Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
“Bob, c’mon. We shouldn’t be fighting.”
“Huh. I wonder how an empty chair can sound so much like Hewis Lewis.”
“Huey isn’t short for Hewis, Bob.
“Oh, and now the chair is correcting me! Wow! What a smart, handsome. Hollywood-calling-back chair that must be!”
“SHUT! UP! GOYIM! I’m trying to hawk some merchandise here!”
“Sorry, Bill.”
“Sorry, Uncle Bobo.”
“What about school, man?
“I did pretty good in school, Jerry.”
“Shit.”
“What the hell is up with your boy?”
“Bobby thinks you’re big timing him.”
“I’m not trying to!”
“Y’gotta understand: a lot of Weir’s identity is wrapped up in being the best-looking guy in the room. And most of the time, the other people in the room are the Grateful Dead. Usually, he’s competing with Mickey.”
“That’s not really a competition.”
“You get my point, then.”
“Whaddya want me to do about it, get in the car and pull a Montgomery Clift?”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic. We just gotta find something he’s better at than you. How much money you got?”
“I’ve written, like, nine #1 hits in the past five years.”
“Huh. How tall are you?”
“Six foot.”
“Nope. Is the rumor about your cock true?”
“If anything, that rumor undersells both my length and girth.”
“Shit. Maybe you should just avoid Weir at the show.”
“I’ll give it a try.”
“Hey, Jer.”
“Yeah, Bob?”
“Given any thought to my idea?”
“Yeah. Lotta thought. And it’s a no. You can’t change your name to Bobby W.”
“Sheila does it.”
“Well, man, I hate to bring up bridges and jumping off them, but the situation does call for it.”
“I gotta do something here, Jer. Can I confide in you, Big Guy?”
“We’ve talked about that nickname and my feelings towards it.”
“It’s just that I’m used to being the good-looking one in the group.”
“Huey’s jawline and baby-blues making you anxious, man?”
“Well, yeah. I mean: he’s the Bobby of this photo. And that’s weird for me, cuz usually I’m the Bobby.”
“The man ain’t ugly.”
“And if we’re being completely honest: I’m also usually the best athlete in the group. Sure, that’s not tough cuz the group I’m referring to is the Grateful Dead, and I don’t have to tell you that our band is full of spazzes.”
“Not an athletically-inclined combo.”
“But here I am with Joe Montana. And it turns out that Huey used to play minor-league baseball. So, I’m third-best at best.”
“Well, hey, man: I’m fifth. Don’t be bitching about your troubles to me.”
“I’m not even the best guitarist here!”
…
“Weir?”
“What?”
“Look at me, buddy.”
“What?”
“You have the best hair here.”
…
“I’ve been using a new leave-in conditioner.”
“You can tell.”
“There’s a gloss that wasn’t previously evident.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Thanks, Big Guy.”
“Not gonna warn you again about that shit, man.”
I don’t mean to be a stickler, but that poster–if read literally–advertises a concert against not-AIDS.
WHY WAS HUEY LEWIS ADVOCATING AIDS?
With a seethingly angry “thank you” to longtime commentator and object of an elaborate and specific cowgirl-themed crush of mine, Rodeo Amy, for the title.
Dude, how could you not come up with that?
Shut up.
It’s right there. You went with Stuck with You and a Dylan cover! You suuuuuuuck.
Shut it.
The tight black jeans, the feathered semi-mullet, the Ray-Bans, the harmonica he can play as well as any white boy: is it wrong I want to be Huey Lewis when I grow up?
Rumor has it that Huey has one of the biggest somethings in rock and roll. (The something is his penis.)
So: apprently this was not a black-tie affair? Bobby just decided to air out the monkey suit? Becuase Johnny Saxamophone is wearing a Dead shirt, and that’s the opposite of a tux.
You can just make your own I Want a New Drug joke, if you please.
Also: Garcia’s knees.
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