Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
“Guys? Hey, guys? Why is my piano set up so my back is to the crowd? Is it cuz I’m ugly?”
…
…
…
“Uh, no. No, definitely not. Nuh-uh.”
“Nah, man.”
“The ol’ Pig don’t think you’re ugly, KG! It’s just that your looks is an acquired taste!”
“Yeah.”
“You’re scaring off the skank, Sloth! Hide your face!”
When did your nose get that big?
“It’s the angle.”
If you say so. Talking to journalists again, Bobby?
“Well, the fellow had questions about mortality, and art, and bus customization. Felt it was impolite not to answer.”
Sure.
“And, you know, I’d never been in GQ before. I was on the cover of GB a while ago.”
GB?
“Guitarist’s Balls. I don’t know if it’s on the newsstands anymore. Hell of a masthead, though. Joan Didion wrote 10,000 words about Jimmy Page’s potato salad. And informative, too. You remember Leslie West?”
The guy from Mountain?
“Yeah. Astounding things going on with his balls.”
I don’t want to know the specifics.
“Good choice. They haunt my dreams.”
Right. Bobby, you need to stop recounting your dreams to reporters.
“Do I do that often?”
Literally every profile written of you in the past ten years contains a passage wherein you describe your dreams in detail.
“Hey, dreams are important. Imagine how boring sleep would be if you didn’t dream. It would be like taking a plane ride without a book.”
I don’t think that’s why we dream.
“That’s my explanation and I’m standing pat.”
Okay. Would you like to talk about the poncho?
“Serape.”
Whatever.
“I got it in Mexico. Well, a resort within Mexico, but technically that’s still Mexico. A small batch of communist rebels from Tarahumara ran it over from their village. They brought me this garment, along with greetings from Sub-Commandante Marcos.”
You know Sub-Commandante Marcos?
“Big fan.”
You of him, or him of you?
“Anyway, I tried on the poncho–”
Serape.
“–and was blown away. Checks off every box: comfort, durability, you can smother a fire with it. And, uh, storage capacity. I’ve got three bottles of pinot noir stashed in this sucker. Pockets within pockets, man.”
Sounds great.
“This is the kind of thing you can wear to a fancy restaurant, or the zoo, or a fancy zoo. Like, where all the animals are wearing bow-ties. You could wear this to the Oscars. They’d sit you right next to Jack Nicholson. This baby goes anywhere. It’s the Swiss army knife of Mexican blankets.”
I don’t know, Bobby.
“And, uh, I loved it. Lots of bliss in these folds. So I thought that maybe the fans would also love it, and so I told the merch guys–”
Slap a Stealie on it.
“–to slap a Stealie on it and see what the market would bear. I think we’ll sell a lot of ’em if we can keep Mickey from yoinking the stock.”
That’s a big ask.
From the Comment Section, Tor Haxson pitches in with some highly useful videos from the In Concert With AIDS show. Above is Garcia and Bobby trying, in their way, to cut a donation spot. The efforts are typically bush league, with Garcia winning the “Quotables” competition with “Send money, and anything else you got.”
Then, Bobby and his chest thatch get interviewed. It goes poorly, as Bobby cannot seem to find a happy medium between single-word answers and logorrhea.
Hey, Bobby. What are you smirking about?
“Just thinking about something Billy said to me before the show.”
What was that?
“Well, uh, he said, ‘Weir, if you even think about wearing a neckerchief, I’ll cut off your dick and make you blow yourself.'”
That’s a bit aggressive.
“I told you it was Billy, right?”
True. Did Billy say anything about your guitar?
“Not out loud. But there’s a certain word he mutters when he sees it.”
I bet I can guess what the word is.
“I bet you can, too.”
It was nice of John Fogerty to let Bobby and Garcia hang out onstage while he played the old hits. Our heroes added little to the proceedings other than backing vocals, but even the awesome power of two fully bush league chooglers can’t quite trainwreck the afternoon when the rhythm section was Steve Jordan and Randy Jackson.
OR
What a fetching kerchief, Mr. Forgerty.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Okay.
Bobby spent the entirety of the Europe ’72 tour looking like he was gonna ask you to help him put a couch in his van.
OR
In 1972, European buildings were either 1,000 years old, or 25 years old. Nothing in between.
OR
Sam Cutler and Don Quixote have the same shape skulls.
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Hanging out with my dog. Getting pointed at.”
The usual, huh?
“Every day is like the last.”
That’s a fine-looking hound.
“Oh, yeah. I was gonna sign him up for an Instagram account, but Monet won’t let me. She’s afraid he’ll have more followers than she does.”
Not out of the realm of possibility. Photogenic animal.
“All of my dogs have been attractive. Some folks like those weirdo dogs with the bulgy eyes or whatever, but my dogs need to be lookers.”
You’re a man with a plan.
“Sure.”
“Good evenin’, folks. We’re the Grateful Dead. We play rockyroll music.”
OR
The Dead’s career can also be read as three men’s desperate struggle to not have the least expensive guitar.
“Mine needs two cords, man.”
“Yeah, Jer. I see that. Nifty. But, uh mine has a motorized pickup that goes back and forth. And fancy crap on the fretboard.”
“LOOK UPON MY KNOBS AND DESPAIR, WIENERS!”
OR
That should have been the line in the poem.
My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look upon my works, you wieners, and despair!
Much better.
OR
When was the last time you called someone a wiener? Probably been too long. Try it; you’ll left-foot a fucker. No one’s expecting to be called a wiener in 2019.
You have veered off-topic.
It was more of a drift than a veer.
Either way.
Hey, Bobby. Are you a vandal now?
“On my mother’s side. Dad’s people were Visigoths.”
I was referring to the graffito.
“No one ever gives you the credit you deserve for caring about proper pluralization.”
You’re right. They don’t. Fuck them.
“Get ’em, tiger.”
Seriously, what are you doing?
“Well, uh, this is a business called The Grateful Dog. One of those doggy day care set-ups.”
Nice?
“Honestly? You’d rather be a Marin County pet than a human from, like, most countries.”
Sure. And you have no problem with them stealing your name?
“We stole it from the dictionary.”
I guess. Bobby?
“Yuh-huh?”
They did ask you to write on there, right?
“You kidding? Around here, this might as well be a Royal Warrant. They wanted me to do it on the front door.”
That actually does make sense.
“Well?”
“Bill, I gotta tell you: I thought you were overselling the dongs. But, uh, you were not. You were not at all.”
“Each dong its own little universe. Possibly conscious, too. Several NBA players, both former and current, have told me in confidence that their dongs could think and feel and even communicate.”
“How do they communicate?”
“Pointing, mostly.”
“Ah.”
“Bill, question.”
“I can’t wait to hear it, I can’t wait to think about it, and you better believe I can’t wait to completely ignore it and talk about whatever the hell I want.”
“Who’s the big fellow?”
“First of all, my choogly chum: thank you for not calling him Branford.”
“Sure, yeah. The kids have been on me about that.”
“And, second: that is 6-time NBA champion Scottie Pippen.”
“Ben Vereen looks incredible.”
“You’re thinking about Pippin.”
“I was offered the part of the Leading Player at least five times throughout the 80’s. Eventually, I just told Hal Kant to stop telling me when they’d call.”
“We live within a tangle of realities, Bob. What you’re describing is truth somewhere. And in that iteration of the universe, I attended your premiere and kept my hands up for the entire performance. And blew out a knee. But the guy you’re standing next to is one of the all-time greats. Tremendous ballplayer. In a lot of ways, Scottie is the NBA version of you.”
“How so?”
“He had a Garcia.”
“Ah.”
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