It’s a safe bet that anyone who has met Bobby Weir probably has a pretty good story to tell for the rest of their lives. Not me. Mine is so stupid, it’s embarrassing. I had no idea who he was …
I’d been in the Haight for a few years, long enough to at least be aware of the Grateful Dead, and you couldn’t ignore the legions of tie-dyed Deadheads hanging around especially at the corner of Ashbury, but I wasn’t yet on-the bus, as they say. I had certainly heard of Jerry Garcia, and probably could’ve picked him out of a police line-up, but I wouldn’t have been able to identify Bobby or Phil in a million years.
By 1981, I was working at The Other Cafe, a little comedy club at the corner of Cole and Parnassus. I had managed to finagle my way in as a manager, and part of my job was to run shows. It was a blast because I was putting comedians on our little stage that included Dana Carvey, Richard Lewis, and Paula Poundstone. It was where I met Robin Williams, who adopted us, even helping out by paying our rent. We became his favorite club in which to drop in from time to time, and he was already globally famous. So, over time, I got to know him pretty well because, whenever he’d show up, it was my job to shuffle the lineup and put him onstage. And more often than not, when he did come in he was with a friend. Some famous, some not.
One night I was in our little office making up envelopes of cash to pay that night’s comics, while the headliner was still onstage and there was a tapping on the door. It was Robin. And he had a friend in tow. Maybe as a joke, he introduced the guy to me as “Huey Lewis” — and I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. I really believed he was Huey Lewis.
And, even as the three of us smoked a joint of primo Thai marijuana outside, I kept calling him Huey, making an utter fool of myself. Not only did Bobby respond to it, but worse, no one ever bothered to correct me! It wasn’t until later after they left when our Deadhead kitchen staff filled me in that my embarrassment began to creep in, my face turned beet red, and I felt like an absolute idiot.
So, yeah, I “met” Bob Weir, but I didn’t meet him. Not exactly …
