“Oh, hey, are we back at Woodstock?”
Stop it, Bobby.
“A lot of people don’t know this, but I spent most of that weekend with my best friend, Jimi Hendrix.”
That is not true. The Dead camped in a motel miles away and held the promoter up for more cash, then played terribly.
“I snuck off. Me and Jimi had a blast. Talked about the old days, engaged in free love, got disco fries.”
They had disco fries at Woodstock?
“No, but we had a helicopter.”
“Much different vibe than the West Coast.”
“Longitude was off.”
Bobby, I need you stop fibbing. You didn’t hang out with Hendrix at Woodstock.
“Oh, yeah. Jammed with him a bit onstage.”
“I was, uh, the black guy playing congas.”
“Wailed on those suckers, man.”
Bobby, knock it off.
Okay? Just like that?
“This is the last of these pictures that Spencer sent. Bit’s over.”
“It wasn’t great.”
No, but now I have to think up something new. I hate that.
“Preaching to the fire, and into the frying pan.”
You understand me.