Friday, June 12, 2009
See, someone spat out a wad of gum into the urinal and it's been there ever since. Months, I tell you.
That gray little wad has lingered in a pool of sterile, yet odoriferous liquid... languishing in a state of constant defilement. No one is ever going to pull it out, and frankly I don't blame the cleaning crew for not fishing that thing from the confines of its porcelain tomb. It's nasty and somewhere in this building lies the inconsiderate fuck that spat it there in the first place.
These facts, however, have not detracted from the joy which is dislodging the gum from whatever point its become stuck to with a strong stream of liquid waste.
It's great fun, really! You knock it loose, flush, the water carries it swirling around the small basin, and eventually it comes to rest in a new location where it begins the ritual of slowly fastening itself to its new home.
I have never failed in freeing it from its surly bonds.
I've had to strain and sue every last drop, but never have I been bested.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
I need to be seeing shows.
I thought I was over it. I thought that the 33 days of the reunion weekend in Hampton would be enough. It was epic, stellar, amazing, a huge load of heavenly spooge shot straight into my waiting mouth-ears, and I gobbled down every aural drop.
But… it’s not enough.
I’ve been browsing the setlists and while they don’t exactly leap off the page at me (there’s nothing really insane going on there – truth be told they sometimes look kind of disjointed as though they haven’t got a clue what mood they’re in, where they want to go, or hell, what their freakin’ names are), I’ve listened to the first 4 shows and they are baby-cunt tight.
Sorry, that’s a bit too graphic even for me.
They are home-schooled-teenager-cunt tight.
The boys have reached this level of communication that I’d only heard on CDs of shows from the early 90s. Every note played by each individual is a map as to where each person wants to take the song and there’s no ego – each is eager – giddy as a school-girl – to see what the other has in mind.
It’s easy to say the Jedi is back. I screamed it and wept in glee, but that’s not fair. The boys have stepped forward and brought this band, this experience back from the brink or becoming a caricature of what it used to be.
I’m not going out on a limb when I hold up Hampton from 2009 and say, “Balls to 1997.” It’s THAT good. THAT tight. THAT… that Phish.
Yep… and I’m sitting at home watching it all go down through stilted text messages, IM’s, and setlists posted from the road. Sure, I can have the show the VERY next day (and those Schoeps sources will absolutely buy you dinner, take you dancing, and drain your balls as an encore to a wonderful night), but… it’s not the same. Sure, that first show or two hurts – you’re out of shape, you over-indulge, etc.
But that third show… you’re fucking on point.
Your liver is stretched and ready, your lungs are deep and powerful, your legs are the boogie-motives that they used to be, your eyes have re-keyed to spot the dangers in the lot, your nose dulls itself to the scent of BO and patchouli, your fingertips callus up, your mind remembers what to hold onto and what to let slide.
Nope. I sit on my deck in the dark with a cigarette and the silent blue glow of my laptop watching the updates roll in every 9-15 minutes.