when the guy pulls the rabbit out of his hat?”

Sure.

“This is better. Like, at least three times better.”

The Dead had some history with eclipses, didn’t they?

“You bet. Phil bought one in ’91. Crashed it in, uh, ’91.”

Everyone needs to stop making that joke.

“And, you know, Egypt.”

That’s what I was talking about. There was a lunar eclipse the last night while you guys were on.

“Right, yeah.”

Did you see it?

“Well, here’s the thing. Y’know those giant lights at rock concerts?”

Uh-huh.

“They’re generally pointed directly in the band’s eyes. Plus, we were too busy playing poorly.”

You did play poorly in Egypt.

“Oh, yeah. Well, you know, it was a big show. We pretty much had a rule about that.”

No “pretty much” about it.

“I remember having a band meeting on the plane ride over discussing how we were gonna fuck it up. And, uh, damnedest thing: Billy broke his own wrist right in front of us.”

That’s dedication.

“And then when we got to Egypt, uh, he stabbed four successive piano tuners.”

Billy’s pretty much the MVP of the trip.

“No ‘pretty much’ about it. He made us buy him a trophy.”

Any final thoughts on the eclipse?

“I need someone to help me up.”

Senior Tour

What is this?

“I’ve taken up golf.”

Oh, God, no. Not golf. Anything but golf.

“I’m, uh, all in. Found some bliss out on the links. That’s what we golfers call the course.”

Thank you for defining that completely foreign term.

“Lotta fun. It’s actually a very Grateful Dead activity.”

How so?

“Lasts forever, you get fucked up while you do it, and the equipment is stupid expensive.”

Yeah, okay.

“Had to order a custom pair of spandals.”

Spandals?

“Spiked sandals.”

Ah.

“You know that there’s a cart that drives around with liquor on it? They bring it right to you. America, huh?”

Bobby, please don’t become a golf guy. Do any other rich white person thing. Take flying lessons. Learn to paint. How about tennis?

“No tennis. I find the scoring system impenetrable and counter-intuitive.”

And golf’s better?

“Oh, yeah. Much easier.”

Really? What’s a birdie?

“A feathered fishie.”

What’s a scratch golfer?

“The one that doesn’t show up. You scratch him off your program.”

That’s horse-racing.

“Horse-racing and golf are strangely similar.”

What’s your handicap?

“Dyslexia.”

Walked into that one.

“A little bit.”

Very upsetting. Hey, Phil.

“Fuck off.”

Gotcha.

Someone Done Stole Your Batt’ry

Are you wearing a tee-shirt with your own picture on it while autographing your own car?

“Looks like it.”

That’s a healthy level of self-regard even for a Rock Star.

“Well, you know how I’ve been looking for my bliss?”

You’ve mentioned it once or twice.

“Sure. Well, uh, I found my bliss. Turns out it’s me. I’m my own bliss.”

Awesome.

“The commute’s great.”

Sure. Why are you signing your car?

“Giving it away.”

Can I have it?

Not that kind of giving it away. Auction.”

Figures. Finally decided to get rid of the old girl?

“She’s acting up. The, uh, performance issues have intensified.”

How so?

“I don’t know how it got a hold of my credit cards, but it ordered itself new rims.”

Spinners?

“Spinners. And, you know: I’m not really a show-offy kind of guy.”

You’re wearing a tee-shirt with your own face on it.

“Maybe I’m just not a spinner guy.”

That’s understandable.

“That was bad, but the phone calls are unacceptable.”

Phone calls?

“The car has learned to imitate my voice.”

Like the T1000?

“Exactly. And it, uh, crank calls my friends and family. Little bastard fired New Brent the other day.”

That’s kinda funny.

“Funny to you. Because you didn’t have to spend an hour on the phone with a crying keyboardist.”

True. Thinking about what your new ride’s gonna be?

“Oh, yeah. Been looking at a 1985 Buick Grand National.”

What?

“Maybe importing a Skyline from Japan.”

Excuse me?

“I could dig the Vette out of the garage. Needs a little paint, tune-up. She’ll run good again. Or, you know, I could just get another Tesla so my sister-in-law–”

Lillian Monster.

“–doesn’t stab me in the face with a locally-sourced machete.”

Good point.

“I want the one with the fancy doors.”

Good choice. What’s Billy doing there?

“He wanted to get one last tugger in the backseat.”

Has he been getting tuggers in the backseat of your bar, Bobby?

“If you asked me that yesterday, I would’ve said ‘no.’ But things have come to light today.”

Billy told you?

“Yup.”

Did he tell you while he was getting a tugger in the backseat of your car?

“You bet.”

You should leave that off the auction website.

“Probably.”

Dyer, Wolf

You love that hat.

“It’s growing on me. Maybe I’ve been a hat guy all my life and not known it.”

I don’t think so.

“So many lost years.”

I really don’t think so.

“Um, so, tell me something.”

Sure.

“Josh always been blond?”

Only his hairdresser knows for sure.

“Ah.”

I think he’s having a mid-life crisis.

“Could be. I notice he’s been driving around in sports cars and sleeping with women half his age.”

He’s always done that.

“I used to.”

Sure.

“One more thing.”

Yeah?

“Why are there reindeer backstage?”

Reindeer?

“Putin is Santa now.”

What the hell have you done with Santa?

“Santa make problem. Now is no Santa, so is no problem.”

You’re a monster.

“Keep talking and you vill get polonium in your stocking.”

Why is there a lake backstage at Red Rocks?

“Do nyet vorry about it.”

Okay. Listen, Putin: get out of there. No one wants you at the Jerry Tribute.

“Vant to hear Bird Song. This is my jam.”

Stop it.

“Leave Putin alone. Am on vacation. Putin chilling like villain.”

You are the villain.

“Da. Now I steal Bobby Grateful’s hat.”

I’m cool with that.

Turnout’s A Bit Light, But It’s Early

“You’re just gonna have to crouch down a bit, Josh.”

“I can’t keep having this conversation, Bobby.”

“Listen: I’m, uh, the tall guy in the band. I’m the good-looking one, and I’m the tall one. Those are the rules.”

“You were never the tall one. Phil was.”

“Only in inches. In spirit, I was the tall one.”

“Not gonna crouch down, Bobby.”

“Maybe I should get some lifts put in my sandals.”

“How would that even work?”

“No idea. Have to ask my sandal tech. Y’know, Josh, I gotta tell ya: I’m very impressed.”

“With what?’

“13 nights with no repeats? You’re just killing it.”

“Uh-huh. Bobby, that was your famous fill-in guitarist from two summers ago. I’m the new ringer.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah. Well, you know, I guess I’m proud of you, too.”

“Thanks.”

City Chooglers II: The Search For Bobby’s Gold

This is the shot they print on the front page of the paper: DAY HIKERS EATEN BY BEAR, EACH OTHER.

OR

Bobby’s got a new hat? Bobby’s wearing his new hat. Simple equation.

Playing In The Pick-Up Band

“Why does Bobby keep calling you Oteil?”

“No fucking clue, man.”

OR

Every third asshole on the street looks like this now; no one had a beard in the 80’s except Brent and Kenny Rogers.

OR

Is this a bar’s back porch? Why is Bobby playing a Les Paul? Who would buy Merit cigarettes? Anyone got any clue what this is?

OR

Once there were two keyboardists who were so very poor, but in love. They white one had a beard that was his glory, and the black one had a hat. O, they were so very poor, but in love.

Please don’t do O. Henry.

Everyone loves that story. My version’s different.

Brent sells his beard to buy Merl hat cream, but Merl has sold his hat to buy Brent beard conditioner. We can all see where that’s going.

No, they were gonna rob a bank.

Equally as ignorable.

You’re just mean for no reason.

There’s a reason.

What?

You deserve it.

Aw.

Bobby, Mountain, High

Oy.

“You know that I was a cowboy for a while.”

One summer, Bobby. It was like you went to a really shitty sleepaway camp.

“That was where I picked up the love of horsery that I still carry with me today.”

Horsery is not a word.

“Equine magic.”

Dammit, you stop portmanteauing, Weir.

“I, uh, learned to rope. Ride. Which way the saddle goes. Why you don’t want to startle a horse.”

They can be dicks.

“The stablemaster at the ranch was named Farley. He used to say they got chompy chompers and stompy stompers. He’d been kicked several times in the temple. In fact, that thing about the chomping and stomping was all he said. He was more of a mascot than a stablemaster.”

Uh-huh. So you liked riding the horses?

“The riding was uncomfortable, honestly. I mostly enjoyed being photographed in the saddle.”

Sure.

“I lucked out.”

How so?

“90% of Rock Star’s daughters are horse girls. Dodged a bullet on that one.”

You could’ve hung out with Springsteen.

“Like I said: dodged a bullet on that one.”

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