“Thought I forgot about the pooping, huh?”
Are you searching people?
“Yup.”
…
For poop?
“Don’t question me, jackass.”
Okay. Are you sad about–
“My bocce courts? Yes. They’ve been pooped on.”
…
I’ll talk to you later.
“Whatever.”
Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To
Tag: terrapin crossroads (Page 8 of 11)
“Reddy Kilowatt to Bradley Cooper. Come in, Bradley Cooper. Over.”
…
“Reddy Kilowatt here. Come in, Bradley Cooper. Over.”
…
“Where the hell–”
“Phil, I don’t want to be Bradley Cooper. It’s a dumb code name.”
“It’s my restaurant, they’re my bocce courts people are pooping on, so I get to pick the code names.”
“What does it even mean?”
“He was in that sniper movie. He sniped. Good sniping.”
“Phil, I’m not sniping anyone.”
“You don’t have to. Just spot.”
…
“Phil, did you hire a sniper?”
“No.”
“Let me rephrase that. Is there a busboy with a rifle in one of these trees?”
“Yes.”
“Dammit, Phil.”
“It’s special bocce sand! I won’t have it pooped in! This is a classy establishment!”
“I’m calling Jill.”
“Don’t bother. She washed her hands of this long ago.”
“Smart lady.”
“She’s a sharp one.”
“Phil, this is Officer Mahoney. Come in, Phil.”
“Use your code name.”
“No.”
“Use my code name.”
“No.”
“Okay, that’s settled. What’s the sitrep?”
“Bocce courts are poop-free. Like, a million other crimes are taking place right in front of me, but no one’s engaged in public defecation.”
“Those aren’t public courts, Mahoney. They belong to me.”
“You know what I meant.”
“Are you trying to entrap me, Pig?”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“But you are! You’re a narc of a pig of a pig of a narc! But it’s okay: we are joined in battle today. Just like in the classic M, when the cops and criminals teamed up to face a horror beyond all of them! Except instead of children get murdered, it’s my bocce courts getting pooped on. Same principle, though.”
…
“Yeah. Mr. Lesh, I’m gonna switch off my walkie-talkie.”
“Over and out.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
CELL PHONE NOISE
“Hello?”
“Philbert J. Lesh, you get–”
“Honey…”
“–out of that boat–”
“Jill…”
“–right now before I get a chainsaw and bring you down the quick way.”
“But I can see everything from up here! It’s the perfect vantage point to watch for him.”
“Him?”
“The Pooper.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Phil. Someone got wasted and took a dump. Let it go.”
…
“Whose side are you on, woman?”
“I’m calling the fire department.”
The crowd had arrived by Uber, or in Teslas. The grills had been smoking for hours and the smell of Terrapin Sliders ($8, vegan alternative available) filled the air. To the left were white people in comfortable shoes, and to the right were whiter people in more comfortable shoes. Doobies were passed, strains discussed, pocket vapes compared. It was a Sunday in Marin County and clouds had been outlawed by Governor Brown.
But in the small office in the belfry of Terrapin Crossroads, all was not well. Phil slumped in his chair and stared at the wall of video monitors; they were the only light in the room. A busboy stands behind him. There may or may not be multiple jars of urine.
“It stops here, you hear me? I win. Phil wins! This is a classy establishment and there won’t be any pooping on the bocce courts.”
“Phil, don’t you think you should say hi to people now?”
“Say hi? To them? One of them did it! Filthmonsters, all of them! Besides, if I go down there, I can’t watch the cameras. Hey! What’s that?”
“There! Right there! Do you see that?”
“What? Where? There’s nothing there.”
“My balls, there’s nothing wrong. Enhance!”
“WE GOT A CODE BROWN!
“Phil, that’s a leaf.”
“Tell Jill to grab the shotgun and meet me in the bar!”
“It’s a leaf.”
…
“It’s a leaf?”
“It’s a leaf, Phil.”
“Then tell one of the busboys to get a rake.”
“Sure.”
“Wait, something’s not right. I see something happening by the stage.”
“The stage is nowhere near the bocce courts.”
“Maybe that’s where they plan the pooping. Who knows with these sickos? Nah, I can’t see it on here. We need more cameras. I’m using Plan B. Come in, Eyes of the World. Come in, Eyes of the World. This is Reddy Kilowatt of the Grateful Dead. Over.”
“Eyes of the World here. Over.”
“I need you over by the stage. Over”
“What am I looking for? Over.”
“There’s something going down over there. Over.”
“Where over there? Over.”
“Over there! They’re over there! Over.”
“Where? Over.”
…
“Brent, if you’re going to be a pain in the ass, I’ll just throw a busboy in the outfit.”
“Aw.”
“Just admit it, Weir.”
“I don’t even know what a bocce court looks like, man. Describe it.”
“With or without the poop?”
“Wasn’t me.”
“You poop to mark your territory.”
“Just in Josh Meyer’s car.”
“Well, that wasn’t your fault. If you put a toilet in your car–”
“–You just have to expect a Grateful Dead to poop in it.”
“I think Clive Davis put that in the Arista deal: unfettered access to mobile shitters.”
“Shrewd dealmaker.”
“Fess up, Weir. You poop on the bocce courts?”
“Maybe it was a dog.”
“Lab says it’s human.”
“Lab? You got science involved in this?”
“It’s war, Weir.”
“That sounded funny.”
“This aggression will not stand. You invest your time and money into building a nice place–not some joint, a classy establishment–and the headaches never end and the busboys keep dying, but you work at it and it’s a success. And then some dickhead poops on your bocce court.”
“So, um: you’re going on the offensive?”
“Restaurant’s on total lockdown. Motion-activated thermal imaging cameras. Those laser beams like in the movies. Put a bunch of busboys in the trees with binoculars and nets. Got a sniper on the roof of the Trader Joe’s on the other side of the canal.”
“Maybe you could just get a dog?”
“Already got some. Did you know pit bulls could climb trees?”
“No.”
“They ate several busboys.”
“Wow.”
“You fuckers think I’m kidding about the bocce courts. Those things were expensive as hell: you gotta get special sand. Two or three busboys got buried alive. I won’t have people pooping on them. We rented a real nice bathroom trailer–that was also expensive as hell–or you could just hang your ass over the canal. Hell, that’s what the busboys do.
“The bocce court pooping stops now. We had a turd analyzed for DNA, and now we’re going to swab everyone in the room’s cheeks.”
- This is going to be short.
- I would assume it’s Italian.
- The basic framework of the game is universal: player stands at a line; the target is over there; you throw something or bowl something or slide something for points.
- Bowling, curling, petanque, shuffleboard, skeeball, darts.
- There are more, but I am truly committed to the philosophy of Without research on this one.
- The topic deserves it.
- In bocce, you throw a ball down a long sand pit.
- One would assume that there are points awarded depending on the accuracy of your toss.
- When Daryl Hannah came out of the water nude in Splash, the Statue of Liberty tour guide said, “Bocce balls!” and that was fun.
- In Star Wars, Uncle Owen asks Threepio if he can speak Bocce, but he was almost certainly not referring to the game.
- Someone has been murdered due to a bocce game.
- That’s not really a statement about bocce as much as it is about humanity: someone has been murdered due to every game.
- At least one person has died because of a Monopoly game, maybe more.
- Bocce is played on courts.
- Phil now owns three of them.
- He would like you to stop pooping on them.
Bonus Thought:
- My spellcheck does not recognize the word “bocce” and that is racist.
While TotD enoys pointing out foolishness, successes must be duly noted; the backyard at TXR looks great, and people who have been there have enjoyed it. There have been no kaiju attacks, and the busboys have stopped jousting using fallen palm fronds. (Those things are way heavier than they look, and sharp. Do not joust with palm fronds.)
Sunday is Phil’s big Backyard Bash, and if you go to his site, you read about it: there’s a note about what to expect and what not to bring, and that note was written by Phil himself. The version that appears on the site wasn’t his first draft, though; only TotD can bring you that:
Dear Backyard Bashers, Terrapin Nation, Deadheads, and assorted other Bernie Sanders supporters,
Hi, it’s Phil Lesh of the Grateful Dead. How are you? I’m fine.
The first of what will hopefully be many Backyard Bashes is here, and we wanted to give you a heads up of what to expect on Sunday. Also, having had several events in our new backyard recently, we wanted to discuss some behavior. I’m just going to get this off my chest: whoever’s been pooping on the bocce court is going to jail. It’s not funny. Those bocce courts are for everyone. There are now security cameras at the bocce courts, and they are heat-sensitive: this stops here.
The TXR family would also like our friends to remember the potency of day drinking. It is a scientific fact that a drink taken at two in the afternoon is worth 1.5 nighttime drinks. Please pace yourself. I understand that it’s a pipe dream to have no Deadheads fall into the canal, but there should be far fewer than two weeks ago. It was a poor showing on everyone’s part.
Now, on to this Sunday’s Backyard Bash: you shouldn’t bring your car. There will not be enough room in our parking lot, so you should take an Uber or a Lyft. (There are also taxis and mass transit, but let’s be honest: you’re going to take an Uber or a Lyft.) You may also take your unicycle, bicycle, or tricycle, but we do ask that you not come riding up on one of those quadcycle ATV things, as it’s just not the vibe we’re going for.
The following items will NOT be allowed in the Backyard Bash:
- Blankets.
- Chairs.
- Sofas.
- Drones.
- Refugees.
- Â A man-sized pile of fresh beaver pelts.
- Professional cameras.
- Semi-professional cameras.
- Cameras that never quite made it and now teach.
- Wombats.
- Kangaroos.
- Let’s just make it a rule that there are to be no marsupials of any kind at the Backyard Bash.
- Children under sixteen who are not named Baby Levon. And even if your baby happens to also be named Baby Levon, you cannot bring that baby; we all know I refer to a specific Baby Levon.
- Weapons of any kind. Perhaps you’re saying, “Phil, what if I am Jackie Chan and can turn anything within reach into a weapon? Or what if I am Bruce Lee and am myself a living weapon?” I would tell you to stop being a jackass; no weapons.
- Battering rams are considered weapons.
- Pocketful of sand may or may not be considered a weapon: if you intend to throw it in someone’s face, then it is a weapon and you cannot bring it; if keeping a tiny beach in your pants helps you in social situations, then by all means bring your pocket sand.
The whole Terrapin Crossroads family looks forward to seeing you at the Backyard Bash, and I’m not kidding in the slightest about the pooping. I will find out who you are.
Your Phriend,
Phil Lesh
Enthusiasts, I need your help.
Phil, who no longer counts Heineken as his friend, is playing tonight at Terrapin Crossroads with Jackie Greene. You can purchase the high-quality SBD feed right here, or you could listen to the free AUD stream courtesy of Radio Busterdog. Feel free to hop on Couch Tour, or–as we’re calling it this weekend–Couchella.
Here is the conundrum, though: FoTotD and author of the brilliant Paradise Now (available in the sidebar) Chris Jennings needs a ticket to tonight’s show and, need I remind you, he is the man who invited me to Chicago and miracle’d the living fuck out of me, so let’s pull together and make this happen.
E-mail me at thoughtsonthedead@gmail.com or leave a note in the Comment Section.
We can do this.
The special tonight over at Terrapin Crossroads is 1986, and they do offer gluten-free and vegan options.
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