Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: peter shapiro (page 1 of 3)

A Cake For Phil (And Fuck The Yankees)

“Where’s my hat?”

“What hat?”

“You got Weir a cowboy hat.”

“He thinks he’s a cowboy.”

“I could be a cowboy. What are you saying, Shapiro? I couldn’t be a cowboy?”

“You could be a cowboy.”

“There drugs in this cake?”

“It’s just cake.”

“Jesus, man. No hat, no drugs. Hell of a birthday.”

“I’ve never seen you wear a hat before.”

“You’ve never seen my asshole, either, but you know I have one.”

“That’s not a great analogy.”

“Go get me a cowboy hat and a cake made out of drugs.”

“It’s midnight in Port Chester. I can’t get either of those things.”

“What’s with the turtle?”

“On the cake?”

“Yeah.”

“Terrapin. You know: the Dead, turtles.”

“I know what it is. I want to know why you’re using my IP without paying me.”

“The dancing turtles do not belong to you.”

“Jim Irsay bought them for me.”

“Phil, I don’t think so.”

“You owe me money.”

“I’m paying you for the shows.”

“No, I’m giving you a portion of the money I make from the shows to set things up.”

“Hurtful.”

“Not hurtful. Hurtful would be telling you that you did a great job in Superbad.”

“Enjoy your cake, Phil.”

“How can I without a cowboy hat or drugs?”

Light A Candle, Then: Bob Weir

bobby-cake-hat-candle

How many iPads does it take to sing a cowboy song?

“You’d be surprised. One of ’em, you know, that’s for lyrics. Dunno if you ever noticed, but sometimes I forget the words.”

No!

“Yeah, it happens.”

I don’t think anyone’s picked up on it.

“Okay, sure. So, uh: one’s for lyrics.”

And the other one?

“We’re not playing that this tour.”

The other iPad, Bobby. Not the song.

“Ah. Binge-watching Stranger Things.”

Sure.

“Worried about Barb.”

We all are. What are you wishing for?

“That I didn’t have to wear this hat.”

Good wish.

Beware Of Jews Bearing Gifts

bobby-shapiro-cowboy-hats

“HAT!”

“Yeah, huh. Got me a cowboy hat. Huh. How about that.”

“You made a cowboy album! Cowboys wear hats! HAT!”

“Please stop yelling ‘hat’ at me.”

“But I got you one! It was a surprise.”

“It certainly was.”

“For your birthday!”

“Just what I always wanted.”

“Put it on! Hey, folks, don’t you wanna see Bobby wear the hat?”

HAT-BASED CHEERING

“See, Bob?”

“Thanks, Pete.”

“He put on the hat! HAT!”

American Idols

mickey peter shapiro taylor hicks.jpg

Hey, Mickey. Who is that?

“Peter Shapiro.”

I know who Peter Shapiro is. The other guy.

“Clay Aiken.”

No.

“Kelly Clarkson.”

No.

“Brian Dunkleman.”

No.

“The Situation?”

Just say you don’t know, Mick.

Black Rockn’

sandy rando tush burning man

Your outfit is culturally appropriative.

“It doesn’t look anything like Princess Leia’s slave outfit; furthermore, Alderaanian is not a recognized culture.”

I can’t believe you just said that.

“Funny how liberals defend that place, but no one wants to talk about Alderaanian-on-Alderaanian violence.”

So order is the highest priority?

“People have always demanded a strong man lead them.”

But that never ends well.

“People never end well.”

Is there sand in your cooch?

“Yes, there’s sand in my cooch.”

Is there life after death?

“Most people don’t have a life before death.”

All the lonely people.

“Yes.”

Where do they all come from?

“Winnipeg.”

How many roads must a man walk down before he admits to himself that he’s lost?

“Not all who wander are lost: some are just dipshits.”

All the dipshit people.

“Yes.”

Where do they all come from?

“They come from Winnipeg, too.”

It’s no Toronto.

“Now that’s a world-class city.”

Have you never been mellow?

“There’s no way to answer that question grammatically.”

Let’s date. I can overlook your hair.

“I cant overlook yours. Besides, I’m in a relationship.”

Oh, of course. What stupid bullshit is it this time? Bottlenose dolphin with an eyepatch?

“No.”

Unappealing rando?

“No.”

A high-out-of-his-mind Peter Shapiro and a bank-robbing unicorn?

“How’d you know?”

peter-shapiro-unicorn

“GET AWAY FROM MY PRINCESS LEIA OR I’M BANNING YOU FROM MY BOWLING ALLEY!”

Settle down, Shapirstein.

“LAST WARNING, OR I START TELLING STORIES ABOUT BLUES TRAVELLER!”

TotD out.

They Did The Monster Mosh

peter shapiro happy

Did you wear your Phish shirt on Friday and Sunday?

“Don’t bust my balls, jackass.”

Great show this weekend.

“All the bands were great, weren’t they?”

God, no. Several stinkers. I was talking about the production side of it. Looked good, everyone sounded happy, big crowds.

“Shitload of VIPs.”

Sure.

“Fewer skunk ape attacks than ever.”

That’s good.

“Only two kids eaten by Shenandoah Howlers.”

Okay.

“The Snallygaster invasion was repulsed.”

How many cryptid species are involved with Lockn’?

“There’s also the Lockn’ Ness Monster.”

Walked into that one.

“Honestly, the place is rife with monsters. It’s how I got the land so cheap.”

This makes perfect sense, actually.

Pete?

“Yeah?”

I can’t tell you’re stoned.

“Oh, good. I was worried.”

An Open Letter From Peter Shapiro About His New Website

Screen Shot 2016-08-25 at 12.42.35 AM

Everyone’s favorite concert promoter/bowling alley owner Peter Shapiro has a new data-mining company social media platform: it’s called Fans.com, and it’s another “Facebook for XXXXX” deal, but I hope it does well. You can post stuff, or chat, or hack into other users’ webcams. I signed up and have already begun several arguments with strangers, so in a way it’s also like Twitter. Go read about it in the Times, or just go and poke around.

On the site, Shapiro posted a note explaining his reasons for starting the site, and what he hoped to achieve with it. The open letter went through a number of drafts, of course, but thanks to Wikileaks, TotD can provide you with the first version, which I believe is a far more interesting read.

By Peter Shapiro, FANS Founder

Today, The New York Times, which is very unfair to me and has a very low readership, very low, published an article about me and my latest endeavor, FANS.com.

Picture it: Minsk, 1882. My great-grandparents, Yussel and Blinky Shapiroberg, began promoting small shows around their village in order to raise money to put out the fire in their kitchen. Life was hard in those days. Then, Cossacks hit them in the head until they moved to Brooklyn.

Fast-forward to 1991: I’m working as a production assistant for a Bob Dylan concert at Northwestern, which is where I went to college even though I was accepted at several Ivy League schools. (Not just Brown. Real ones.) I did everything from carry ice, to work the phones, to babysit the band, but mostly what I did was keep an eye on the merch table, which was doing gangbusters business. Also, everyone was all happy and dancing or whatever.

The next year, I went to my first Grateful Dead show at Giant Stadium. The choogle hit me like a choog-choog train, and also a girl in front of me and my friends took her shirt off to dance, and her boobs flopped around. I was a Deadhead, and later went on to make a documentary called And Miles To Go: On Tour With The Grateful Dead.

In 1996, I bought Wetlands, which smelled like a hobo’s dick, but still drew crowds and served as a home for New York’s jam band community, and the site of literally infinite drug deals. Literally infinite. There were all kinds of bands, and all kinds of people, but what brought them together was a love of live music, and a high level of tolerance for bathroom cleanliness.

Since then, I have expanded my jampire. (Jampireā„¢ is a registered trademark, Dayglo Industries.) I now sell t-shirts in bowling alleys, casinos, New Jersey, magazines, and–once a year–a field. We aim to create community, and work towards that end in every show we promote, and every venue we open.

But once the fans leave the show, that community vanishes, along with their ability to impulse-buy merch. The online world is segregated into small pockets, and unconnected silos. Grateful Dead fans prefer Facebook. Phish phans enjoy being mean to each other on Twitter. Festival-lovers use Instagram to post pictures of themselves at festivals, because what’s the point of going to a festival otherwise?

Recently, I saw Uncle Floyd on the subway, and I jumped on the internet to tell everyone, but I didn’t know which site to go to first: that’s why we need Fans.com. Live music lovers will finally have a place to come together as one, with each group’s fans all mixed up in unmoderated chat rooms, and I’m sure nothing awful will come from that.

Fans.com! Come on in, the music’s fine!*

Sincerely,
Peter J. Shapiro

*That slogan is probably going to be changed. I think we can do better than that.

Some Medical Advice From Peter Shapiro

peter shapiro drunk

“AWWWWW. Didja hurt yer footie-wootie?”

I don’t need your help.

“Poor widdle baby. You should…you should…fuck it, do whatcha want.”

Peter, I–

“WOOOOOO!”

–truly do not need–

“WOO!”

–your help.

“Iss a party.”

I see that.

“Yer a pussy an’ lemme tell ya why.”

Please don’t.

“Iss becuz…iss becuz…ah, fuck it: c’mere an’ lemme pour some booze on it.”

No, I would prefer ifYAAAAAAAAAAHMOTHERFUCKER!

“Thass the way men do it.”

It is not! It’s not the way anyone does it! It’s a burn, not a cut! And even if it were a cut, humanity has progressed beyond using whiskey as an antiseptic!

“Ahh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m…I’m…I’m sorry. I’ll make it up ta ya. Le’s you an’ me go smoke a doobie, you an’ me.”

Yeah, okay, I guess.

“I got Josh Meyers’ phone number. We c’n prank him.”

Lead the way, Shappy.

“Don’ call me that.”

An Invoice For Peter Shapiro

ATTN: PETER SHAPIRO, INC.

Attached is Invoice #371. Remit remittance forthwith.

  1. Unused Farewell Shoes webcast portion – $50.00 (pro-rated)
  2. Intellectual Property – $5555IMG_4450You owe me money, Shapiro.

PLEASE NOTE: Bill is not to be paid in merch.

High Four-And-A-Half

trixie shapiro cap

Everyone would make a deal with the Devil. Everybody’s got that one thing. Lady across the street would sign her soul over for power; man on the bench would do it for money.

Trixie would sell her soul to not have to stand next to white guys pontificating about her father any more.

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