Tag: grahame lesh (Page 1 of 2)

“Who did this, boy?”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“DON’T LIE TO ME! I know it was one of your little hoodlum friends. Was it Fat Mommy?”

“I don’t know anyone named–”

“Was it Sleazy Kevin?”

“Again, I know no one with that–”

“Dog Dick? What about Dog Dick?”

“I have no friends called–”

“What about Rufio?”

“He was a Lost Boy, Pop.”

“Don’t you ‘Pop’ me. I’ll pop you right in the beard.”

“Dad, none of my friends grafitti’d the wall.”

“Are you in a gang?”

“No.”

“Tell me, boy. You’re a Baseball Fury, aren’t you?”

“I regret teaching you and mom how to work the Netflix.”

“I have regrets, too, boy.”

“Aw.”

Still doing the hat thing?

“Stay out of it, jackass.”

“You want me to hit him with my guitar, Dad?”

“Dammit, Grahame, you don’t hit people with guitars. You hit ’em with mic stands.”

So, uh, Phil: you read the book?

“I have not. Which book?”

You know which book. The one about the Dead since Garcia’s death.

“Huh. I was unaware such a thing existed. Maybe I’ll check into that.”

You’re a terrible liar.

“That Selvin asshole is a prick, and has been since nineteen-fucking-seventy-three. Mean little bald fuck, that guy. Remember Liz Adams? Used to do the gossip column? All that shit about who’s fucking who, and who went to jail? That’s Selvin, but he pretends to be a music writer. That guy can suck the piss from my limp dick.”

So, you know him?

“Since forever.”

And you began hating him because?

“He wrote that I looked like Ichabod Crane.”

That’s rude.

“It is. It absolutely is.”

And not true.

“Thank you.”

You look like Sam the Eagle.

“And now you’re on the Fuck You List, too.”

Aw.