Tag: bob weir (Page 120 of 198)

“Everyone’s gonna smile. I swear to you, and  I swear to fucking God and all of His angels that if everyone doesn;t smile and we can’t get a good picture for the Christmas card, then I will machete all of you in the face.

“We are a happy family and no one is arguing and no one’s written anything and everyone is happy just like it used to be and everything is fine and fucking smile.”

…

“Hey, Bob.”

“Billy, I am at my end. Please please please thing before you say whatever knuckle-headed thing you are about to say.”

“It’s important.”

“What?”

“Did you know Mickey had a daughter?”

“No idea. You?”

“Not a clue.”

“Hi there, pretty lady.”

“Jerry’s daughter, Billy.”

…

“I said, ‘Hi there, pretty lady.'”

“Okay, the three of you step behind the curtain so I can yell at you.”

“Senator Bradley, fellow honorees, Deadheads, stone-cold teen foxes, the ghosts of all of our dead keyboardists, Spider-Man if he is here in his secret identity, and process servers: good afternoon.

“I cannot tell you what an honor it is to be inducted into Madison Square Garden’s Walk of Fame. I cannot tell you because, frankly, I just found out it existed this morning and that’s the only thing I know: it exists and we’re in it. I mean, it could be like that Hollywood Walk of Fame thing and that bullshit is some goddamned bullshit: you gotta pay for your own star! It’s like an ego tax.

“Ah, I’m just pulling your dick: this is great, man. The Garden’s special. You know what they say, right? There’s home, the road, and New York City. This building’s got a lot to do with it.

“It’s on springs, y’know? The part you see, where the bands play and the hockey ice is? That starts at the sixth floor. Below that are these maaaaaasive fucking springs to absorb all the energy that place is capable of generating; on a good night, when we were cooking, we’d have that place bouncing up and down.

“You could see it from the stage, man. It was something. It gave me an idea.

“One night, after the show, I got Mickey and Brent and a bunch of the road crew all fucked up and made ’em go nuts on the drums. Mickey’s just whomping on the Beam, right? And they get a rhythm going and that floor starts to heaving and I took off my pants and ladies and gentlemen, I fucked this building.

“I now would like to talk about my new book, Deal: My Three Decades of Drumming, Dreams and Drugs with the Grateful Dead, which is available in the lobby at the booth Benjy has set up.”

“May I have a word?”

“What?”

This weekend, the Grateful Dead (or whoever showed up) was inducted into the Madison Square Garden HoF, which is a thing. The Dead joins such MSG luminaries as “the time Willis Reed showed up when everyone thought he was hurt,” “Mark Messier raising the Stanley Cup,” and “Paul McCartney leading an all-star Hey Jude jam that made everything all right after 9/11.”

Bobby and Billy were joined by Mickey’s daughter, Reya Hart, who misinterpreted the dress code, and Garcia’s daughter, Trixie, who cannot fucking wait for this year to be over.