Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: bob weir (Page 140 of 198)

Sheet Rock

bobby slides coat and tie

Tired of the adulation and applause, Bobby would cosplay as James “Honeydew Hog” Mellon, the owner of Delaware’s third-largest sheet rock supplier, in town for the annual trade show. Sure, he was the boss’ kid, but he started from the bottom, delivering those heavy and unwieldy pieces of walling to job sites from Wilmington to Dover, and now he enjoyed a little bit of peace. Enjoy some of the money he’s broken his back for.

But Helen: Jesus, that woman can spend. Redoing the bedroom again. Third time in four years and every time she does it, I have to relearn where everything is, and I spend weeks banging into things in the dark.

And the kids. Fuck. I…yeah. The boy’s using again. Stacy–that’s one you fucked up good, huh, Jimmy?

Hey. The bar.

Bobby would let this stranger’s problems fill up his mind until there was no room left for his own.

Sit-In, Sit Down

Autosave-File vom d-lab2/3 der AgfaPhoto GmbH

The intractable nature of the scheduling conflict became evident the first time someone hits a three-pointer and the ball bounces off Billy’s head, so–of course–he rifles the basketball into the crowd and it bounces off head after head like Captain America’s shield, breaking nose after nose.

Also: hey, Mickey. Taking a breather, pal? Call yourself a time-out for a smoke and a beej? Get back to work screwing around with your tom-toms and being petulant.

 

Dollar Dollar Bob, Y'all

bobby awful shirt arms crossed

“This Communistic fascism that is slowly creeping in…it’s a thing, it’s a real thing. Where will we be, tell me that? I want to live in a country of opportunity, where any child–black, white, whatever–can grow up to be a world-famous rhythm guitarist. That’s what the Founding Fathers wanted.

“The free market, son! That’s the way God intended it to be, even though He pretty much explicitly damns it in just about every book He ever supposedly wrote.

“Gonna get a shirt ike this in Moscow? Nosiree, Ivan! Even if you could, you’d have to wait in line for five hours and the shirt would be made out of beets and wearing it would get you labelled an enemy of the proletariat.

“Womb-to-tomb enswaddlement is what the Scandinavians offer: this is antithetical to the nature of man. In Norway, for example, when a baby is born, the family is provided with a large box that not only contains everything a baby requires for the first few weeks of life, but also becomes the baby’s crib when emptied. What kind of culture of dependency is that creating? Now every time that baby is born, it’s going to expect a box full of crap. That’s unsustainable.”

OR

“Hi, I’m Bobby. Would you like to be distracted by my butt-chin or my chest hair?”

Overheard At The State Fair

  • Mickey stole the hammer from the Test of Strength game and is chasing families up and down the Midway.
  • Well, who told you to drop acid? You knew there were gonna be clowns here. It’s a high-probability clown zone, man. I put that in the morning newsletter.
  • No, Bobby: you won the giant teddy bear, so you have to carry it.
  • Keith and Mrs. Donna Jean were on the bumper cars and they started ramming into one another and Keith spun out and somehow drove through a Farmer’s Market.
  • It’s a game, John Perry Barlow. You shoot the water gun into the clown’s mouth, balloon blows up, first to pop wins. Why would you pull out your revolver?
  • “You saw everybody else shooting?” John Perry Barlow, go sit in the van until I come get you.
  • Billy was kicked by a horse? Really?
  • Oh, Billy kicked a horse. Much more likely.
  • I don’t think we can jam with them. They’re being dicks. Aso, they’re animatronic bears, but it doesn’t excuse the bad vibes.
  • Bobby, what do you mean your giant teddy bear disappeared? It didn’t get up and walk away.
  • Oh, it did? That means Brent is now wearing it and looking for–well, “victims” is probably the most precise word, but he’s a friend…
  • You dosed the carnies? I dosed the carnies. Wow, how many…shit, this is actually no joke. Carnies are only human in a legal sense. We should get in the van and go before this place turns into blood salad.
  • No, I don’t specifically know what “blood salad” means, but you wouldn’t order it, wouldja? I wouldn’t even go to a joint that served blood salad.
  • The guy who guesses people’s weight just guessed Garcia’s weight and Parish broke his nose.

And a TotD bonus: Things Bobby Ate At The Fair!

Hot dog, corn dog, cheese dog, lost dog, Nate Dogg, cotton candy, wool candy, lifesaver he found in pocket of jean shorts, astronaut ice cream, cosmonaut borscht, giant turkey leg, deep-fried candy bar, deep-fried hamburger, deep-fried deep fryer (they dip the whole thing in,) fried dough, fried ray, fried me, Italian ice, French fries, Swedish Surprise (the surprise is that it’s Finnish,) every variety of chimichanga (there are only two varieties,) unidentified pills given to him by fans, Cheeto pie, Frito pie, Jared Leto pie, a whole watermelon at once by unhinging his jaw and swallowing the thing, Phil’s dust (there was a footrace at one point.)

The Things Weir Carried

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.

  • Garcia’s wallet.
  • Garcia’s car keys.
  • Garcia’s trousers. (One time in Michigan.)
  • The blueprints to Front Street detailing the building’s security weaknesses. (Stolen by Bothan spies, many of whom were killed by Billy and/or the road crew.)
  • A hardcover copy of Finnegan’s Wake for Phil, who swears that he’ll actually read it this tour.
  • Mickey’s hockey bag full of raccoons. He always needed it in the middle of the night, plus: they’re raccoons. They can get out of a hockey bag in seconds and then they coordinate their attacks. They would invariably break out and head straight for Garcia’s room (Garcia and Bobby always had adjoining rooms in case they wanted to gossip) while Garcia nodded off on a smoldering bed, steal the remnants of his chicken parm sub, put out the fire (raccoons are nature’s first responders,) and scurry into the night.
  • And then Mickey would burst into the room and be all, “Garcia, what did you do with my raccoons?” as if he were somehow complicit in this, like he planned it, and it wasn’t entirely Mickey’s fault for stuffing a hockey bag full of raccoons and leaving it in a hotel room. Everything that happens as a result of that is on you, Mickey.
  • The key to Brent’s chastity belt, which he wanted Bobby to unlock “only when I been good, ‘kay, Bobby? Judge me harshly and dole out your sweet rewards and your just punishment.” Bobby took the key, backed out the room slowly, lost the key, called a locksmith, went to the hospital.
  • Billy’s briefcase containing $10,000 in Kruegerands, a forged passport, and a fake mustache. (“They’ll be looking for a guy with my mustache, but I’ll have this mustache!”) Billy called it “the football” and tried handcuffing it to Bobby a number of times, but Bobby’s quick and could easily dodge the attempts.
  • Everybody’s gum. (Bobby was actually an awful bagman w/r/t gum. Bobby’ll chew your gum right up.)
  • Two or three extra livers for Phil, plus an extra kidney for Mickey, who was both in perfect health, and hesitant to explain his need for the organ.
  • Phil made Bobby hold Ned Lagin for him one tour, but Bobby put his foot down after three or four shows. “There are some things I simply won’t cross state lines with,” and then Phil corrected Bobby’s grammar and then Bobby accused Phil of being a Prescriptivist and then Billy, who had been eating ribs and not bothering anyone, called both of them Bolsheviks, and everyone was yelling at everybody, and once again: Ned Lagin ruins everything.

Friend Of A Friend Of The Devil

bobby jerry bill graham jpb 76

“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.

Woman Enough

bobby boots phil mic

Is it tough, Mrs. Donna Jean? Being a woman in the boy’s club?

“Oh, darling, you make do. Do what y’can. It’s all a big boy’s club–the music biz–not just this here Dead. They all treat me like a little sister, cept for Keith, who treats me like his wife, and Bobby, who treats me like a woman.”

Umm…

“Like last time we all was in Omaha. Crew had them a groupie cockfight: they’d tape razor spars to the girls’ hands and fight ’em. Usually they had to jack the ladies up on Meth and Tequila, but this night they found two girls who was natural mean. One of ’em was missing an ear, and it had happened recently…”

I don’t understand where you’re going with this.

“So them girls get to rassling and Lady Van Gogh got haunches like a teen kangaroo, she could kick a hole through a mountain and SCLERODERMA! she cracked the other girl’s sternum. Now, I was mortified! The sight of it all! But did I leave? No. Avert my eyes? Bless your heart if y’think so.”

And what does this–

“I did leave the room shortly thereafter, as the fracas had aroused in a sexual fashion Billy’s loins. It was just better to not be around when that happened, sugar.

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