That’s how many pizzas we want: four. Extra everything.
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
In recent interviews, Bobby has mentioned being Garcia’s bagman–holding the Persian and giving him just the daily dose. As usual, Bobby and the rest of Big Dead are telling only a small portion of the truth: Bobby carried many things, for many people, for many different reasons.
“Hey, Bobby,” Garcia said under his breath.
“I don’t wanna talk about it, man.”
“The hat’s cool and all…but, you know: the hat’s not all there is to the matter, is it?””
“I am not even looking at you. Please shut up.”
Bobby doodled on his guitar.
“I feel like I should ask him which side he served in Mr. Lincoln’s infernal war.”
“Listen, he’s my friend. Leave it alone. Your friends are terrible, too.
What were children made of back then? Adamantium? That little shit’s been perched–perched!–there for half the first set now and Phil has been dropping bombs on him like he thought the kid was the Viet Cong and he’s completely nonchalant. He’s the li’l fry version of walking away from the explosion without looking back.
“Oh, those guys behind me? Hadn’t noticed ’em. Now that you mention it, sure: there are a bunch of what could best be described as rabid deathbeavers playing boogey music at jet engine volume, enabled by a sound system so complicated it was used to calculate the BCS standings; I was kinda inside my own head. Thinking about getting my dinosaurs and having a little imagination time.”
Also: is Keith still in this band? He show up for this gig? Where are ya, buddy?
Phil welded together three or four regular-sized pairs of sunglasses to get those things.
Mickey, who is wearing a Grateful Dead shirt, bonked his head on the light fixture behind him and flew into a rage, attacking all the sconces, crown moulding, and especially the wainscoting in the room. The wood paneling didn’t stand a chance.
Bobby played the “whose elbow gets to be on top” game with Mickey for a moment, then let him win out of fear that Mickey would fly into a rage and attack the non-load-bearing features of the room.
Holy shit, Garcia invented The Shocker, didn’t he?
“Hi, there! My name’s Mrs. Donna Jean and I want to be your next state senator. I believe in deporting the unborn, creating terrorism for the middle-class, and ruthlessly hunting down all the Cat People of Felicidae IV, Throneworld to the Felis Empire, currently infiltrating our government, media, and jam bands. Thank you, and get out the vote!”
Billy’s expression, plus the fact that he is–no joke–being restrained by two men, is news of the poorest sort for the photographer. What has he done to arouse Billy’s ire? Been in the wrong place at the wrong time? (With Billy, the “wrong place” is in front of him, and the “wrong time” is when he is conscious.*)
Keith’s dead.
*It should be noted–for safety’s sake at the least–that Billy has punched dick in states of awareness that were other than fully conscious such as, but not limited to: sleepwalking, napwalking, blackout drunk, blackout…maybe cattle tranquilizer?, infected with the mindworms of Ceti Alpha VI, turned into a zombie slave via arcane Houdon means, deep hypnosis, activation of his sleeper personality, rabies, enslaved by love, made the earthbound host of Abbadon the Unforgiving.
“There’s no way you look sillier than me.”
“Dude, I look like a scarecrow who came to life and started selling meth.”
“Whatever. My shirt clearly belongs to a closeted middle-school music teacher from Saskatoon.”
“Using Time Sheath technology, I stole this ridiculous hat from a tiny black man who lives in the future.”
“Prince?”
“Fuck no, not Prince.”
…
“You’ve noticed–”
“Yeah, I saw the pigtails.”
“–the pigtails, right? Right.”
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