Did you go back? I thought you hated Phish.
“That’s an affirmative. Painful music to listen to, just the worst.”
So why are you back?
“The chicken sandwiches.”
I keep hearing about them.
“It’s a feast for all your senses, me son. Open the wrapper, the steam wafts towards your snoot. There’s a pickle hidden within. This adds a spritely tartness to the proceedings. Glorious sandwich, simply marvelous.”
I’m sure you can find something similar in New York City. You didn’t have to pay for another ticket.
“Oh no no, I didn’t pay. Made a call. An’ I went backstage. You need to understand: the music was so piss-poor that I needed to look in the eyes of the men what made it.”
You really didn’t enjoy Phish.
“So the little goblin in the sarong comes up to me. With those arms ‘e’s got. Alabaster and limpid. I mean, do a pushup. Starts in talking about Debbie Washerwoman-Shultz, whoever in God’s name she is. I don’t bother the Septics about our bloody politics, I don’t know why they feel the need to burden me with theirs.”
I assume you extricated yourself from the situation with aplomb.
“I dosed ‘im and propped open an outside door so some Hells Angels could steal their equipment.”
Or like that.
“The ‘ospitality was non-existent. None whatsoever. I say to the poof with the lip gloss–”
Mike Gordon is not a “poof” and we don’t use that word anymore.
“–I say, Oy, mate. Where’s the nitrous room? He tells me there ain’t one. What kind of generation is this?”
No idea how to answer that.
“Do you know not one member of that so-called rock band is dead? Not one. I don’t know what happened to the world.”