From left to right, as is the custom:
- Billy is modelling the latest from the newest name in shirts to get drunk in the afternoon in, St. Pete’s. Apprenticing under legendary clothiers to the grizzled Sammy Miami and Tampa Ray, St. Pete promises the highest quality in shirts that tell the world “I don’t have fucks to give, but I almost surely have a knife.” Going to the races? Moving at midnight? Sitting in a folding chair in a public place randomly? St. Pete’s has what you need.
- Garcia’s pooping. Everyone who’s spent more than ten minutes with a baby knows this face: Garcia is making a boom-boom.
- “Hiiiii, Bobby.”
- Mickey’s arms look like he’s in a horror movie and this is the part where he reveals he’s actually a Pod Monster From Uranus by swiveling them around and then a giant spider eats its way out of his skull. Mickey is not, however, wearing a Grateful Dead shirt. Which is suspicious.
- “Christ, the bullshit I gotta deal with. Fuckin’ keyboardist telling me ‘I sing the high harmonies now, so it’s my turn to have you.’ Whatever the fuck that means. Is he still staring? Don’t look, Bob. Don’t–fuck, he is definitely still staring. Well, Bob: you wanted to half-ass the solo albums, so now you’re stuck with these mutants. Oh, good, guess who shit himself?”
- Once again, Phil tried to teach the band the pleasures of a good old-fashioned barbershop quartet session, and once again no one wanted to play except Brent, whose voice was just about the opposite of barbershop quartet, plus Billy insisted on “helping,” and damn near every barbershop quartet song is hideously racist.