John Perry Barlow, TotD is glad to report, posted this pic of himself with Bobby and a fellow named Lucas Autry Nelson, who may or may not be related to any of the famous people he shares names with. JPB reports that they are writing some new cowboy songs for Bobby to bother the drummers with.
Any tweet from John Perry Barlow brings a smile to my face because, if you add up all the minutes, he was dead for around an hour this year. Happily, it never took.
This picture was taken by Sean Lennon (Yoko’s son) and proves my long-held belief that all famous people know one another, and occasionally go out for pizza with one another.
For tonight’s performance, the part of John Perry Barlow will be played by Rip Torn.
Also, make no mistake about it: these four collectively believe some crazy bullshit about medicine. Not a moral judgement: just saying that if you want an afternoon of fun, sit these four down and ask them how to stay healthy. I give it five minutes before they’re waving sage at you, talking about the “wisdom of the elders.” One of them would offer you a lozenge and you should not take it. While the lozenge might be a lozenge, it’s not made out of what you or I might consider proper lozenge. The lozenge is not lozenge, is what I’m trying to say.
John Perry Barlow may also do that Chinese thing with the cups and your back and sucking up chi or toxins or some fooey. He does not know what he is doing and you will get badly burned.
Speaking of John Perry Barlow: is he talking like a pirate? Looks like it, right? Ranting about doubloons and sexually-aggressive parrots:
“Yarrrr, then he tried t’give me a wingjob, he did! Yarrr.”
And Mountain Girl has heard all this bullshit for sixty years and is just, “Yeah, Barlow: you’re a pirate, you’re a cowboy, you’re just ferocious.”
Plus, if you ever met Mountain Girl, what would be awesome would be if you said, “Hello, Mrs. Girl,” and she said, “My mother was Mrs. Girl: call me Mountain.”
That would be sweet as fuck.
…
Hey Mrs. Donna Jean.
“Hey, darling.”
You look happy.
“I am! With my friends, my old friends. They are both old and old friends.”
Are you in a basement?
“It is.”
Isn’t everyone in that quartet rich except you?
“Kind of you to point that out.”
I mean, you couldn’t pony up for a garage? The backyard?
“Party happens where a party happens.”
Mrs. Donna Jean, you’re a Christian, right?
“I try to be.”
Jesus forgives everyone?
“When you meet Him, you will be forgiven.”
What about this week?
“Try not to be an asshole.”
Amen.
“Hallelujah.”
Hey, handsome.
“I am rugged in a manly way, yes. Thank you for noticing.”
Nice to see you back in semi-civilized society.
“Best hospital in the world is still the worst place in the world to be.”
They’re like airport terminals, but without the alcohol, and there are 24-year-olds with brand-new stethoscopes trying to kill you.
“You know what they call the biggest dumbfuck to ever graduate from medical school?”
Doctor.
“Doctor, yeah. They’re just guessing like the rest of us.”
Well, I’m glad you made it through and you’re back on the street causing trouble.
“Me, too.”
Gonna be healthy enough to go to New York for the Garden shows?
“My year hasn’t been rough enough?”
Excellent point. What’s on the schedule for JPB?
“Hang out with the animals. Lots of things need shooting. Gonna bitch about the government. Crawl on top of Mrs. Perry Barlow.”
Back to basics.
“Don’t fix what ain’t broken.”
…
So, you were clinically dead?
“Eight minutes, yeah.”
What’s that like?
“Ever been to Sacramento?”
Oh, John Perry Barlow
Grew up in Wyoming,
with six-guns a-blazing,
and buffalo roaming.
He ropes all the cattle,
he branded a calf.
He once fucked a mountain,
and split it in half.
JOOOOOOOHN Perry BAARRRRRRlow.
Oh, John Perry Barlow
was drinking in town.
They’d set whiskey up,
and he’d knock whiskey down.
From the west of the valley
rode a dozen bad men.
Black Bart (who was white)
and his gang rode again!
JOOOOOOOOHN Perry BARRRRRRlow.
“Lay down your guns,
and give up your gold!
Then bring us some whiskey,
and boobies to hold!”
They kicked an old whore,
and punched the town drunk.
They were mean and low-down,
and Lord how they stunk.
JOOOOOOOOHN Perry BARRRRRRlow.
Oh, John Perry Barlow,
he drank back his glass,
then he stepped from the bar
and began to whomp ass.
He shot ol’ Black Bart,
and he shot Purple Larry.
and Burgundy Al,
and the new guy named Barry.
JOOOOOOOOHN Perry BARRRRRRlow.
The bullets stopped whizzing,
the blood stopped a-streaming.
Just one bad man was left:
he was runnin and screamin’.
“I’m a man of compassion!
I’ll let that one go!”
He had run out of bullets,
but who had to know?
JOOOOOOOOHN Perry BARRRRRRlow.
JOOOOOOOOHN Perry BARRRRRRlow.
Hey, John Perry Barlow. Nice to see you out of that place.
“Kicking ass, causing trouble.”
That’s what JPB does.
“Can’t stop now.”
No. John Perry Barlow?
“Yeah?”
Are you being kidnapped by a Details magazine fashion shoot?
“No.”
Is he in the Arcade Fire?
“Don’t think so.”
Is he Instagram-famous?
“I don’t know what that is.”
Did he fly in from Brooklyn just to push your wheelchair?
“Probably not.”
Does he love vinyl?
“Probably.”
Did he tell you about how he was really into fixed-gear wheelchairs?
“That’s not a thing.”
No.
Taking a break from all the silliness of the Farewell Shoes and President Obama forcing us to all become homosexuals today, this picture came over the wire today and TotD wants John Perry Barlow to know that: A, he looks better than Bobby; and B, his hand is all fucked up and gross.
HOW MANY DIRECTIONS ARE YOUR FINGERS POINTING, JOHN PERRY BARLOW?
A horse did that to you when you were fourteen, didn’t it, John Perry Barlow?
Anyway, the shows are tomorrow and the next day and it looks like you ain’t making it to Shakedown, but that’s okay. One of your grandkids will visit and show you how to work your iPad.
John Perry Barlow knows how computers work.
Yeah?
It’s the thing he did after the Dead.
Huh. Does Bobby know how computers work?
Oh, God, no.
Whatever. Listen to the band, John Perry Barlow, or don’t. Read. Sleep. Grab at a cute nurse. Write an Op-Ed. (You love doing that.)
Just get better, you weird cowboy.
…
Bobby?
“Yeah?”
How long you been there?
“Four hours.”
…
“You know I’m sharing a dressing room with Billy, right?”
I’d stay out of there, too. Good plan.
“Also, if the shoulder flares up and Poppa needs a handful of this or that, you know: here’s the place.”
…
Real big day tomorrow, buddy.
“Sure.”
I’m sure I speak for all true Enthusiasts when I send my best wishes to John Perry Barlow, who is well enough to get thrown out of the hospital for smuggling his pistols in, and then firing them off to make a point to his doctor.
“But, these are my recuperatin’ six-shooters,” John Perry Barlow explained, but he still had to go home.
He also, while in the hospital, acquired a scarf.
Walk it off, John Perry Barlow: you are a genuine American crazy person, and thus made of stern and leathery stuff.
Thoughts on the Dead 