Hey, Pete.
“‘The many crimes of…?’ What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I ask the questions that other Dead blogs are afraid to.
“Like ‘What if Bobby turned into a werewolf?'”
Weirwolf.
“I don’t have time for this. I really don’t have time for this right now.”
Nice bear.
“The photographer made me wear it.”
You’re a grown man; you could have passed on the bear.
“Maybe I like the fucking bears.”
Then just say it, Peter.
“Maybe your hatred of the bears says something sad about you.”
Oh, that’s not the thing that says something sad.
“Good point.”
So, I win the argument?
“Yes: you have proven your point that you are a fucking weird little weirdo fuck.”
I’ll take a win. EXPLAIN THE TICKET CONTROVERSY.
“You’re not going to yell at me, man.”
You’re right, sorry.
“We can be reasonable about this. Doobie?”
Ooh, sure. Doobie.
Kuh-SHWICK. Puffpuffpuff. PHOOOOOOOO.
Wow, that’s very nice.
“Are you kidding me: I am best friends with the Grateful Dead.”
Sure.
“Shapiro got dank, yo.”
You do, yeah.
“DANK.”
Well, now you have to stop yelling at me, man.
“That’s on me; you’re right.”
You’re awfully contentious.
“You don’t get to be a rock promoter if you get in less than fourteen arguments a phone call.”
They count?
“They should.”
Huh. Okay: the tickets.
“Before I address that, lemme ask you this: did you actually read all of the words in the articles about the ticket thing, or did you skim the headline and ask someone to explain it to you?”
…
I mean, did you think that people would see the photo of you in front of 85 Dead posters and the little shrine to Garcia and not know you were the Dead’s guy, so you grabbed the bear?
“I thought so. What else would you like to accuse me of?”
I accuse you of not doing everything just exactly perfect!
“Define that”
How I would have done it.
“Sure, sure. Can I go manage my mid-sized corporation now? This is our crazy time of year.”
Absolutely. Peter, thank you for your time. Hey now.
“Hey now.”
Just…just one more thing, Mr. Shapiro.
“Okay?”
We’ve seen the pictures of the stage and the stadium and the cases, but….
“Yeah?”
Well: where’s the band? No rehearsal photos? Not one? Two weeks and not one Deadhead takes a selfie with Bobby and Trey and Mickey getting Indian food down the street from TRI? Not one leak? No gossip? Nothing?
…
“The…um, Boys and Trey and everyone, they’ve…been on…you know: a blackout, a lockdown.”
Yeah?
“Yes, yeah. ‘Shush’ type of thing: builds anticipation.”
A blackout in 2015. You don’t say, Pete – is it okay if I call you Pete, Pete?
“What? Yes. I–Pete is fine–have no knowledge of any wrongdoings in the Grateful Dead organization whatsoever and any documents that say i do have been shredded and buried along with Benjy Eisen’s corpse.”
Shame about him.
“Thoughts and prayers, thoughts and prayers.”
WHERE’S THE DEAD, PETEY?
“I didn’t want to help them, but they were so smart, so thorough!”
TELL ME!
“They had it planned from the start! This was all part of it: the Acid Tests, the Wall, Garcia’s death – all for this one big payday.”
You mean…
“The Dead are gone. The money’s gone. This was all the longest con in the history of crime.”
Wow.
…
They didn’t take you with them?
“No.”
You should get a lawyer.
“Yeah.”
You got a bear out of it.
“I don’t want to be part of these little skits anymore.”
I don’t, either; life’s rough.
“You see that shizz?”
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