Godammit, you show your narrator some respect.
“No. You’re unreliable. What happened to my book, Deal: My Three Decades of Drumming, Dreams, and Drugs with the Grateful Dead? You said you were going to–”
Did you just do a plug?
“–be all about the book and there’s one little post, man. Shit, it took you 4,000 words to half-assedly turn me into a giant mech and my life story gets one post and then it’s back to Bobby Time?”
I like Bobby Time. It’s light-hearted and whimsical, whereas you are turning into Frank Reynolds from It’s Always Sunny.
“C’mon, man: gotta get with the team, move some product. I’m out here busting my ass signing these fuckers and answering questions and other stuff.”
Yeah, I’ve been hearing about the other stuff. You should knock it off.
“Book tours are fun, man. All the bullshit, none of the work. Plus: y’know how every bookstore has a chick with dreadlocks working there? I banged ’em. Each and every one of ’em. Then, I’d shoplift one of those Henry Porter books; got the whole set now. Fuckin’ magic, huh?”
“What are we gonna do about the book? Wanna do an interview?”
Is what we’re doing not an interview?
“Nah. We’re talking. You got the book in front of you?”
“Go to 348.”
“Can you believe that I wrote a book with a page 348?”
You didn’t. The Phish fan you adopted showed you pictures to jog your memory enough for 348 pages worth of stories, some of which actually happened.
“Same thing: I’m awesome. Anyway, tell the nice people what that page is about in the most straightforward way possible. No digressions or asides or outright lies.”
Personal issues and financial disagreements got in the way of the music in the post-Garcia era.
“Okay, now what does it really say?”
“Right. That’s the difference between an interview and just talking. If we were doing an interview, I wouldn’t even have brought that subject up, man! Or the dickpunching.”
But since we’re just talking?
“I love punching dick and Phil can eat it.”
“Oh, also: the Dead was heavily invested in the white slave trade for decades. Still, as a matter of fact.”
Oh, I totally forgot about the white slave trade thing.
“It’s been a while since anyone brought it up, yeah, but we sold us some honkies.”
Uh, sure. Speaking of purchasing people: what’s up with your new best friend?”
“Love that fucker. Good kid. That’s my boy right there. That’s my Boswell.”
Do not make that comparison.
“What’s your problem with him, anyway?”
Got no problem.
“Fuck off. What is it?”
I did not know you were adopting a Deadhead.
“Aw, you’re jealous.”
I can transcribe your rantings and fill in the years you don’t remember with stuff from McNally’s book! I can move into your house and be your new best friend! I can pretend to not mind when you use Jew as a verb!
“Well, he sent me a letter.”
I have written many open letters to you.
“Also, he’s not crazy.”
“Talk about my book.”