Thoughts On The Dead

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

Tag: terrapin crossroads (page 1 of 10)

The Man In The High Forecastle

Get yourself a new book?

“Fuck off.”

What kind of room is this? You look like you’re in a submarine.

“No, a boat.”

You’re in a boat?

Oh, right. You have an office in there. I thought you bought a fuckboat.

“No. I was on Clive Davis’ fuckboat a couple times.”

How was it?

“Lotta fucking.”

You should buy the Nissan dealership.

“I’m not selling Datsuns.”

You’re a man of principle.

“Yup. Fuck off.”

Buffalo Gal

Are you caressing Stu Allen?

“It’s his hand, jackass.”

Ah. I see it.

“Good for you.”

Hey, wasn’t Harvey Weinstein a concert promoter back in the day? You guys ever run into him?

“A bunch. Him and that asshole brother of his ran Buffalo in the 70’s. Always something funny with the receipts with those two. Christ, I can still see his face. Like a fat pineapple. Looked like a Jewish Noriega.”

Not an attractive man.

“One of those strategic temper tantrum guys. Would scream at the top of his lungs about nothing, then get real quiet and charming. Well, you know. ‘Charming.’ Jackass.”

How’d you deal with it?

“Laughed at him. He was no Bill Graham.”

He was awful big, though.

“So was our crew. I’ll tell you a story. He tried that massage shit on Mrs. Donna Jean in ’77.”

That motherFUCKer!

“Yeah. She would get her own little room so she could get dressed. Keith was in there, but he had passed out.”


“So, big boy charges in there and starts demanding a massage. And, you know, Mrs. Donna Jean’s a Southern girl, and they’re real polite up to a point.”

Up to a point.

“And that point was him taking his dick out.”

Bro, I’m steaming mad here.

“Story gets better.”

Does she say something clever and hurt his feelings?

“Fuck, no. Grabbed his cock and sunk her nails into the shaft real hard.”


“Then she pulls him into the dressing room where we’re all hanging out and announces, ‘Boys, this venue got itself a cockroach problem!'”

I love Mrs. Donna Jean.

“She had her moments.”

Are you sure you’re not caressing Stu Allen?

“Go away.”


Fogey Mountain Breakdown

  • Mary Jane’s Last Dancin’ In The Streets.
  • We Can Running Down A Dream.
  • Rosa Lee MacFree Fallin’.
  • Good Morning Little American Girl.
  • I Won’t Feedback Down.
  • Standing On The Full Moon Fever.
  • Don’t Come Around And Around Here No More.


Hey, guys. Whatcha doing?

“Talking shit about Billy.”

Which one of you said that?

“Both of us.”

Makes sense.


I don’t know how I feel about the phone-necklace. Is the cord elastic? Otherwise, you’re gonna be doing a real chicken-wing deal trying to text. Does Oteil not have pockets? Did Jeff Chimenti steal Oteil’s pockets? (As established, things disappear around Jeff Chimenti.) What about a fanny pack? Bobby has several, and he’s a generous man.


Oteil has lovely skin. I bet that pisses John Mayer off.

“I wash, and I wash, and I wash…”


“Phil, you sure you don’t wanna stop by for one Dead & Company show? Sit in for a song?”

“Mickey gonna whack a pair of stolen shoes together behind me?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Hard pass.”

I Spy With My Little Eye

I see you back there.


I got eyes everywhere, Oteil.

“Listen, just keep this under your hat.”

Not wearing one.

“And stop being so literal.”

Hate to hear what Billy will have to say.

“Please don’t turn this into a thing.”


“Don’t call me a quisling.”

Mickey’s not gonna like it, either.

“Billy’s more important.”

In every way.

“Don’t tell Billy.”

I dunno, Oteil. Let’s ask Steve Wozniak.


Hey, Woz.



“Shoreline. Not as fun as the US Festival.”

Sure, but your ticket didn’t cost $12 million this time.

“True. What’s up?”

Should I snitch on Oteil?

“Snitches get stitches and wind up in ditches.”

You’re a fucking truth-teller, Woz.

“I know.”

You have a good show.

“Back atcha.”

Oteil, you’re off the hook. You should thank Woz.

“I completely do not understand how this universe works.”

Don’t ask Bobby. You’ll be even more confused.

“Yeah, sure.”

As The Boy Sings Round The Fire

Phil, tell that kid his marshmallow’s done.

“I’m not the boss.”

Yes, you are. You own the place.

“I just don’t want to.”

Okay. You saw Long Strange Trip?

“You mean Long Strange Crap?”

Oh, boy. Didn’t like it?

“Not even ten percent of the story. Really missed a lot of stuff.”

Like what?

“Well, you know the old saying: no Ned, no Dead.”

That is not a saying.

“Did you know that the Dead had an incredible softball team?”

I didn’t.

“Course not! Wasn’t in that so-called ‘movie.'”

It’s a movie, Phil.

“Fake documentary. What’s that jackass’ name?”

Which one?

“Mister director man.”

Amir Bar-Lev.

“Suspicious name.”

Please concentrate. You used to be so much easier to talk to.

“Anal Bear-Claws comes to the restaurant–”

Amir Bar-Lev.

“–and interviews me for like nine hours. I’m in the damn movie for a minute. And he didn’t even show the specials!”

The what?

“The specials. I got 200 pounds of short ribs I gotta get rid of.”

Well, that would have been a bit off-topic.

“Mm, yeah. Might have distracted from Franken pontificating about West L.A. Fadeaway.”


“They’re the same song. Listen: you got a four-hour movie, and there’s not a spare ten minutes to detail what an asshole Billy is?”

Again: off-topic.

“There’s ten minutes of Bobby looking at stuff. I gave Amal Clooney–”

Amir Bar-Lev.

“–a monologue of at least 90 minutes on the topic of Billy. I went over how he was an asshole, when he was an asshole, and to what extent he was an asshole. And evidence, too! I brought receipts.”

Why are you merely passive-aggressive with the other reporters, but just aggressive with me?

“Why would I give a shit about you? Pitchfork won’t even hire you.”



Marshmallow fall into the fire?


Told ya.

Backyard Fun With Bobby And Phil

When Phil makes that face, you need to give him about three feet of space or you’re getting bitten.




Is that a Fender?

“Yeah. But, you know, it still cost twenty grand.”

Oh, thank God. I was worried.

“It’s a ’59. This sucker liked Ike.”

He was a genial sort.

“People don’t know this about Eisenhower, but he was our most graceful president.”


“Moved like a panther.”

I learned something today.

“Yup, okay.”


Bobby’s wrist is reaching Johnny Deppian levels of tchotchkes and bric-a-brac.


Phil loves that green flannel so fucking much I cannot begin to describe it. It might be his wubby at this point. Don’t believe me? Here’s Phil tonight:

Several of you go to Terrapin Crossroads regularly; someone bring Phil a new shirt.

For The Wood Is Dark, And Full Of Phil

Look at you, you handsome son of a bitch.

“What can I say? I’m hot.”

I said “handsome.” I did not say “hot.”

“You were thinking it.”


“Whaddya want?”

I heard that you’re doing the setlist from 5/7/77 at TXR tonight with the Phamily Band.

“When you plug, it’s always very obvious.”

Just answer the question.

“Yup, we are.”

Nifty. You remember anything about that show?



“You want me to remember a specific night from 40 years ago?”

If you could.

“I can’t.”

Make some stuff up?

“I understand why people hide in the bushes from you.”

You’re too skinny. Eat something.

“Kiss my skinny ass.”

Faces In The Crowd

This looks like a Before/After shot in a laxative ad.


“Kobe got fired? I thought he retired.”

“James Comey, Bob.”

“Who did he play for?”

“He was with the FBI, Bob.”

“Female Body Inspectors?”

“No, that’s not a thing.”

“Then where did Billy get the tee-shirt?”

“Just play the song and glare at the camera, Bob.”

“You bet.”

The Passing Of The Hair Dryer

“Why are you staring at my hair, Bob?”

“Looks great. Just bought it?”

“I don’t wear a hairpiece, Bob.”

“Sure, sure. Hair system. Whatever they call them now.”

“Weir, it’s all me.”

“Ah, yeah, I dunno.”

“Whaddya mean, ‘I dunno?'”

“Well, everyone knows I’m the one with the good hair in the Grateful Dead.”

“40 years ago. 40 years ago, you were the guy with the good hair. Now, due to the vagaries of male genetics, I have the hair.”

“Like how the Democrats and Republicans flipped in ’68?’

“Please don’t compare my hair to the Southern Strategy, Bob.”

“I make no promises.”

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