donna jm bonnaroo dancing

“Well, ain’t you a tall mint julep! I’ll drink you on a hot Alabama afternoon.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Martin-Godchaux-McKay-Stamos. It’s so awesome to get to meet you.”

“You the Bobby now? Every band needs a Bobby.”

“Um, well, actually: I guess I’m the Garci–”

“AAHHHAAHHAAHHAAHHAAHAAHHAAAHA! No. No. No. Bless your pretty heart, no.

“That was just mean.”

“I apologize, sugar, but you can’t be walking around with that idea. You take that idea down to the bar on Saturday night, you ain’t makin’ it to church on Sunday morning. Oh, excuse me: maybe you go to Jewish church. Is ‘Meyers’ a Jewish name?”

“I have no idea what kind of name ‘Meyers’ is.”

“Heritage is important, pumpkin. Would you like some barbiturates?”

“I don’t think they make those anymore, ma’am.”

“I got a stash.”

“No, thank you.”

“More for Mama. How them drummers treating you?”

“They learned my name. Or, you know: close enough.”

“That’s good.”

“And they’ve both stopped whipping drumsticks at the back of my head.”

“Oh, that could be good or bad. They might like you, or they might have run out of drumsticks.”

“What happens when they run out of drumsticks to throw?”

“They throw drums.”