“…but, uh, once we had cut the shark open, we realized it wasn’t the one that ate the Kintner boy. Next question?”
“Hi, Bobby, my question is about Thoughts on the Dead.”
“The person, the website, the concept thereof?”
“Whatever.”
“Go ahead with your question.”
“Sure. Is this shit even about the Grateful Dead any more?”
“Well, you know, I’m here. So that’s pretty Dead-ish. And, uh, you’ve all been dosed. That’s very on-brand, as the kids would say.”
“But the band’s name is right in the title and there’s weeks that go by where you guys aren’t even mentioned. It’s just goofy political bullshit, scraps of sub-Borowitzian bullshit, and that magical realism bullshit.”
“I’m anxious to see how Big-Dicked Sheila and Tiresias get out of their latest jam.”
“Be that as it may, Bobby. I feel that visitors to the site are being lied to. Shouldn’t there be show recommendations?”
“Probably, maybe, yeah, okay. Go to it.”
“What now?”
“Recommend a show.”
“Me? I don’t even have a name.”
“Big deal. Throw one in the hamper, see if it gets washed.”
“Okay, uhhhh, how about 12/5/71? One of the Felt Forum shows from New York on Keith’s first tour, and two unique occurrences: only full-band rendition of Wash My Hands In The Muddy Water, and the only Dark Star Jam from ’71.”
“All right. Sounds good. Any other questions?”
“Not really.”
“Great. Who’s next? In the back.”
“Hi, Bobby. I don’t have a question so much as an apology.”
“Okee-doke.”
“I am soooo sorry that I said black people didn’t have dark palms because they had their hands up against a wall while God was painting them. That was the old Lena.”
“When did you say it?”
“Half-hour ago. But, since then, I’ve met so many incredible women who have truly educated me about race and feminism and intersomethingality. I am so much more awake than I used to be.”
“Sure, okay.”
“And if I can take one more second? I also want to apologize for murdering Jamal Khashoggi.”
“What now?”
“That was my bad. I didn’t take the time to do my research and really talk to the strong women that are invested in the situation, and one thing led to another and I, Lena Dunham, murdered Jamal Khashoggi. But these things happen, and I can’t promise I won’t say something wrong, or kill a journalist, ever again. It’ll probably happen! I’m a work in progress!”
“I’m going back to my bus.”
“Do you wanna do a nude scene?”
“Maybe when I get back from the bus. Wait here, okay?”
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