Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: bob weir (page 4 of 159)




What the fuck?



“We thought it provided an incongruously beautiful mise-en-scene.”


“Fucking with ya. I got no idea why we put that up.”

What are the monitors propped up on?

“Pizza boxes full of sand.”

It’s the Grateful Dead way.


This Way And That

The true depths, the abyssal reaches, that the Dead’s bush leagueosity permeate to are revealed when you realize that they couldn’t even all face in the same direction most of the time.

What John Mayer Was Doing In My Pajamas, I Have No Idea

Go read Groucho: The Life and Times of Julius Henry MarxIt’s a much sadder story than you’d think.

And then go watch Duck Soup. It’s much funnier than you remember.

Side, Man


“Uh, yeah?”

Oh, hey. Bobby. Sorry. In my defense, you looked like a girl until ’72 or so.

“I’d argue with that, but it worked for me.”

What is this? ’67?

“Well, I don’t have my beard so it could be ’67. Or maybe 2002.”

Is Garcia alive?

“Lemme check.”


“Yeah, there he is.”

I guess it’s not 2002.

“Don’t be so quick. Twin Towers standing?”

The Twin Towers would not have been standing in either 2002 or 1967.

“Oh, no. Did the terrorists–”

The terrorists didn’t get hold of a Time Sheath.

“–get hold of…okay, good. I was worried.”

I mean, Miles Davis has one but he’s not technically a terrorist.

“And Billy.”


“Lemme, uh, ask you a question, okay?”


“You got a point to this post or are we just bantering pointlessly?”

The second thing.


Go steal Billy’s hat.


Good choice.

The Main Hang Ten

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Rando time. Gotta get it in, or you get out of practice. Then, you know, you go back on tour and you got no idea how to handle ’em.”

Just pretend to be nice.

“You have no idea how much work that takes.”

True. Hey, today is a special anniversary.

“Ah, dammit. My wife–”

Natasha Monster.

“–is gonna kill me.”

Not your anniversary, Bobby.

“Oh, good.”

On this date in 1984 was the very first official Taper’s Section.

“Ah. Huh, yeah. Portentous day. Went much better than the previous evening.”

What happened?

“Well, uh, we tried to introduce the Taper’s Section. But somebody made a typing error on the memo and things turned out poorly for everyone.”

How bad could a type be?

“Raper’s Section.”


“The situation got out of hand almost immediately.”


“And, you know, just because you have a Raper’s Section doesn’t mean the rapers are gonna stay there. Those folks don’t follow rules.”

They do not, no.

“Had to send the crew up there with some pool cues.”

Very few problems a large man with a pool cue can’t solve.

“That’s what I’ve come to find out, yeah. Anyway, the next night everything was spelled right and, you know, a tradition was born.”

Bobby, God bless ya, but that’s a terrible story.

“That’s why I never told it to you before.”

Good point.

Oral Histories I Will Not Be Reading

  • The truly fascinating story behind David S. Pumpkins.
  • The 1987 NFL strike from the scabs’ perspective.
  • How the P’zone got its name.
  • 20,000 words on Justin Bieber’s new tattoo, including a rare interview with Scooter Braun.
  • Inky, Blinky, Pinky, and Lies: The True Story Behind Ms. Pac-Man.
  • That time Randy Johnson made that seagull explode.
  • What If Urkel Was Cool? The Birth, Life, And Death of Stefan Urquelle.
  • The Pet Rock story.
  • Those couple years that Elvis Costello looked like a hasidic werewolf.
  • Midnite In The Garden Of Good And Bobby: The Complete Oral History Of Bobby & The Midnites.

Paint It Bob, You Devil

“People don’t know this, but I am a longtime youth basketball ref.”

You’re not.

“Gotta keep ’em off the streets. No such thing as a bad kid, just one that needs some coaching up. And, you know, no one coaches better than a ref.”

None of that made any sense.

“The kids call me Double Dribble.”

No, they don’t. Why?

“It’s the only rule I’m familiar with. Turns out basketball is complicated.”

Sure. The whistle is for Truckin’, Bobby.

“No, it’s too small. And there’s no engine.”

Not trucking. Truckin’. The song. You enjoy starting it with a blast from the whistle.


Weird that you didn’t remember that.

“Hey, I don’t remember the lyrics half the time, either.”

Okay. Have a good show.

“We do. It’s, uh, Duke ’78. This is a hot one.”

How do you know that?

“Time Sheath.”


I Spy With My Little Eye…

  • Classic iPod. (Behind Mrs. Donna Jean.)
  • Amazon Echo. (In between Mrs. Donna Jean and Garcia.)
  • Two iPads. (To the left of Billy and Mickey.)
  • Phil’s booty. (Behind Phil.)
  • Precarious Lee’s handiwork. (Bottom left.)



Is that a humidor?

“On top of the monitor?”


“Nope. Ashes.”

Human ashes?



“Don’t worry about it.”

Is that secure? That angle is rather…



“It’ll be fine.”

Will it?

“Should be.”

Your words don’t fill me with confidence.

“I duct taped it.”

Oh, well, then it’s fine.

“I know.”

I was being sarcastic.

“I know. Don’t care.”

Huggy Bears

Matt Busch watched. He stood and watched. Could not avert his eyes tho he begged to.

Move, feet. This is what Matt Busch told his feet and they did not listen. Turn, head.

There was a conspiracy against him. His body desired what his brain could not process.

A smell arose from the men. Lust and sweat and balls and ball powder. Close, nostrils. They would not. Small yips of pleasure came from the men. These intensified.

Matt Busch watched.


“Uh, Phil?”


“You’re really getting in there.”

“I’m just so happy, Bob.”


“Because social media didn’t exist while we were doing whatever the hell we wanted.”




Harvey And Bob

It’s like your head is voting Republican, but your feet forgot that it was Election Day again.

“Well, you know, it’s like Walt Whitman said: I’m gonna shoot all of you from this tower.”

That was Charles Whitman.

“They were cousins.”

Don’t think so. So, Bobby, you been following the news about Harvey Weinstein?

“The guy who wrote Leaves of Grass?”

That was Walt Whitman.

“That is one accomplished family.”

No, Bobby. None of the people I’ve mentioned are related. Harvey Weinstein. The movie producer who enjoys rape.

“You’ll need to be far more specific.”

The fat, ugly one.

“You could still be talking about, like, a million guys.”

The Jewish one.


Okay, that wasn’t a help. Him and his brother Bob used to be concert promoters in Buffalo.

“THAT asshole?’

Ah. You remember him.

“Every time we went to Buffalo, man. Same shit from that guy. He’d tell me how pretty my hair looked.”

You did have pretty hair.

“Sure, yeah. But he was, uh, masturbating while he said it.”


“He was always trying to get me to watch him shower. Told me that if I did, he could make me a rock star.”

You were and are a rock star, Bobby.

“No, like, a real one. He was gonna get me an audition for the Eagles.”


“Finally, I just said ‘fuck it’ and told him to get in the shower and lather up.”

You watched Harvey Weinstein shower?

“No. You know Mickey’s duffel bag full of furious raccoons?”

Nice work.

“Yup. Parish nailed the door shut, too. Betty recorded the whole thing. We used to play the tape at parties.”

Proud of you, Bobby.

“Raccoons did most of the work.”


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