Thoughts On The Dead

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

The Weirs On The Bus Go Round And Round
Sometimes late at night, Bobby drives the bus and he thinks about Europe.

He’s been back since, with the Dead and solo and for vacations, but he thinks about 1972 and the buses and their internecine fights and intramural squabbles, Pig dying quietly in the back in the back while the borders pass by: Lord Byron with a harmonica.

The Road Crew demanded hamburgers and Coca-Colas, and so did Garcia and the Godchauxes. And Billy. Bobby and Phil hit a nice restaurant or two, and Bobby tried to keep an open mind, but he was an American and wanted Chinese or Italian or Mexican.

You could still smell the War in the bricks over there in ’72, and there was a Cold one going on at the time: things were tense. The students were perpetually rioting; in the 70’s, they installed casters on the barricades because they were used so often. Borders were everywhere, and militarized, and occasionally a van would explode for reasons that no American could ever fully understand.

But, hot dam, did they play good. Dead against the world on that trip, it seemed. Never quite like that again. Egypt? Not really.

Some things you only get to do once.

Then, Bobby would realize he had lowered the shade on the bus’ front window and scream, ‘WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE,” and then he would drop the doobie he had going into his crotch and accidentally punch himself in the dick trying to grab it and let’s just say Bobby is not allowed to drive the bus anymore.


  1. Cream surely rose fine sir

  2. this is why we come here

  3. did you just use a fucking frog emoji

  4. something is emitting smoke. Bobby does not smoke the cigarettes. does he?

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