Thoughts On The Dead

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

Weir Everybody Knows Your Name



“Hello, this is Phil. Phil Lesh. Of the Grateful Dead.”

“Weir here.”

“Hey, Bob.”

“Took your advice.”

“You shaved?”

“No, the other advice.”

“You switched from dryer sheets to dryer balls?”

“I’ll just tell ya. The restaurant. You had a point, y’know, and I thought about it and decided to go for it.”

“Weir, that’s great. You gonna buy out the other investors, change the name?”

“Change the name? I bought the place for the name.”

“Bought? Wait. You already owned a piece of Sweetwater.”

“Oh, no. Not that joint.”

“Bob, what did you do?”

“Bought a bar on the Upper East Side.”


“Hold on, I’m sending you a picture.


“Get it?”

“That’s Billy’s dick, Bob.”



“And those are his balls.”

“I can get this to work.”



“The Weir.”

“That’s my name!”

“You’ll save on the sign.”

“Right, right. And, you know: I used to have a place in New York, me and Garcia.”

“Do you still have the apartment?”

“Sold it years ago.”

“So: where are you going to live while you’re running this dive bar?”

“Live? Figured I’d call in once or twice a day; pop in once a month. Bars mostly run themselves.”

“No, Bob. Bars don’t run themselves. Bars do the opposite of that. More work than you’d think humanly possible. And all kinds of work, too: heavy lifting, and math, and drunks, and taxes. Simply the biggest pain-in-the-ass business there is.”


“This was not what I advised, Bob. I said to do what I did, not buy a pub 3,000 miles away.”

“Well, it’s mine, now.”

“Where did you say it was?”

“Upper East Side.”

“Sell it to the Meyers kid.”

“Ah, yeah.”

1 Comment

  1. These signs in Buffalo always made me laugh….

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