one year gone

[phorbesie]

these dates were always special, weren't they?

aug 15-17.

always will bring back great memories...

i didn't go to coventry. in fact, i didn't see any phish post-hiatus. it's been 5 years gone for me. but i still miss them.

the guy at my local MBE looks just like i imagine trey did at 16, and it makes me smile every time. (even though today they screwed up all my copies and printing and i definitely can't go to london ABB now! ;p)

anyway, a friend posted this story (not sure where it came from) on another mb i belong to...it's a thank you to phish. and it's all so true and i love it!

thanks phish, i miss ya.

here's the story:

Now I’m on my way? Really? But I’m not ready. My e-mail address is still “phreeleigh.†My homepage is still Phish.com. My wallpaper is a picture of Kuroda’s light show, and my outdated screen-saver asks, “Are we in Vegas yet?†All my passwords are Phish-related. My cat’s name is Esther. My bookshelf is filled with Pharmer’s Almanacs and other Phish books, my tables decorated with picture collages from different tours. Phish posters are displayed proudly on the walls of my house, and more are carefully stored under my bed. Every studio album and many of the Live Phish series are in my CD rack, and I’ve got a bunch of analog tapes that I’ve never bothered to count. At any given time, at least three of the six CD’s in my car magazine are Phish. In the attic is a box full of Tour Extras, Surrender to the Phlows, Doniac Schvices and clever bumper-stickers. In that box you will also find instructions for singing “Happy Birthday†to Trey at the Pyramid, a party horn from Big Cypress, and entertaining cartoon hand-outs from the groups trying to “save†me. I have saved the sweet gifts given to me at shows: a little lizard from a stranger hangs on my lamp, a crystal from a friend commemorating my 100th show sits on a shelf, and a seven-year-old piece of candy with a friendly New Year’s greeting attached remains uneaten. I have created an elaborate scrapbook called, “My Adventures with Phish.†I can easily locate Thomas and Mack Arena in Las Vegas or Starlake Amphitheater in Pennsylvania by the red circles in my worn atlas. In my closet are dozens of Phish-themed T-shirts, official and “bootleg†alike, including my favorite simple blue one with the famous logo slowly fading away. On my shoestrings is the printed warning, “Whatever you do, take care of your shoes.â€

Obsessed?, one might ask. Absolutely. I love Phish with every bit of my being. I have never been as passionate about anything as I am Phish, and I doubt I ever will be. What could compare to the sheer magic of a Phish show? I cannot imagine that anything could ever invoke the feelings derived from the lovely and serene melody of Divided Sky, the groovin’, booty-shakin’ funk of Also Sprach Zarathustra, the lightheartedness of Cracklin’ Rosie, the nostalgic lyrics of Strange Design, or the gut-wrenchingly cathartic notes of Phree? How badly will I long to hear the hopeful message of Colonel Forbin’s Ascent? Will anything cause me to lift up my skirt and kick up my heels the way Paul and Silas did? Will I ever feel such reverence as when Phish played a perfect Glide or Foam? Are the days of epiphanies set to the sound of You Enjoy Myself gone? I fear there will be no hose to water me, no music to shower me with lightness.

Through the years, I have met the friends of a lifetime. How I love to see their faces and the feel joy of dancing alongside them at shows! The camaraderie of our gatherings cannot be described. As a friend said at IT, “When we’re all out there dancing, feeling the music, it really is a beautiful thing.†There is nothing like Sharin’ in the Groove. I cannot imagine life without the devoted congregation of my friends and other phans.

I suppose what is left are the memories. My God, the memories. The hot summer evenings, twirling happily on the lawn without a care in the world. Watching in awe as the first glow stick war occurred, then later cursing the distracting display. Taking my mail-order envelope to the twenty-four-hour post-office at 12:01 am on ticket day. Realizing that the mothership had landed in Hampton, VA. Yelling “Cheesecake!†as our millennial message to the world. Wincing as Trey flubbed the lyrics to Cavern more often than not, but forgiving him easily during the next guitar solo. Playing Uno and always winning. Admiring the Port-O-Let Piazza. Critiquing Mike’s choice of attire, and feeling lucky when it was the neon green muscle-shirt. Enjoying the sounds of vacuum cleaners, megaphones, and a theremin. Wondering why the dress was missing that summer. Chatting with the band backstage a few times, and even making it on the bus once. Surviving the hiatus. Wondering aloud, “Why am I running?†Waving down Lawnboy to throw me a Tootsie-Roll. Pondering the burning question: Whose side was Tela on, anyway? Lending the Green Crew a hand. Laughing at the Landlady dance. Checking Andy Gadiel’s page at least daily for any important announcements. Earnestly performing the Meatstick Dance in an effort to get into the Guiness Book of World Records. Playing a points-for-song setlist game, before Phantasy Tour thought of it. Losing my mind just a couple of times. Taking my entire family to a home-town show, trying to help them understand. Wondering if Suzy Greenberg and Marco Esquandolas were in fact in the airport where I heard them being paged. Turning out dozens of grilled-cheese sandwiches per night for gas money to the next show. Slapping my forehead upon hearing the notes of the Simpson’s theme. Trying to pronounce “Oswego†and “Worchester†correctly. Wondering if Wilson can still have fun. Hoping for the shelving of Jennifer Dances and Walfredo while praying for the return of Destiny Unbound. Proudly wearing my “Fishman Hit On Me†pin. Checking my “stats†on ZZYZX’s page to find that Chalkdust Torture had edged out YEM as my most-heard song. Combing Shakedown for a perfect post-show snack. Bestowing a “miracle†upon a seeker with the promise that she would dance all night. Getting hassled by cops for such innocuous acts as sleeping at rest areas and selling water in the desert. Suffering whiplash-type pain after a particularly rocking night. Protesting wildly against being thrown out of MSG, then walking right back in. Conjuring the energy to keep dancing when Paul chose Rock With You as the end-of-the-show house music. Wondering WATSIYEM and where to get a copy of “the book.†Admiring the efforts of the Waterwheel crew, the Phellowship, the Phunky Bitches, and the Mockingbird Foundation for their positive contribution to our community. Cursing the slope at Alpine Valley, the sound at Tinley Park, and the staffies at Shoreline. Marveling at the scenery of the Gorge. Referring the my Pharmer’s Almanac to determine the last time they played Dinner and a Movie and the original performer of Ride Captain Ride. Clamoring for coveted Pollocks. Lightheartedly labeling others as “wooks,†“custies,†“geeks,†and “kids,†knowing, really, that we all have shared something spectacular and extraordinary. Realizing that music is its own language, its messages transcending mere words. Feeling the Vibration of Life. Grasping, for an instant, the meaning of it all, as the lights swirled around me and the music buried itself into my soul. Surrendering to the flow.

Thank Icculus I was a part of the magic. Thank you Phish.