The scene in Chicago was everything you might expect from Chicago.  Approaching Addison on the train, my mind released scenes from The Blues Brothers and my spiritual compass immediately began to sense the overwhelming pull that always points to Terrapin. I’m amused by people that do things like Google weather reports up to a week in advance.  It’s as if people forget on an ongoing basis that Tom Petty doesn’t control the weather, Bob Weir does.  Peter Shapiro was there last night and you can bet your ass if he was in charge of the budget, we would’ve gotten a rainbow. Corporate stiffs running things here won’t spring for gigantic rainbow making machines but Shap would have…

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Oteil has probably needed sandpaper to wipe my lipstick off of his ass this tour. I’m typically not much for kissing anyone’s ass but it’s probably justified since he really is the difference maker in the overall energy and impact of the music. Uh oh… He’s gonna need another sheet. I know a lot of people think breathing in Weir’s farts can cure lung cancer but I’m not one of them. Don’t get me wrong, I love Weir but I wouldn’t act like a little girl meeting Justin Beiber if I ran into him. Bob carried the band many a night in Garcia’s darker years and I’m a fan for sure but I’ve been pretty rough on the hairy fucker at times.  I think it’s about time I put some lipstick on Weir’s ass…

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