Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?
“Being the Bobby.”
You are so completely fulfilling your role in the universe at this instance, yeah.
“Peak Bobby. I’d, uh, go so far as to say I’m getting right close in on Peak Rock Star.”
“Bill Graham used to call me that.”
You are so far away from Peak Rock Star. In every metric.
“What about my hair?”
In every metric but one.
“Discovered something the other day, and it’s made a serious difference, hair-wise: any conditioner is a leave-in conditioner if you get distracted.”
“Few hours after I got out of the shower, I looked spectacular.”
Your hair looks good.
“It’s found its own bliss. Y’know, I was thinking about starting an artisanal shampoo line, selling it on the internet.”
Why didn’t you?
“It’s 1973. None of that stuff exists yet.”
“So, uh, explain how I’m not at Peak Rock Star.”
What are your clothes made out of?
Disqualified right there. PRS status requires alternative fabrics.
Stop guessing. Leather, spandex, silk, satin, velvet, leather.
“You said ‘leather’ twice.”
You heard ‘leather’ twice.
“That’s true, I did. Good point.”
And where is Satan?
“I have my demons.”
No, no, no: Satan. PRS cannot be achieved without Satan being involved somehow.
“Clive Davis count?”
“Mickey when he’s drunk?”
Stop it. The Dead was one of the least Satanic bands in history. Half of your songs are about Jesus.
“We didn’t really mean to do that.”
Yeah, but you did. And there’s no pyro, and there’s no stage show, and none of you have any decent rock moves whatsover.
“What about the Lunge?”
I stand by my statement.
“Ah. Well, whatever then. We wear what we wear, we are who we are.”
“You think I would look good in those shorts?”
I think you would look memorable in those shorts.
“Something to think about.”