People wonder why I didn’t attend this ridiculous lovefest at the Computer History Museum on Saturday. Well, first, I was already booked, having lunch with Al Gore and Nancy Pelosi. (More on that later.) But more important, I couldn’t bear the thought of having to sit up there twiddling my thumbs listening to that blowhard Woz keep repeating this claim that he invented the personal computer. To you guys who invited me and were “dismayed” that I didn’t show, maybe you haven’t noticed this so let me make it explicit: When I’m on stage, I’m the only one on stage. I’m not one of the back-up dancers in the Back Street Boys. I’m not the fifth member of Menudo. I’m not one of the cats in the Rat Pack. I’m Frank. Okay? You don’t look up on the marquee and see, “2 p.m. Puppet Show, 3 p.m. Steve Jobs of Apple Computer and a bunch of other dudes who happened to be hanging around his garage back in the Seventies and now want to claim they invented the personal computer.” God, these hanger-on guys make me sick. Dudes, it’s time to move on, okay? Get a life. These old stories about watching my sister plug chips into a motherboard? It’s like listening to Phil Lesh and the other non-Jerry members of the Dead going on about some non-hilarious thing that happened in some stoner house on Haight Street forty years ago. Dudes, when it comes to Apple, I’m the Jerry, okay? I’m Jim Morrison. I’m Jimi Hendrix. I’m the one who started the band, wrote the songs and changed the world. I’m friggin Steve Jobs, bitches! Have you heard of me? Yeah. I thought so. So look. I don’t work often, and I don’t work free. And I always — always — work solo.