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.*)
*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.