This morning we all woke up in the shadow of the Wilco hotel, 370 feet off the ground and in the living room of our long-lost cousin Erin. Nitzan was still sweating hard from a bad dream he’d had about his dog getting shaved and amputated, Jack was downtown running off his morning oats, and Misha was further cementing his reputation as the LLC’s strongest sleeper.

We played Schuba’s last night with the indefatigable Eric Hutchinson, who managed to steal both the hearts and noses of the greater Chicagoland area between the hours of 8 and 11pm, then went out for our usual ritual of carousing, getting lost, trying to figure out where we’re going to stay for the night, and ultimately reparking the car minutes before sunrise and rolling the dice to see who gets to come out and plug the meter at 8:59am.

It’s been a good 24 hours in the land of Rick Nielsen, and I’d be sad to go even if we weren’t all about to drive through the night to get to DC in time for tomorrow’s soundcheck.

This is the American dream, people. Right here. We’re living it. Take notes.

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