“Fuck San Francisco. Fuck San Francisco right in its ass. Actually: don’t. Don’t fuck San Francisco in the ass cuz that’s what makes it happy and those fucks should have no happiness. Y’know what the city seal of San Francisco is? A taxpayer-subsidized crust-punk shitting in Mark Zuckerberg’s mouth. Whole city of nothing but techies, homos, junkies, hippies, and Mexicans.”
“My fucking base, you little pustule-sucking fuckprick. But I don’t care, fuck ’em in their ears: I gotta have the Dead’s last shows. It’s gotta be at Soldier Field. I don’t give six shits the Dead are from the Bay: Chicago’s the place.
“Where else they gonna go? New York? New York sucks its father’s cock for pocket-money and praise. Sometimes in a still moment, I picture pushing New York down the stairs. Not regular stairs: the stairs in the Eiffel Tower. I would follow New York down, lang by landing, nudging it every time it came to rest and begged for me to show it mercy. I would not show New York mercy, though: just my dick. Then, more stair-pushing.”
What about LA? Doesn’t your brother, Ari, live there? Big-shot agent?
“If you mention either of my brothers again in my presence, I cannot guarantee your safety.”
Okay. Don’t hurt me.