Thoughts On The Dead

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

Weir, Having A High Times

bobby high times cover


“Yes, chief?”

“Tell me about the cover.”

“Oh, right. We work at a magazine now.”

“Don’t give me any of that meta crap, Jenkins.”

“Sorry, sir. The cover needs some work, sir.”

“It mentions pot, right?”

“Twice directly and once indirectly, sir.”

“That’s a little low, Jenkins.”

“There’s a line about peyote, sir.”

“Oh, good. Make sure the headline mentions that it was authentic.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t bother to find out what kind of Indian. Just say Indian.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wait. What kind of Indian?”

“Please don’t say feathers–”

“Feathers or dots?”

“–or dots. Feathers. sir.”

“Can we get a peace pipe reference in there?”

“Don’t really have the room, sir.”

“Always next month. If there’s one business that will last forever, it’s print journalism.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How’s the hemp booth?”

“Built, sir.”

“Tell the world.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are the options for the picture?”

“Glamour shot of some high-grade marijuana.”

“Have we done that cover before?”

“Once or twice, sir.”

“What else could we do?”

“We’ve got the interview with Bob Weir, so a shot of him would be good. Grateful Dead issues sell well, sir.”

“Potheads love that choogly shit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there any way we could Photoshop a giant blunt into Bobby’s mouth?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s 1990, sir.”

“Smart. You’re going to go far, Jenkins.”

“I pray so, sir.”

“Let me see the photos. Okay. Okay. Handsome. Debonair. Dignified. This one!”

“Maniacal, sir?”

“He’s excited! The teenagers will smoke their doobies and go to the gas station and see our magazine and get excited. ‘Wow,’ they’ll say. ‘Bob Weir and something got decrimmed.”

“Teens love legal gradualism, sir.”

“And he’s pointing, Jenkins. ‘What’s Bobby pointing at?’ the teens will ask.”

“You’ve got your finger on the pulse of the youth, sir.”

“One more thing Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I must have this shirt.”

“It’s from Creepy Ernie’s, sir.”

“Order me one.”

“His website gives your computer viruses.”

“Then we’ll go down there.”

“His store gives you viruses.”

“Gotta have the shirt.”

“Yes, sir.”


  1. That is entirely the wrong guitar for a 1990 story about Bobert. I am, again, ashamed at myself for knowing this.

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