Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

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Green, Green Grass Of Home (If Your Home Is Boulder, CO)

Hi, Bobby.

“Certainly am.”

What are you doing?

“Breathing through my nose.”

I’ll bet. Looks fragrant in there.

“It’s like the monkey house at the zoo, but in a good way.”

Wait, I don’t see any Stealies at all in there. How do you have a growroom without a Stealie somewhere around?

“Lilian Monster’s slapping stickers on everything she sees as we speak.”

Oh, thank God. I was worried.

“And she’s yelling at the owner about keeping the plants in cages.”

She thinks they should be free-range?

“Something like that. I’m not listening, to be honest.”

Sure. They gonna hook you up with a little discount?

“Well, you know, not to pull rank or anything, but I’ve been getting a real good discount on pot since 1966.”

Lotta perks come with your job.

“It’s almost all perks.”

Bring The Boys Back Home

“None of these boys know how to properly fight a Rando War.”

Dammit.

“Coach Wooden taught me everything I know about Rando Wars.”

Which is what?

“Number one: try not to touch the randos.”

Good rule.

“Number two: watch your wallet; some randos are actually pickpockets in disguise.”

Smart.

“And I’m especially susceptible to pickpockets. My eyes are 22 feet away from my pockets.”

You’re Comey-sized.

“Number three: hands up on defense.”

Bill Walton, I have a question.

“Shoot.”

Was there a situation for which Coach Wooden didn’t say to put your hands up on defense?

“Driving.”

Okay.

“Hands at ten at two. Coach was a stickler. Sometimes, he would hide in the backseats of our cars to make sure we were doing it right. Used to scare the bejeezus out of me.”

“Can anyone get in on Rando War?”

Who is that?

No, Andy Cohen from Bravo, you cannot be a part of Rando War.

“But, I have a rando.”

You’re not a Grateful Dead.

“Neither is Walton.”

Walton has two championship rings.

“I have tons of rings.”

Andy, you’re out. Not happening. I let you in Rando War, and every loose screw and nutjob out there is gonna want in.

“Bullshit. I want in. And when Andy Cohen wants something, just watch what happens.”

I see what you did there.

“I’m quick on my feet.”

“I have a rando! Are we doing Rando War?”

Okay, first of all, Amir Bar-Lev: you cannot participate in Rando War. Second: that is not a rando. That’s Greg Gumbel.

“This is anti-Semitism.”

How!? Andy Cohen’s not allowed in, either!

“And homophobia.”

You stop accusing me of things, dammit.

“I’ll make you a deal.”

This is not a negotiation.

“12-hour long Director’s Cut.”

Don’t you lie to me, Amir Bar-Lev.

“Three hours is the Englishtown show.”

There is no Director’s Cut. There’s just wackadoos and speculists making shit up on the internet.

“If you say so.”

“The Senator from Minnesota rises to enter Rando War.”

Oh, no.

Again: not a rando. That’s a Senator.

“How many Senators could you pick out of a lineup?”

I could pick Elizabeth Warren out, Al.

“Senator Franken.”

Your lapels are too narrow.

“I want in Rando War, and I’m prepared to shut down the government or do my Mick Jagger impression until it happens.”

I truly hate this bit.

“It’s not as bad as the one with the Burning Man girls and then the picture of the weird guy.”

True. That one’s dreadful.

“Wanna talk Althea?’

No.

James Comey’s Opening Remarks, Translated

Thank you for inviting me to appear before you today. I was asked to testify today to describe for you my interactions with President-Elect and President Trump on subjects that I understand are of interest to you. I have not included every detail from my conversations with the President, but, to the best of my recollection, I have tried to include information that may be relevant to the Committee.

Y’all bitches strapped in? This is gonna get weird.

The IC leadership thought it important, for a variety of reasons, to alert the incoming President to the existence of this material, even though it was salacious and unverified.

TAP TAP

Testing, testing. This mic working? Check for sibilance. Sibilance.

TAP TAP

Ahem.

Pee-pee parties.

The Director of National Intelligence asked that I personally do this portion of the briefing because I was staying in my position and because the material implicated the FBI’s counter-intelligence responsibilities.

As everyone saw yesterday, Director of National Intelligence Daniel Coats is a giant pussy, and he didn’t want to tell Trump that we all knew about the pee-pee parties. Seriously: giant pussy, and smells like milk.

We also agreed I would do it alone to minimize potential embarrassment to the President-Elect.

Every one of my former colleagues can suck on my hairy nuts for making me do that, by the way.

It is important to understand that FBI counter-intelligence investigations are different than the more-commonly known criminal investigative work. The Bureau’s goal in a counter-intelligence investigation is to understand the technical and human methods that hostile foreign powers are using to influence the United States or to steal our secrets. The FBI uses that understanding to disrupt those efforts. Sometimes disruption takes the form of alerting a person who is targeted for recruitment or influence by the foreign power. Sometimes it involves hardening a computer system that is being attacked. Sometimes it involves “turning” the recruited person into a double-agent, or publicly calling out the behavior with sanctions or expulsions of embassy-based intelligence officers. On occasion, criminal prosecution is used to disrupt intelligence activities.

As you are in the United States Congress, I’m going to assume at least half of you couldn’t spell “dog” if you had your assistant do it for you, and I will spell out the basics of my job in simple and direct sentences containing the smallest words possible. My hand to God: I thought about making visual aids for you cretins.

In that context, prior to the January 6 meeting, I discussed with the FBI’s leadership team whether I should be prepared to assure President-Elect Trump that we were not investigating him personally. That was true; we did not have an open counter-intelligence case on him.

Did you hear that? Sean Hannity just got a hard-on. Regardless of how precisely I worded this to indicate that at the time there was no personal case, this will be the only thing that all of the worst people on Twitter hear.

I felt compelled to document my first conversation with the President-Elect in a memo. To ensure accuracy, I began to type it on a laptop in an FBI vehicle outside Trump Tower the moment I walked out of the meeting. Creating written records immediately after one-on-one conversations with Mr. Trump was my practice from that point forward. This had not been my practice in the past. I spoke alone with President Obama twice in person (and never on the phone) — once in 2015 to discuss law enforcement policy issues and a second time, briefly, for him to say goodbye in late 2016. In neither of those circumstances did I memorialize the discussions. I can recall nine one-on-one conversations with President Trump in four months — three in person and six on the phone.

Shit’s fucked up, yo. Normalizing has become weaponized.

The President and I had dinner on Friday, January 27 at 6:30 pm in the Green Room at the White House. He had called me at lunchtime that day and invited me to dinner that night, saying he was going to invite my whole family, but decided to have just me this time, with the whole family coming the next time. It was unclear from the conversation who else would be at the dinner, although I assumed there would be others.

I didn’t need to include the thing about my family, but I chose to because of how odd it was.

It turned out to be just the two of us, seated at a small oval table in the center of the Green Room. Two Navy stewards waited on us, only entering the room to serve food and drinks.

Not to pat myself on the back, but I painted a fucking word picture there. I’m killing this shit.

I replied that I loved my work and intended to stay and serve out my ten-year term as Director. And then, because the set-up made me uneasy, I added that I was not “reliable” in the way politicians use that word, but he could always count on me to tell him the truth. I added that I was not on anybody’s side politically and could not be counted on in the traditional political sense, a stance I said was in his best interest as the President.

It was halfway through the sentence in which I explained basic civics to the man entrusted with the nuclear codes when the floor became a mouth, spittle-filled and lashing tongue and made of teeth so many teeth there was a roar I do not think came from me but I did not know where I ended and the mouth began there were teeth so many teeth.

A few moments later, the President said, “I need loyalty, I expect loyalty.” I didn’t move, speak, or change my facial expression in any way during the awkward silence that followed.

Much like a Tyrannosaur, the president’s vision works off movement. After ten seconds of stillness, the president no longer sensed me. He went back to his food, concentrating on his peas, which he pushed with his fingers onto his fork.

We simply looked at each other in silence.

Have you read Sartre? It was like that.

The conversation then moved on, but he returned to the subject near the end of our dinner.

Things the president talked about: his election victory, and how it was the greatest in American history; various successes; celebrities he wanted to have sex with; the snazziness of the Navy stewards’ uniforms; golf; one of his children. He also offered to take me on a White House tour four times.

At one point, the president asked me if he was allowed to order the CIA to assassinate Alec Baldwin. I initially assumed this ridiculous request to be a joke, but the president pushed the issue until I was forced to not move, speak, or change my facial expression in any way. He became confused and then changed the subject to how poorly Mika Brzezinski was aging.

At one point, I explained why it was so important that the FBI and the Department of Justice be independent of the White House. I said it was a paradox: Throughout history, some Presidents have decided that because “problems” come from Justice, they should try to hold the Department close. But blurring those boundaries ultimately makes the problems worse by undermining public trust in the institutions and their work.

Then I had to explain what a paradox was. Swear to fucking Christ.

Near the end of our dinner, the President returned to the subject of my job, saying he was very glad I wanted to stay, adding that he had heard great things about me from Jim Mattis, Jeff Sessions, and many others. He then said, “I need loyalty.” I replied, “You will always get honesty from me.” He paused and then said, “That’s what I want, honest loyalty.” I paused, and then said, “You will get that from me.” As I wrote in the memo I created immediately after the dinner, it is possible we understood the phrase “honest loyalty” differently, but I decided it wouldn’t be productive to push it further. The term — honest loyalty — had helped end a very awkward conversation and my explanations had made clear what he should expect.

Senators, I sincerely believe that I could have said any word instead of “honest” and the president would have just jammed it in front of “loyalty” and repeated it.

“I need loyalty.”

You will always get serendipity from me.

“That’s what I want, serendipitous loyalty.”

During the dinner, the President returned to the salacious material I had briefed him about on January 6, and, as he had done previously, expressed his disgust for the allegations and strongly denied them. He said he was considering ordering me to investigate the alleged incident to prove it didn’t happen.

The Commander-in-Chief of the greatest military force in the history of mankind doesn’t know you can’t prove a negative. He had a little bit of gravy on his lip, and he asked me to prove a negative.

I studied the faces of the Navy stewards to make sure neither of them was Allen Funt.

The President signaled the end of the briefing by thanking the group and telling them all that he wanted to speak to me alone. I stayed in my chair. As the participants started to leave the Oval Office, the Attorney General lingered by my chair, but the President thanked him and said he wanted to speak only with me. The last person to leave was Jared Kushner, who also stood by my chair and exchanged pleasantries with me. The President then excused him, saying he wanted to speak with me.

I felt like the pretty blonde who makes it to the end of horror movies. Also, Jared Kushner has breath like a dung beetle.

When the door by the grandfather clock closed, and we were alone, the President began by saying, “I want to talk about Mike Flynn.” Flynn had resigned the previous day.

That’s some fucking writing. You hear that, Rubio, you thirsty little shit? Got my eyes on you, Rubio. Crush you with my giant hands, fucker.

He added that he had other concerns about Flynn, which he did not then specify.

WHAT ELSE IS THERE? Besides the fucking treason, I mean. This might have been the most shocked I was during this whole escapade, but because I am a professional, I did not move, speak, or change my facial expression in any way.

The President then made a long series of comments about the problem with leaks of classified information — a concern I shared and still share. After he had spoken for a few minutes about leaks, Reince Priebus leaned in through the door by the grandfather clock and I could see a group of people waiting behind him. The President waved at him to close the door, saying he would be done shortly. The door closed.

You see how I’m using the clock to reference the theme of time running out? And how I always mention that it’s a grandfather clock so that you’ll think of the sound it makes? Tick-tock, motherfuckers.

I took the opportunity to implore the Attorney General to prevent any future direct communication between the President and me. I told the AG that what had just happened — him being asked to leave while the FBI Director, who reports to the AG, remained behind — was inappropriate and should never happen. He did not reply.

He actually did reply: ten minutes on why the Puerto Rican race was inferior to the Cuban race, but both were superior to–and I am quoting–“the Illegal race.”

On the morning of March 30, the President called me at the FBI. He described the Russia investigation as “a cloud” that was impairing his ability to act on behalf of the country. He said he had nothing to do with Russia, had not been involved with hookers in Russia, and had always assumed he was being recorded when in Russia.

I’m sure he’s telling the truth about the hookers. Sure, literally every time he denies something, it turns out to be true, but I’ll trust him on this one. No hookers.

Then the President asked why there had been a congressional hearing about Russia the previous week — at which I had, as the Department of Justice directed, confirmed the investigation into possible coordination between Russia and the Trump campaign. I explained the demands from the leadership of both parties in Congress for more information, and that Senator Grassley had even held up the confirmation of the Deputy Attorney General until we briefed him in detail on the investigation.

If you’re counting, this is the third time I’ve had to explain how the government works to the president.

He said he would do that and added, “Because I have been very loyal to you, very loyal; we had that thing you know.” I did not reply or ask him what he meant by “that thing.”

Even though it was a phone call, I did not move, speak, or change my facial expression in any way.

That was the last time I spoke with President Trump.

Thank you, good night, allahu akbar.

Bill Love

Billy, are you guys playing in an asbestos museum?

“No such luck. Salt Lake City.”

Yeesh.

“Gotta bring your own hooch. And skank! Went to a whorehouse here once, and they give you tuggers behind a Zion curtain.”

Why?

“Elders think if you look at your own dick too much, you’ll turn sissy.”

That’s not how it works.

“I know, right? I love looking at my dick, and I’m straight as shit. Hell, it’s my phone’s wallpaper.”

Why?

“Cheers me up. I see it and think, ‘I’m gonna stick that somewhere soon,’ and I smile.”

Awesome.

“You can get skank here, but it’s got all different rules. You can have as much skank as you can satisfy. They call it plural skank.”

Polygamy, Billy. You’re describing polygamy.

“I’m describing one chick in an ankle-length dress working my shaft, and another one working my fire exit.”

Ew.

“Sister-skank.”

Double ew. How’s the tour going?

“All the checks have cleared so far.”

A success.

“Yup.”

Wait. You went to a whorehouse in Salt Lake City? What was it called?

“Brigham Tongue’s.”

I’ll have to stop by.

“Bring money and your dick.”

Good advice.

Twelve Normal New York City Conversations And One That Isn’t

  • Mets suck, huh?
  • We can’t make ends meet on half-a-million a year.
  • I liked him, but he lives in Staten Island.
  • Did you know that Mayor DiBlasio is precisely 1.78 Mayor La Guardias high?
  • I think that knock-off Elmo just stabbed a child.
  • What the fuck is that smell?
  • Didn’t that bank used to be a cobbler’s shop?
  • Didn’t that bank used to be a diner?
  • Didn’t that bank used to be a different bank?
  • I think the smell is urine, but from a very sick person or maybe a dying goat.
  • Wait, you don’t have pot delivered by models?
  • Ugh, the South Bronx is full of white people now.
  • I need you, the FBI director, to swear fealty to me, the President of the United States.

A Moment Of Panopticality In Little Aleppo

Evening was falling in Little Aleppo, tumbling down the stairs and picking up speed along the fade to black. The light was golden and warm: what fancy people call crepuscular, what photographers call the golden hour. The air was pacific and so still that a cloud above Mt. Fortitude had not moved for two hours; locals were starting to develop theories about it.

There were swans lying in moistened ambush. Fathers buy shampoo. Parallel parking occurs, and sometimes well. Werewolfs are getting itchy. Three men are dying in St. Agatha’s, one who did not expect it. You can still get breakfast because you can always get breakfast. Fast cars cannot show off on the Main Drag, and they rev in frustration. A kid puts a cherry bomb in a mailbox. The shops put on their lights in no particular order. Apartments, too, and then houses. It’s best to avoid the police. A tall woman thinks about Mardi Gras. Teenagers pretend not to be frightened of adults, and vice versa. The first star of the night comes out. It’s white against purple, and it’s not a star. The first star is a planet. The first thing night tells you is a lie.

On Briar Street, a man named Galloway Unh prays for his mother to get better; on Vallejo Avenue, a woman named Myra Bettis prays for her mother to drop dead.

The pigeons watch everything, but don’t give a shit unless it involves food, and the clumsy. Some men have axes, and people get out of their way. Windows glow blue from the teevee, and married couples sit on stoops drinking tallboys of Arrow in paper bags. An old man known as Captain Halifax goes to the corner to buy an evening paper, but he’s twenty years too late. No one believes the sign on the bench that says “Wet Paint.” An eight-year-old boy has run away from home, and made it as far as the Victory Diner, where they fed him mac and cheese and called his parents. The news is on, and you won’t believe what this hero dog did.

The athletic teenagers are still at practice, and the rest of the kids are smoking dope, or joining bands, or homework. Muslims call other Muslims to prayer. Old habits are picked up again. The Salt Wharf has a greater variety of knots than anywhere in the world: rolling hitches, and cleat bows, and double-turned eights. Frye Fingers, a retired court bailiff, is dead in his apartment on Hilo Street and will not be discovered for five days. A duck is in the wrong place.

The tide was on a 17-day cycle, and the rains were on an 18-day cycle. When they met every 306 days, the neighborhood would celebrate.

The Town Fathers limp to their luxury cars in the parking lot of Town Hall, and people yell at them. People think they have the right to yell at the Town Fathers just because they have the right to yell at the Town Fathers. Luxury cars are soundproof. Sleeping children in rented strollers are wheeled out of Harper Zoo. Buskers are used to give directions: turn right at Accordion Jim.

Jayme Daguerre used to work at the Arrow brewery, but the forklift turned left when she thought it was going to turn right. Spine got pinched. Nerves got fucked. Insurance ran out. She’s got a room in the Hotel Synod now. Currently, there is pain. Soon there will be none. Her hands will stop shaking, and soon there will be none.

People are deciding whether to get ice cream, people are deciding whether to get drinks. At Harper College, there is a seminar on the Semiotics of Semaphore, and the grad students are eying each other up. Somewhere, there is anal sex. Deep fryers have been boiling for hours and hours. Fewer dance lessons are given than last year. The dearly departed are laid to rest on the Upside, and bodies get buried on the Downside, and babies are born whole and perfect. There is a permanent temporary autonomous zone in a loft; the half-naked are dancing to disco.

There is a building made of printing presses. The Cenotaph comes from there. Men have jammed crowbars in the machinery’s innards. Bomb threats have been called in, and real bombs planted silently. Protests outside. Very sarcastic letters. There have been hostage situations. The whole damn neighborhood is a hostage situation. Quiet now. Tomorrow’s newspaper doesn’t exist yet, but the machines have been greased and primed, and there will be news even if nothing happens.

Oenophiles discuss terroir; winos pool their change.

The 31 bus ran through up the Main Drag; it had not been attacked in a long time, and the driver was becoming suspicious. The firefighters switched to their evening hoses. The marquee on the movie theater didn’t tell the whole picture. The new shit was coming in Thursday. Squirrels squirreled.

On Gower Avenue, there are magazines. A man, a dog, a larger man. But mostly magazines. Papers, too, but they lined the sidewalk. Magazines received pride of place. Verticality is key for sales. Gower Avenue is glossy for a hundred yards. The show biz magazines have tits and abs and teeth and teeth. Sports magazines have uniforms and bikinis. News magazines have drawings that are dramatic, or piquant. Magazines dedicated to sewing mostly feature sweaters. Dailies, weeklies, monthlies, the irregular.

At the far end, far away from Omar and Angus and Sally Moon, there are various pornographies. Genitals against a white background, and tongues where tongues should not be. Big fat tits and veiny cocks. There are multiple insertions. The women cannot close their mouths, and the men sneer. Complicated underwear and taut hamstrings. The women have implausible names, and the men have ludicrous ones. Specific magazines that display fighting, or feeding, or feet. Men assaulting each other’s juicy assholes, and women fucking in their heels. They were not happy in their sex, but impressive. Proud hard-ons, and pussies adored. Teenagers would sidle up, and Omar would yell. They would skeedaddle, because teenagers are just as scared of adults as adults are of teenagers. The big tits would stay, along with the fat cocks and also the sewing magazines.

Evening was falling. It does that. You throw everything into your day, and evening comes around just as scheduled and there’s nothing you can do but give in and grab a drink and put a dollar on the Mother Mary. There was no news from the south, and life was up in the air as always in Little Aleppo, which is a neighborhood in America.

The Grateful Dead Broadway Musical: Scene 2

LIVING ROOM – 710 ASHBURY

(GARCIA, BOBBY, BILLY (played by Alec Baldwin for two weeks until he called the director a homo, and now played by Carol Channing), and PIGPEN (played by the chandelier from Phantom of the Opera) are present.

The mood is downcast. Garcia fiddles with a guitar. Billy does jazz hands.)

SONG: WHAT’S IN A NAME?

(Phil, played by Tommy Tune, bursts in the door holding a vinyl record.)

PHIL
Whatever you doing, guys, put it aside
My news just might blow off your socks!
I was down at the record shop–

PIG
Binky’s?

PHIL
That’s right
And guys, we’re not the only Warlocks!

(Phil shows them the record cover. There is falling about and gnashing of teeth.)

GARCIA
How can they do this?

BILLY
I think it’s a plot!

BOBBY
We are the Warlocks
They’re certainly not!

BILLY
I say we slice ’em up, dice ’em up fine
Rip off their flesh and then coat them in brine
And stick great big guns in their dirty assholes
Then feed their families to muskrats and moles
Set fire to everything they’ve ever loved
Their houses and hair and their first-baseman’s gloves
So all that they have now is covered in flame
And then maybe next time they won’t steal our name.

(The music stops and everyone stares at Billy.)

BILLY
Or we could just pick a new one, I guess.

(A spotlight illuminates Garcia.)

GARCIA
What’s in a name?
Who am I, Gertrude Stein?
What’s in a name?
It should sparkle and shine.

Something with a bit of mystery
Something from the depths of history
Something with some blood and also dirt

(The other four stand up and assemble into a barbershop quartet.)

BAND
Something that looks bitchin’ on a tee-ee-shirt!

GARCIA
The Mythical Ethical Icicle Tricycle!
That is a name that’s as good as they come!

PIG
It’s too tough to say.

BOBBY
And it’s too hard to spell.

BILLY
And I can’t fit it on my bass drum.

GARCIA
Let’s hear your ideas, then
I bet that they’re great.

BOBBY
How about Ratdog?

PHIL
I like Doctor Fate.

BILLY
I got it!

(Billy crosses to CENTER STAGE.)

BILLY
Let’s call ourselves Billy & The Billys!

(Billy tap dances for an uncomfortably long time.)

ALL
No!

(THE DEVIL DRESSED AS A DICTIONARY enters, played by Bea Arthur.)

THE DEVIL
So you need a name?
Well, that’s my game.
You can find fame
With a really boss name

Your lives won’t be the same
No, this isn’t a game
Boys, don’t be so lame
Come and find your new name

(The BEARS enter and dance with THE DEVIL, who is played by Bea Arthur.

A DICTIONARY BATHED IN A GOLDEN SHAFT OF LIGHT descends from the ceiling. The band gathers around it.)

ALL
The Grateful DEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAD!

(BLACK OUT.)

Summer’s Here And The Time Is Right For…

“Rando War.”

GodDAMMIT, no. C’mon, Bobby. Don’t do this.

“Listen, man: Grateful Deads are cyclical beasts. We’re like cicadas.”

You’re pronouncing that wrong.

“No, Garcia pronounced it wrong. I say it right.”

Bobby, please don’t start another Rando War.

“Don’t think of it like that.”

How should I think of it?

“Like the last Rando War never ended.”

Eisenhower warned us about the Rando-Industrial Complex.

“Lot of jobs depend on this happening. It’s realpolitik.”

Randpolitik.

“Both. My advice, you know, is to start profiteering immediately.”

I’ve heard worse advice.

“I’ve given worse advice.”

“Rando War?”

Don’t you have a Shipoopi number to write?

“Musicals write themselves.”

They don’t.

“My rando is taller than Bobby’s. Point: Chimenti.”

Is that how this works?

“Maybe.”

“But my rando has a giant hat!”

Aw, come on.

“Look at this fucker’s big hat!”

It’s a sizable chapeau.

“Game on, motherfucker.”

RANDO WAR IS NOT A GAME, JOSH MEYERS!

“You didn’t need to yell.”

It’s D-Day. You have some respect on D-Day.

“Sorry.”

Yes, you are.

The Grateful Dead Broadway Musical: Scene One

ACT ONE

(Tie-dyed curtain rises to reveal BOB WEIR, played by Ben Vereen in his Pippin costume. He wanders across the stage with a guitar slung on his back.

The set is a SAN FRANCISCO STREET SCENE. The house from 710 Ashbury is STAGE LEFT. Magoo’s is STAGE CENTER. Dana Morgan’s music shop is STAGE RIGHT.)

SONG – WHEN BOBBY MET GARCIA.

BOBBY
Kickin’ around
This foggy old town
The streetcars, they don’t know my name.

I’d rather be ropin’
And punchin’ and pokin’
And back at my home on the range.

(As he is walking by Dana Morgan’s, he stops. There is BANJO MUSIC coming from behind the door. He knocks, and JERRY GARCIA, played by Patti Lupone, answers. He looks at Bobby, then up and down the street.)

GARCIA
Well, hey, how are you, buddy?
All my students are real late.

BOBBY
Well, hey, I don’t think they’re coming.

GARCIA
Why not, man?

BOBBY
Check the date!

(A spotlight illuminates the 1964 calendar in the window of Dana Morgan’s. All the days are X’ed out up until December 31st.)

GARCIA
My evening’s opened up
My name’s Jerry; how’d you do?

BOBBY
I do pretty darn well
The name’s Bobby Double-U.
You can see I’ve got my gee-tar
And I’ve got a joint as well

GARCIA
Then come in, friend, and tune up
And we’ll give these steel strings hell.

BOTH
And we’ll jam jam jam jam jam.
Yes, we’ll jam jam jam jam jaaaaaaaam!

(A GREEK CHORUS made up of DANCING BEARS enters and begins NOODLE DANCING.)

Possible Titles For The Dead’s New Broadway Musical*

  • Lady with a Phantom of the Opera.
  • Cats (Under The Stars).
  • The Philtasticks.
  • How to Succeed in Show Business Without Really Trying and While Killing Multiple Keyboardists.
  • The Best Little Whorehouse in Marin County.
  • Olompali!
  • The Producers (starring Lenny Hart and Ron Rakow).
  • Bring in da Nitrous, Bring in da Funk.
  • Kinky Birkenstocks.
  • Guys And China Dolls.
  • Hello, Bobby!
  • God Damn, do I Declare Yankees.
  • Bird Song Trilogy.
  • And so I Wrestle with the Angels in America.
  • Stinson Beach Memoirs.
  • Phantom of the Operator.
  • Fiddler on a Tin Roof.

*I don’t know why this is happening, either, but I think it’s safe to declare that we’re well past Peak Dead.

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