This was, according to Google, taken backstage at the Gifting Tent of the American Music Awards in 2014. For some reason, Bobby was at the American Music Awards in 2014. We have to assume that he is there on purpose, as he is accompanied by his wife, Natascha Monster. If it were just Bobby in the picture, we could safely assume that Bobby had heard a loud noise and gone in to investigate, but his wife’s presence–especially in those earrings–say that this was a planned night out in Los Angeles for the Weirs.
This brings us to the Gifting Tent: at parties and awards shows and premieres and charity functions where celebrities are needed to be all fancy together for the rest of us to gawk at, a Gifting Tent arises. It’s like Sukkot, but with the fall Givenchy line. Stars (or whomever can bullshit their way in) are given astounding amounts of high-end stuff: sought-after handbags and fine leather goods and spices from Asia and Asia Minor. You can have anything you want from the Gifting Tent, and it’s free.
As soon as the Talent takes a photo with the Product.
You’re a good husband.
Did the guy next to you make you talk about the shoes?
Billy wouldn’t stand for this behavior.
“Billy would’ve brought Benjy.”
I may or may not have checked Google for additional pictures of you at this shindig, and I’d like you to walk us through your evening.
What’s going on here?
“The lady with all the hair is telling me about the history of shoes.”
Has she noticed that you are wearing your formal sandals, and have paired them with your thickest, greyest hippie socks?
“Hasn’t mentioned it.”
Found the bar?
“Reasonable facsimile thereof.”
Complicated scarf on the rando.
“Oh, yeah: too much garment for me.”
So: why are you there?
“Wine and Asian rando.”
No, not there specifically. The American Music Awards.
“Oh, sure. Daughters, you know? All the teeny bopper bullshit they like is performing; get ’em some pictures.”
Not a fan of the music?
“Terrible stuff, man. Just nothing to it.”
Well, it’s for kids. Think of what you were listening to when you were your kids’ age.
“I was in the Grateful Dead at their age.”
You kinda were.
What’s all this?
“No idea. Polished off one of those bottles of free red, and then I decided that my shoulder hurt, so I am probably not the most reliable of narrators right now.”
This is inhuman.
“Well, it’s a bit silly, but I can get through it.”
No. Literally. This is not how humans behave.
“If you start to talk about this picture as ‘an inadvertent photo essay on the quality of performativeness,’ then I’m going to leave.”
“I am not being treated as a Grateful Dead should be treated. I hate Los Angeles and I hate the American Music Awards and I hate the Gifting Tent and I hate Thumbsy Caftan over here and I really fucking hate this lumberjackoff right here.”
You should snap his suspenders.
“This is my face.”
You look like you’re scanning the horizon in search of a whale. You have Resting Ahab Face.
“No, I don’t.”
You have a stern visage.
If you were in a bar and looked at a dude that way? He would fight you, Bobby.
“I don’t think so.”
That guy would fight you so fucking hard.
“Are we done?”
Did you realize you were endorsing Floyd Mayweather’s cologne?