Bob Weir: Grammy Attendee

Bobby?

“Hey.”

What are you doing at the Grammy Awards?

“I was gonna ask you.”

I have no idea, man.

“It’s, uh, some show. You know that fellow Bonobo?”

Bono.

“He’s done nine numbers. What, uh, part of America is he from with that accent?”

The part that’s Ireland.

“Huh. That’s a misplaced, but strenuous, patriotism he has, then.”

Well put.

“And what is this right here? Chubby Charlie.”

His name is James Cordon.

“I don’t care for his antics.”

Bobby, you sound like you’re in a mood.

“Well, you know: this really isn’t my scene.”

I know that. I totally know that. That’s why I began by asking you why you were there.

Ah.

“Eyes on me, mister.”

Yes, sir.

“Monet wanted to go to the Grammys, so I took her.”

And she wanted to go to the gifting suite, too?

“She and her mother–”

Natasha Monster.

“–were quite vociferous.”

So, you just stopped in on the way to the show?

“No. No, didn’t just stop in. Spent a while.”

Oh.

Narrate this picture for me, Bobby.

“I’m making sure there’s no bar. That’s what I’m saying to the fellow. ‘No bar? At all? Even a cash one?’ And he is informing me that there is not.”

That’s a shame.

“Verging on a crime. You should see this place. It’s like Samuel Delaney designed a mall.”

Ew.

“Agriculture and cities may have been a mistake.”

Maybe.

“I’m two seconds away from my shoulder hurting.”

“My shoulder hurts.”

I feel you. Do you still have Garcia’s stash on you?

“Natasha Monster wouldn’t let me wear my fanny pack.”

That harpy.

“I know, right? It was my formal fanny pack, too.”

Hey, you’re at the Grammys, right?

“Yup.”

Do you see Lil Pump?

“I don’t.”

Lil Yachty?

“We’re nowhere near the river.”

Lil Uzi Vert?

“Now you’re just making noises.”

Okay, just look for a tiny teenager with tattoos on his face and hair that looks like a neon tarantula is fucking his skull.

“Yeah, there’s like four of those.”

One of them will have something for your shoulder.

“Talk to you later.”

Stay frosty.