Hello, Trixie. You’ve gone pinkish.
“I need you to be honest with me: are you going to show up at my house one day?”
Am I invited?
“No. Not at all.”
Then I will not.
I don’t have the follow-through to be a stalker.
“I’ll take it.”
This is a very sweet picture.
“I know, right? Jerry’s girls. All eight of us.”
Your dad loved him his guitars.
“When I was a kid and went to my friends’ houses, I would think it was weird that their dads didn’t sit there playing scales while they were talking to us.”
This is Red Rocks for the big concert?
“Yeah! Bobby’s here and Oteil and John Mayer and Warren and Melvin. My whole family. It’s been great, really great.”
I’m very happy to hear that.
“Except for that guy.”
“The shirtless guy right over there. No one knows how he got backstage, but he won’t leave.”
Lemme handle it. Hey!
“Do nyet be harshing Putin’s mellow. Putin is on vacay.”
Get away from the Garcias.
“Do Garcias write about me?”
“Then they are in no danger. Putin have very stressful year. Tired of so much vinning. Must relax.”
You don’t have to do it at Red Rocks during a Jerry Garcia tribute concert.
“Could nyet get Baker’s Dozen tickets.”
I find that hard to believe.
“Putin nyet up to anything. Have James Patterson novel. Vill read by pool.”
You’re up to something.
“This is how Putin gets groove back.”
I’m watching you.
“And me, you.”