This is a thing that happened. Here’s what it looked like from the front:
Throughout world history, many things have happened. This is now one of them.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: bob weir (Page 30 of 198)
“Shit. Shiiiiiiit. Shit.”
What’s going on, Bobby?
“Iterating.”
Ah. I see. What’s it like?
“On the plus side, I’ve got six times as much potato salad.”
That’s good, I guess.
“But, uh, I’m also experiencing reality like a conference call.”
That’s bad.
“Yeah. Turns out the human mind is not set up for even semi-panopticality.”
I’ll alert Foucault. Do you have any idea how this happened?
“Right now, my working hypothesis has the white jeans as a main suspect.”
Jeans shouldn’t be white.
“Yup. It’s, uh, racist but true.”
So many things are.
“Not really.”
It was a joke, Bob.
“My, uh, sense of humor is like a mirror thrown onto an ice-skating rink right now.”
Makes sense.
Hey, Nephew on the Dead! Whatcha doing?
“Couch tour, braj.”
Nice.
“Uncle TotD, lemme ask you something.”
Shoot.
“Corrina?”
I have no explanation?
“Fucking Corrina, dude?”
Watch your language.
“It’s cute when I curse.”
Kinda. More like unsettling.
“Whatevs. Bobby got the ol’ Finger-Eeze out again, huh? He loves that stuff.”
You know too much about the Dead for a baby.
“Went straight past Sesame Street to Shakedown Street, braj.”
Uh-huh.
“Going to Citi Field this weekend, dude. Gonna fuckin’ RAGE.”
You go to bed at 7:30 pm.
“Staying up late for The Boys. Set lists from the past week say I’m getting a Dark Star. Gonna trip my baaaaaaalls off, dude. And you ever see a baby’s balls? They’re enormous.”
Leave your testicles out of this, please.
“Besides, I gotta dispense some lot justice.”
Lot justice?
“Gonna kick the shit out of those Online Ceramics assholes. Ordered a onesie from ’em six months ago and it never showed.”
I am totally behind you.
“Might puke on Rock Star Richard.”
You’re a little hellion, NotD.
“Yeah, I’m–”
…
“–awesome.”
Did you just poop your pants?
“Yup. Watch this. HEY! DAD! HOP TO IT, ASS-WIPER!”
I love you so much, Nephew.
NOW, you smile?
“I’m going for it, yeah.”
Seriously, Bobby: that is about a sixth of a grin. You look far happier than in any picture taken of you recently.
“Well, you know: cops used to hit us with sticks and arrest our fans. And us. And they would hit the fans with sticks. Everybody got arrested and hit by sticks, that’s the takeaway here.”
Uh-huh.
“And now they don’t.”
Sure.
“So that makes me happy.”
Gotcha. Bobby, can I ask you a question?
“If you gotta.”
White wine and valium?
“Oh, that’s a hell of a combo. That’s like tomatoes and that one specific kind of cheese. There’s an additive effect when you slap ’em together. Increases the yumminess.”
It’s a bit ladies-who-lunch, isn’t it?
“I love lunch. What else is in that book?”
You fall over in public a good half-dozen times.
“Sounds about right.”
You spent about $85 billion on TRI Studios without having the first clue how it was going to generate any income.
“One could put it that way, sure.”
You never got over Garcia’s death.
“Huh. No, never have. No.”
This got sad.
“Death’ll do that.”
“Nearly beat him to death on four separate occasions, Ass.”
Hey, Billy. Bobby?
“Yeah. Could’ve popped his eyeballs out with my thumbs once. Parish stopped me, but later he told me that he wished he hadn’t.”
What did Bobby ever do to you?
“I can hear that hair dryer of his in my sleep. There’s something about beauty that drives violence.”
Only in the psychotic.
“PIttsburgh, 1979. I tried to drown him in each of the three rivers.”
Why?
“Weir doesn’t like to admit this nowadays, but he used to be a Republican.”
I heard about that.
“He wouldn’t stop with Reagan. Called him ‘Big Ron.’ Kept making everyone eat jellybeans.”
Well, jellybeans are all right.
“I got no problem with the candy itself. It’s just that he would watch you eat it while whispering ‘Morning in America’ over and over. That’s the kind of thing that gets to a man.”
I can see that becoming a problem.
“Made us watch Bedtime for Bonzo on the tour bus. No one wants to see that shit, man.”
But there was a monkey!
“If I want a monkey, I break into a zoo. Fuck monkeys.”
Okay. Well, I’m glad you’re all getting along now.
“We don’t speak.”
Good enough.
“You need to get off the bus.”
…
“Down! Down!”
…
“Why won’t you act like the black kids at Wattstax six years from now?”
…
“Don’t worry about why I know what black people are doing in the future. Just get off the bus.”
OR
When Paul Simon wrote that line about everything looking worse in black and white, he must have been unaware of Garcia’s rainbow trousers.
“Maybe it’s the frazmoidoscopics.”
“Not a thing, Bobby.”
“Speculorpheronic frequency decoupler?”
“Also not a thing?”
“Wibble?’
“I don’t think it’s the wibble.”
…
“Maybe the battery’s dead.”
“That actually could be it.”
“Awesome. Now go round up three or four volunteers from Headcount to help me up.”
“Got it.”
Listen to Bobby. Spark up a doobie the size of a hog’s dick and put on your headphones and lock the children in the root cellar and listen to Bobby: he’s on the left. Garcia’s over to the right, and he’s just a-choogling while he sings for most of the tune, but Bobby on the left is your Secret Hero. Stabbing and deedling and going MWOK all around under over and through the vocal line–the boy is counter-melodializing again, Pa!–and playing the riff and kinda playing the riff. That ain’t how we rhythm guitar in this house, Bobert. Go to your room and comb your hair.
But he plays the same solo every time, you say. I eat your face. Stop saying things because you’re bad at it. Yes, Bobby always played the same solo in Casey Jones. But so did fucking Garcia.
There were two great guitarists in the Grateful Dead.
(Video courtesy of Portland’s protector, Mr. Completely. Check out his YouTube page; there’s a bunch of nifty shit on there.)
Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“You, uh, know that song If I Had A Hammer?”
Sure.
“I’d hammer in the morning, I’d hammer in the evening, et cetera?”
I know the song.
“There you go. I’m just seeing if it’s feasible.”
Is it?
“Well, so far I’ve hammered in the evening.”
Okay.
“And, uh, we’ll see tomorrow if I can…did you feel that?”
What?
“Rain drop.”
Drop top.
“No, I’m serious.”
A little rain never hurt any–
“I’m calling it.”
–one. Calling what?
…
Bobby?
…
Bobby, where’d you go?
…
Oh, what the fuck?
Handsome sandwich?
“You, uh, got it. Me and Johnny Brylcreem are the bread, and Big Red here is the meat.”
Sure.
“Or, you know, she could also be some sort of vegan foodstuff. Maybe a polenta-based ham substitute. Whatever your taste runs to.”
I’ll stick with meat.
“He’s doing that collar thing the hip kids do.”
Shirt over jacket?
“Yeah. Wild stuff. Fashion, huh?”
You said it, Bobby.
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