Thoughts On The Dead

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

Two Old Friends Shooting The Breeze

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“Thanks for coming, Bob.”

“Hey, you know: couldn’t miss this. Hell of a day.”

“Sure is.”

“Who’d have thought Grahame would coach the Lakers?”

“No, Bob.”

“I didn’t even know he was involved with the sport.”

“Walton’s kid. Walton’s kid is gonna coach the Lakers.”

“Ah.”

“Luke.”

“That makes much more sense. What’s Grahame doing?”

“Hanging around the house, playing guitar.”

“Sounds like mine. Heard you got a new place.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Few posts back.”

“Right. Oh, hey: Brent’s here.”

“Should he be?”

“He’s disguised.”

“Ah.”

“You see what’s going on behind you?”

“Weir, I saw her before you got here. I saw her before you got up this morning. ‘Do I see what’s going on behind me?’ C’mon, man.”

“I used to have shorts like that.”

“You did.”

“You just like drinking out of green bottles, don’t you?”

“A little bit, yeah. How you liking the Apple Watch?”

“It’s a thing. Nifty little gadget. It monitors stuff.”

“Do you have any idea how it works, Bob?”

“Well, it hasn’t fallen off my wrist, so I got that part down pat.”

“Here: press the button.”

“This button?”

APPLE NOISE

“No, Bob. You just sent me a picture of your dick.”

“Oh, that’s not mine.”

“Whose is it?”

“That’s–

“Billy’s dick.”

“–Billy’s dick, yeah.”

“I understand that he sends you pictures of his cock, but why do you have them saved on your watch?”

“If you don’t save them, he gets insulted and threatens to cancel the tour again.”

“I keep telling you, Weir: put some more money into Sweetwater. Turn it into your place like I did here. If you show up two or three nights a week, the Deadheads show up seven nights a week. Stay home.”

“Lesh, God love ya: that sounds like a living hell.”

“Okay.”

“I go on tour, man. Maybe I’ll stop one day, but not now. Figure if I’m going to be doing shows anyway, might as well play the biggest rooms and get the biggest check. This requires, you know: putting up with the drummers. So be it.”

“Sounds fair.”

“Besides: you go and buy a place, take the time to make it nice–you know, a classy establishment–and somebody’s just gonna poop on your bocce courts. If you stay in a hotel, you don’t have to worry about your bocce courts because you don’t have any. You don’t miss the road?”

“Fuck, no. I miss being a kid, and when I was a kid I was always on the road, but: no, I do not miss traveling and strange beds and soundchecks in freezing hockey arenas. It was fun when we were 25, and a job after that, and out of the question now.”

“You don’t miss rocking Cleveland?”

“Nope. Truly, truly, truly do not. Or riding in vans. You know what I don’t miss and never liked in the first place? That cold some jackass would bring along on tour that everyone would pass around from nose to nose. I wanna be home.”

“You go to Vegas.”

“I own a home in Vegas. What part of ‘I sleep in my own bed’ are you not getting, Weir?”

“All right, all right.”

“Plus, I wouldn’t have busboys on the road. I don’t know if I could live without them at this point. Another reason for you to reconsider the restaurant: they’re invaluable.”

“They just clean the tables and bring water, don’t they?”

“Fuck, no: they do everything. It’s like if the road crew were expendable.”

“Where do you get them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

4 Comments

  1. …what’s Phil drinking there?

  2. When did Bobber start playing a late 70s solid Jerry body?

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