c'est la vie Chicago

All these stops and starts, the pieces crystalizing in my spoungebrain then slipping out the holes before they hit my fingers. Me I'm sitting here, sweating here, earbuds shoved into my head trying to trade out cafe noise for a crappy audience recoding from Santa Clara last weekend, second night, the Grateful Dead.

Bobby sounds so far away I can here every mile between me and Chicago this afternoon. Feel it too. Inch by inch of I'm not there. 2121.1 miles. Oh, Chicago, how I jones.

I tell you a little secret. I held the tickets to all five shows in my hands last week, laid my prints all over those thick paper strips of magic. They weren't any of them mine to hold. 

And no one to blame but myself.

Excruciating as it is to watch this reunion scroll up and down my facebook feed, I didn't even try to get there. Didn't stamp my mail order envelope, didn't dial the ticketBastards, didn't choose a single one of these precious final five.

Fare The Well, boys.

My arm is sore from the reach around.  Not so easy to pat your own back. Congratulations, Goodman. You had the good sense to not dump every penny of your life's worth into one more irreplaceable, unforgettable, last station stop on this ride. (Even if you could have written off every penny. Even if you surely could have found someone to let you write about. Even if you for once in you turned your back on desire to give intuition and responsibility a big fat bear hug.)  But these three days, you'll never get them back.  

You are the grownest kind of grown up now. Middle-aged champ. 

Ce Lest Vie Chicago. See you on the screen.