You put that nub away, mister.
“Kiss my ass.”
Put it away.
“Parish!”
…
“And maybe you should think about a hat for the next few weeks.”
“PARISH!”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: jerry garcia (Page 28 of 139)
“Where did that thing come from?”
“Which thing?”
“The Apple logo, Steve. The one in between us just floating there.”
“Oh, that. Isn’t it great?”
“No.”
“Hard-light hologram. This one is 14 millimeters thinner than the last one.”
“Is that better?”
“It’s thinner.”
“How’d you manage it?”
“Took out the headphone jack.”
“Oh. And it just kinda floats there?”
“It’s the ultimate Apple product: it does nothing, but everyone knows you have one.”
“Sounds good.”
“Hey, Jobs! Asshole!”
“Stop stealing my look, man!”
Did you get stung by a bee?
“I just closed my eye weird in the shot. Don’t read too much into it.”
You look happy.
…
“The guy’s shirt, man.”
Yeah.
“Look how fat I look.”
Oh, so it’s not that it’s a shirt with you on it, just that you don’t like the particular version of you on the shirt.
“Something like that. It’s tough to explain, man. You ever meet a stranger wearing a shirt with your picture on it?”
No.
“Right. It’s tough to explain.”
Question.
“Shoot.”
Why didn’t you guys do Live Aid?
“We had a gig, man.”
Okay.
“And we didn’t want to.”
There ya go.
“Let’sss play Ssshakedown Ssstreet.”
“Quiet down, Snake Tee-Shirt.”
“Weir, tell your shirt to stay out of band business.”
“Excuse me, but if Bob’s shirt gets a vote, then my tank top gets a vote.”
“Nobody’s shirt gets a vote, man!”
…
“See what you started?”
“Sssorry, Bobby.”
We found Barb.
“He’s pretty cool, huh. Jer?”
“He’s something.”
“Wish I had one of those one-word names.”
“How about ‘Mistake?'”
…
“I’m gonna take a walk.”
“Try not to die.”
Garcia was there. They just didn’t film it. Swear to God.
Would I lie to you?
(Anyway, go check out the wonderful Rob Mitchum on Twitter, who is watching all 9,000 hours of the broadcast and tweeting about it. I flaked on the Led Zeppelin recap, but still might do it tonight if I can’t think up anything else to bullshit about.)
Perhaps as usual I’ve stumbled onto a theme for the evening: the rank unprofessionalism of the past. All of this–every single part of it–is unacceptable in today’s shiny and buffed branding exercise of a culture: the duct tape all over the piano, the circus tent, the plywood the plywood the plywood holy shit the plywood. No one even thought to order some tie-dyed curtains from Nighthawk to drape over the backdrop which, as I have mentioned, is just naked plywood.
So much unused space to announce corporate partnerships.
OR
Precarious?
“Yo.”
What are you doing?
“Checking the stage to make sure it won’t collapse.”
You think maybe you should’ve done that before the band got on it?
“Things get gotten to when I get to them.”
…
Okay.
“You all right?”
Took me a second to parse that sentence.
“You knew what I meant.”
I truly didn’t.
“Weir, someone stole your sleeves.”
“Oh, no, Jer. This is the entirety of the shirt.”
“Right.”
“Got it at Creepy Ernie’s. Guy’s a salesman. He said ‘Sun’s out, guns out’ and I had, you know, no rejoinder whatsoever.”
“Can’t argue with a rhyme, man.”
“You bet. Gonna show the kids a little something.”
“Two little somethings.”
“Oh, come on. I got some pythons, Jer.”
“You’re not exactly Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
“Should we know who he is?”
“Dunno. What year is it?”
“I’m wearing a ‘Dead at Red Rocks’ shirt, so it has to be after July of ’78.”
…
“Whatever, man. You look great, Weir.”
“Well, thank you. Y’know, it’s tough being the only Bobby in the band. Sometimes I feel I have to Bobby twice as hard as other Bobbys just to make up for the rest of you.”
“Some feelings you should just keep to yourself, Bob.”
“You don’t support me emotionally.”
“I don’t, no.”
Get out of the picture, Rock.
“HII’MROCKSCULLYANDIMANAGETHEGRATEFULDEADANDLET’SDISCUSSTHEMYSTICNATUREOFTHEPOSTOFFICEFORTWOHOURS.”
…
Get out of the picture, Rock.
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