Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: sweetwater cafe

Lord, Jack Was Born A Ramblin’ Man

bobby-ramblin-jack

Hey, Ramblin’ Jack. Whatcha doing?

“Same thing I been doing for 65 years.”

Singing cowboy tunes?

“Yup.”

85 years old.

“Yup.”

Lemme ask you something: this the worst you’ve seen the world?

“Ever read a history book, son?”

Yes.

“So, you wanna retract that question, or just leave it sit as a monument to stupidity?”

I see your point.

“Everything’s better now than it used to be. Easier. Maybe too easy, but that’s another conversation.”

Except the air and the water.

“You know rivers used to burst into flames for no reason, right?”

Uh-huh.

“Now they don’t.”

Guess we can thank Nixon for that one.

“Smaller that guy gets in the rearview, the better he looks.”

Well said, Ramblin’ Jack.

“Ain’t gonna be no revolution, kid. The dumb folks are too lazy and the smart folks are otherwise occupied.”

“SHHH!”

Excuse me?

“Ahh, that ain’t me.”

“SHHH!”

Bobby Tee-Shirt, stop shushing people.

“SHHH!”

FUCK YOU, SHIRT!

“SHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

FUCK YOUUUUUUUU, SHIRT!

“Bob?”

“Yeah, Ramblin’ Jack?”

“Your shirts often come to life and get into arguments with offscreen narrators?”

“Quite a bit, yeah. Are you familiar with the concept of semi-fictionality?”

So It Looks From Space

bobby-scott-kelley-sweetwater

“Are you sure I can’t get you a Pabst Blue Ribbon, Cobra Commander?”

“Commander Kelly, Bob. And please call me Scott.”

“They’re delicious, and all the youngsters seem to guzzle ’em like water.”

“I’m not much of a drinker, Bob.”

“Doobie?”

“No, thanks.”

“Dab?”

“No.”

“Little tootski?”

“Bob, I’m an astronaut: I don’t want any tootski.”

“Just being polite. So lemme ask you: it’s the International Space Station, right?”

“Sure, the I in ISS, right.”

“So, uh, does that mean it’s like international waters, and anything goes up there? Could you gamble?”

“Not that kind of ‘international,’ Bob.”

“So you couldn’t murder anyone and get away with it?”

“No.”

“How many astronauts are up there at a time?”

“Three or four, usually.”

“And how many roadies does each astronaut have?”

“None. An astronaut is his own roadie, Bob.”

“Huh. Not for me, then.”

“I’ll let NASA know.”

Mexican, Restaurant

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Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Sammy time!”

You two have fun together.

“You bet. Hagar’s good people. He thinks I should open up more restaurants.”

More Sweetwaters?

“Nah. Wants to call them Bobbo Wabo.”

I dunno about that one.

“Yeah, I passed. Sam’s the business guy. I bought Sweetwater because it’s got a bar and a stage and it’s ten minutes from my house.”

Sure.

“There might be nothing I’d less rather do than actively own a restaurant. Dunno how Phil copes with it.”

He’s got the busboys to help him.

“Ah. Sure. Thought there was gonna be more about the busboys. Kinda got dropped as a storyline.”

Well, John and Katy are doing such interesting things.

“Yeah, that’s a whole other thing they got going on, Vegas and Elvis and all that.”

You want any part of it?

“Fuck, no.”

Just checking.

Throw It Down, Big Gans

david gans bill walton

FoTotD David Gans, whose book This Is All A Dream We Dreamed is available at Amazon, and Bill Walton, whose book is also available at Amazon, had themselves a good old-fashioned Dead shirt-off this morning. Out of respect for Bill Walton’s achievements, I will declare this a draw (even though I am a complete sucker for the flying eyeball).

David Gans also interviewed Bill Walton for KPFA; it’ll air on Wednesday next Wednesday, June 29th, at 8pm Pacific and I have inside information: Bill Walton is gregarious, digressive, and enthusiastic. Hope I didn’t spoil it for you.

What if you can’t wait for a Coach Wooden story? Well, you’re in luck:

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The big man’s at Bobby’s place tonight, the Sweetwater, talking about stuff and marveling at things. Also, as you can see by the title “An Evening With Bill Walton,” the New Riders will be opening and there will be an acoustic set. If you’re in the area, go over and ask him dopey questions.

Meet Me Out In The Streets

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CELL PHONE NOISE

CELL PHONE NOISE

“Weir here.”

“What the fuck, Bob?”

“Oh, hey, Phil. How’s tricks? Caught that guy pooping on the bocce courts?”

“That storyline went nowhere. Bob: move all that shit back inside right now.”

“It’s nice out. And, you know: Sunday.”

“Right! Sunday, outside: that’s my thing. I own being outside on Sundays in Marin County.”

“It’s just a couple tables, Lesh.”

“Did you just call me ‘Lesh?'”

“Yeah, it didn’t sound right while I was saying it.”

“No, not right.”

“Your name is tough to say after a couple drinks.”

“Tell me about it. Back to the topic, Bob: I see what you’re doing.”

“Just a couple tables.”

“Bar?”

“Not a full one. Just beer and wine and hard liquor.”

“Band?”

“Acoustic only.”

“Guy in a turtle suit wandering around?”

“Well, Brent’s coming by, so I would assume so, but we didn’t hire a guy or anything.”

“Goddammit, Weir.”

“What?”

“You’re stealing my thunder, and you’re gonna get my lightning.”

“Are you singing that song now, too?”

“Move it inside or we’re fighting.”

“Aren’t you fighting with enough Grateful Deads at the moment?”

“One more won’t matter. Move it in.”

“Like, physically?”

“Of course, physically. How else would you move things back into a restaurant?”

“No, no: the fighting. Are we, like, brawling?”

“What?”

“Court in the streets? Mano a mano?”

“Probably not.”

“Although, when white guys fight, it’s mayo a mayo.”

“Well done, Bob.”

“Ah, I can’t lie: Oteil told me that.”

“Funny guy.”

“Don’t get him started on honkies.”

“Why would you think we were going to fistfight?”

“Well, we used to.”

“Forty years ago, Weir. And we never hit each other, I don’t think.”

“You and me? No, no. Don’t think. Billy hit me.”

“Tried to slam your head into a curb, if I recall.”

“And Billy hit you.”

“Choked. Billy choked me in mid-conversation.”

“And Billy hit Mickey a lot.”

“He always deserved it.”

“Christ, who didn’t Billy hit?”

“You know who.”

“Ah, right.”

“Last warning, Weir: let this be the extent of it. Do not build outdoors. Outdoors is my territory.”

“Phil, this is some tables and some food and some alcohol at a 700% markup. Nothing permanent.”

“Good.”

“People have some fun, listen to some music, I read some stories to the children, and then they go home.”

“We’re fighting.”

PHONE SLAMMING NOISE, EVEN THOUGH PHONES CAN NO LONGER BE SLAMMED

“Aw.”

Billy & Bobby & The Kids

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Billy’s new bar band, which is composed of utter ringers and kicks ass, played at Sweetwater last night and Bobby showed up. Surprisingly, they played some Dead songs.

Billy also used the house phone to make several party reservations at Terrapin Crossroads, and Phil called Bobby and yelled at him this morning.

Here’s an excellent-sounding video of China>Rider that features prominently in the foreground the rock-and-rollest of accessories, the iPad hooked to the mic stand.

There’s another show tonight, and if any of the Haight Street Irregulars are in attendance with a giving heart and a few backup phone batteries, then send the stream this way.

A Tale Of Two Restaurants

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No one knew how the rivalry started. Terrapin Crossroads and the Sweetwater Cafe had existed in harmony for years; the patio renovation pushed Bobby over the edge.

“We need a wave pool,” Bobby said.

So the Sweetwater busboys built a wave pool, and fewer of them drowned then was budgeted for, so it was a good day.

“Wave pool, eh? Fuckers,” Phil said. The man-made lake was dug within days, and then the bottom was dredged to form an artificial island in the shape of a Stealie in the middle of the lake. There’s probably a more efficient way to do that, but Phil is not an engineer.

“Is that his game?” thought Bobby, as he priced a zipline leading from the top of Mount Tamalpais to the women’s bathroom of Sweetwater. The bathroom thing was not Bobby’s idea, but–like Phil–he is not an engineer. If the guy in the hardhat says that the zipline finished up in the ladies room, then that’s how it goes.

“Bastard thinks he’s clever,” Phil muttered as the motorcycle Wheel of Death was installed, and then filled with busboys on Supercubs. (None of them even knew how to turn the choke to get the things started, which is good because all of them would have died. Phil would still not let them out of the Wheel of Death until it was time for the dinner service.)

“Skate park!”

“Log flume!”

“It’s New Year’s every night!”

“Wicker man!”

“Mechanical bull at every table!”

“Illegal casino in the back!”

“Two-for-one tuggers.”

This went on; the authorities became involved.

 

Eyebrow, Ewebrow, Ouibrow

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Aw, now you got other people doing it.

“I didn’t pressure him. Saw something great and wanted to be a part of it.”

Yeah, but it’s your move. That’s Bobby’s Picture Pose #2.

“What’s number one again?”

Stern visage.

“Where I stare at the camera like I’m angry, but I’ve forgotten what I was angry about, and I’m also angry about forgetting?”

Bingo.

“That’s a fun pose. Lot of subtle variations to that one. All in the eyebrows. Much like the hula is told through the hands, most of my posing is done with my brows. People concentrate on the mustache, but they don’t realize how much the eyebrows are adding.”

You’ve thought about this.

“Yeah, I’m bored as hell.”

Tour’s coming soon.

“Not soon enough.”

How long have you known Benicio del Toro?

“Who now?”

Don’t worry about it.

In Which Bob Weir Pokes Sammy Hagar

img_3467“I’m gonna poke ya, Sam.”

“I don’t wanna play the poking game. Stop that.”

“Poke.”

“Quit it.”

“Poke.”

“Quit it.”

“Poke.”

“Bobby, what’s with your boy?”

“The narrator guy?”

“Yeah. He’s weirder than usual. I don’t know if I want to party with this guy.”

“But, Sam: you party with everyone.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Anyway, it’s Anarchy Wednesday or something like that.”

“Hell does that mean?”

“No clue. Just repeating what I was told.”

“And Bob? Don’t listen to that guy. Make a reality show. I made one.”

“Yeah, I was on it.”

“That was fun!”

“And Mickey, too.”

“We had to edit Mickey out.”

“He’ll be hurt.”

“Well, he should have worn pants. I told him!”

“You know he can’t hear you.”

“I wrote it down!”

“Oh, then: yeah. He should have put on some pants in that case.”

“He should get his own reality show if he wants to walk around with his cowbell and tom-toms dangling.”

“Please don’t give him any ideas.”

“How about a reality show for the Dead & Company tour? My production company could do it.”

“Please don’t give me any ideas.”

“What about–”

“Please don’t give Josh Meyers any ideas. Kid’s itching for another TV show.”

“You hearing things?”

“My Bobby-sense is tingling.”

“That’s never good.”

“I been a Grateful Dead for half-a-century now: I know when one of ’em’s getting squirrely.

“Poke.”

“Please, man!”

“You could poke me back, Sam.”

“I don’t want to!”

“Cuz the game feels awful lop-sided.”

“It is!”

Nipple In Sweetwater

phil nipples

Phil doesn’t drink anymore, but he still overdoes it with the dabs occasionally. The way you can tell is when he starts in on telling strangers where he wishes his nipples were.

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