Hey, Phil. Whatcha doing?
“Posing with randos.”
How’s it going?
“Right hand’s asleep.”
Oh, yeah. These are some weapons-grade randos right here.
“They’re fans.”
You ever get creeped out?
“Not unless they do something weird like obsessively write about my band for years on end.”
…
That hurt a little.
“Good.”
You cranky?
“Weir. I try to help my brother out, and the guy gets confused and starts stealing my ideas.
It was just a table or two.
“That’s how it starts. I heard he’s changing the name of the place.”
From Sweetwater? To what?
“‘The Grateful Dead Restaurant That Won’t Give You E.Coli Poisoning.’ I mean: that’s libel!”
It’s slander until he puts up the sign, actually.
“Shut up.”
How do you even know these things?
“I have spies. I sent some of the busboys in undercover.”
Undercover?
“Deep cover.”
CUT TO:
The WEIR FAMILY KITCHEN TABLE. BOBBY is enjoying OATMEAL that is mostly going on his BEARD. Also seated at the table is a MEXICAN MAN IN A DRIVING SUIT AND BLACK WIG. He has a BULLHORN.
“Lillian Monster, could you pass the blueberries?”
“¡CARNE ES MUERTE!”
“I can’t understand a word you’re saying since you got back from safari.”
i too loved your d-day posts, but this is the one that left me in tears.
FoToTD, Sam Shepard…