It’s weird that after only three times through Chicago is starting to feel like a home away from home. The boys and girls at Reggie’s took great care of us, and saw a lot of familiar faces. Thanks to everyone who came out.
Okay enough of the ass kissin’, let’s get to the dirt.
After the show we hijacked Cyrus out of the Saviours van and headed across town to meet up with our buddy Cary who you might remember from here. He was just shutting his bar down and we walked in just in time to watch him kick out a well-dressed man in his late fifties who had brought in his own Busch tall boy. I knew things were going to get weird from there.
He poured enough tequila down our throats to kill a Chihuahua and we headed to a bar by his house to do some more damage. By the time we finally made back to Cary’s house the only thing I could think about was eating the greasiest food I could find. He pointed me in the direction of Loraine’s Dinner, which I could have sworn he said was one block to the right, but after wondering the streets of Chicago at 3:00 AM for twenty minutes, I realized it was on the left. About 200 feet from his front door.
I really wish I could tell you about the conversation I had with the cook, something about his old band named Heavy Mental and Kurt Cobain… Maybe he was the one who gave him heroin for the first time, or introduced him to Courtney Love… I do remember thinking, “Are you bragging about being his downfall?” Wish I took a picture of him, but, well, you can imagine what kind of shape I was in if I thought wondering the streets of a strange city at 3:30 in the morning was worth it for a Patty Melt.
Meanwhile back at Cary’s some crazy bottle of Mezcal with a scorpion in it was getting passed around:
Glad I missed it. Anything that makes you look like this:
Is guaranteed to put a little more hitch in your giddy-up then I need.
I mean, come on, it made the bottom half on John’s face fall off!
Tour To Live!