Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
In this photo, we see Mickey and Phil doing their version of the classic comedy routine “Dave’s not here,” except Phil always lets “Dave” in the door after the first knock and offers him some coffee and a cookie. It’s not funny, but it really speaks to Phil’s hospitality.
Also, I’ve figured out why Mickey wears those sweatbands all the time: stigmata.
If you are a grown person in a costume and it is not Halloween, no matter how much bullshit you tell him about “cosplay,” Bobby will make this face at you.
Admittedly, most of Bobby’s thoughts on time in general were of the “How are clocks even a thing? You get me?” variety, but at a young age, he got a burr up his ass about Daylight Saving Time; each year, the number of questions he asked about the weird national habit of arbitrarily re-aligning itelf temporally increased and became more pointed.
TotD has eliminated the volumes of What If’s Bobby engaged in featuring the International Date Line to bring you a sampling.
“The government can just, like, tell us what time it is? No one else notices how weird that is? Just ol’ Bobby?
“Why don’t they change the date and time each year? You know: remember, Tuesday afternoon at 2:42, fall back an hour. I think that would keep people on their toes. Probably cause an airplane accident or two, also, but what can you do?
“And, see: Arizona and Illinois or Indiana–one of those corn and white people states–don’t even do the Daylight Saving Time thing. It’s voluntary? You can opt out of it being a certain time?
“Was this concept intended to make sense?
“Seriously: what the fuck with this bullshit?
“Why must our lives be held hostage to the schedules of centuries-dead farmers?
“Why don’t we set the calendar back a week while we’re at it? Howzabout we declare it’s August 12th, 1821? It’s all about giving us an extra hour: why not give us an extra 150 years?”
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 are three Grateful Deads in this picture. (There is one more Grateful Dead concealed behind a Phish: Billy, whose head you can barely see cresting over Mike Gordon’s head and whose hand you cannot see grabbing onto Nancy Pelosi’s ass.)
Mickey, as always, is prepared for a drum circle to break out at any moment. Later on, he will tell the Senator that he picked out the patriotic sweatband in her honor. Enthusiasts will recognize this as a blatant lie, as Mickey has been wearing that thing since, like, 1970.
Bruce, also as always, looks like a Founding Father. The man is so white he gets the Sunday Edition of the New York Times every day. Bruce is also not that tall: he is standing on a busboy named Carl. Luckily for all involved, getting stood upon by keyboardists is Carl’s fetish; everybody wins.
Bobby’s shitfaced.
“Guys, I know we brought the giant stage, but why don’t we stand right on top of one another?”
“Good idea. Except for Keith, right?”
“Oh, of course.”
The times, they are a changin’ #411: this is now a felony. Leaving a child this close to not just one, but four Grateful Deads is completely illegal now. It might be some sort of super-felony, shit they only charge Manuel Noriega or Lex Luthor with.
“So is it still mousse? You kids still all about the mousse? I bought a can once, but got confused and put it on my hot chocolate.”
“Oh, no, Bobby: mousse is out. All about the leave-in conditioner product. Put in on in the shower, pat dry with a towel, style as desired.”
“Wow, wow. The future, huh?”
“It’s here, yeah.”
“But, hey, man: I don’t have to tell you that having the best hair in the band is a hassle. But it’s worth it and we owe it to the fans and, really: we owe it to our hair.”
“I hear ya.”
“And it must be tougher for you than for me: if I was having an iffy hair night, I still had my pretty, pretty face to pull me through. You’re not a ‘face’ guy, y’know?”
…
“I always love our talks, Bob.”
They sang American songs: they were an American band.
Bobby stood proudly in front of Old Glory and sang about the American Night and the railroads criss-crossing her untamed prairies, and then the flag caught a breeze and loosed itself, wrapping Bobby up like a patriotic ghost, but there were no eyeholes so Bobby got scared and panicked and ran into the crowd blindly. Several fans were bowled over and Bobby skinned his knee.
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