Press conferences were rough. Everyone had his own way of getting through the ordeal. Garcia would tell jokes, or not show up. Mickey would initiate drum circles and give lectures on the psychohistory of the tambourine.
Bobby and Phil were different. They both retreated from the squawking gawpers, into their unique heads.
Phil has become death, the destroyer of reporters. If he had a flamethrower, it would already have been emptied, and then thrown at the smoldering, but still alive, husks of men that lay before him. These peasants–these fools–who ask questions about music, man. How can you talk about music, man? And then put it in the paper, man? Phil would give every man in that room a Wet Willie with an icepick, if he could.
Bobby’s playing with a cup.
“My glasses are bigger than yours.”
“They’re just not, Phil.”
“In both surface area and volume: yes. I measured.”
“How’d you measure my glasses? They’ve been on my face.”
“And, anyway, my glasses are enormous and they’re sunglasses and I’m wearing them indoors, so I win.”
“None of that stuff matters!”
“Ah, go play with your cup.”