Bill O'Reilly Sucks

some universal truths

2006-02-08T15:00:00.000-07:00

Nine out of ten Josh's are potheads

3 out of 4 Mandi's are big bitches

If you know more than one kid named Eddie, you are a fucking liar

A kid named Dwayne is almost always going to be black

A Michelle in the hand is worth three Diana's in the bush

Rile is a gays name

So is Bruce and Julian. There, I said it

Chris, Steve, Roger, and Joe are smart kid names

To stray from the subject of names for a little bit:

There are few things better than a Jerry Garcia guitar solo

Or when he hits "laad-y" in Terrapin Station

The "Inspiratiooooooon, move me brightly" part will give you goosebumps

That part in Divided Sky and Down With Disease will too. just different kinds

Fat girls who aren't shy are really fucking annoying because they talk too much, and they are fat, and who wants to hear fat girls talk about food, eating scabs, and popping zits?

For the most part, girlfriend's friends are the sworn enemy of any righteous boyfriend

There is no substitute for saying I love you

Cody ChestnuTT's lyrics are absolutely true

Everyone needs a little sometimes

Getting mad solves nothing

Being happy all the time isn't impossible

The best things in life are a girl, a bed, a whole Saturday, and tons of fun

Blowjobs are pretty sweet too

And so is going down on the girl you love

You should listen to a lot of Bruce Springsteen and rap music, so you get a jist of what is really out there

Life begins and ends with steak and potatoes

The world isn't necessarily stacked against you. The world is wide, vast, and beautiful, and it shouldn't be feared

Recruiting trips are meant for you to forget about what you hated about the college you visited

There's no such thing as a cool conservative. just conservative's that you don't hate

Little brothers make life fun

Mountains everyday. the American dream

When the sky is blue, play soccer, when it's cloudy, but not cold, play soccer. when it's raining and cold and miserable, play soccer

Theres nothing more beautiful than looking down at the girl you love, and see those beautiful green eyes looking back at you in the same way. you'll never be the same after that moment hits you

Being in love isn't for everybody, however

It's Karl, not Carl

It's Brendan, not Brenden or Brendon

And it's certainly not Brandon

But we miss him everyday

Yeah, I can see that you support the troops, but drive faster, fuck-face!

2006-01-30T20:43:00.000-07:00

now i'm claiming to be the most patriotic person in the world, far from it, but i have some support for our troops in iraq. i feel very, very bad for them. i feel they are unfortunately put in the line of fire every damn day for reasons still oblivious to me. freedom, sure, maybe, but what about the other countries that need freedom as well? where there isn't any oil? oh yeah, there's a still a few more of those left. those i know who've been over there have faced unimaginable sadness and hardships. it just doesn't seem right to me to pack up thousands of our young men and women and send them halfway across the world to die for no reason. and i truly feel bad for them. that being said, i'd wish to comment on the fact of those patriotic men and women with the "support our troops" stickers.
these simple stickers can tell a lot about the person driving in front of you. political, social, and even religion is displayed with a simple support our troops sticker. the more famous "god bless our troops sticker" is a less subtle way of showing the inner beliefs of the driver.

now, as i stated before, there is nothing wrong with support of the troops. i can deal with that. i'm sure, however, there is a myriad of things that they are doing over there that i cannot support, such as the murder of men, women and children. now i know you red-staters will hate to hear that, but atrocities are going over there committed by our troops that our unspeakable. just visit bbc, al-jezera or any israeli news station. what pisses is me off, is that these conservative, backward-ass fuck-baits drive 10-to-15 miles slower than the usual vehicle. that is a national statistic by the way. which leads me to say, i don't give a fuck if you are fucking soldier, drive a little faster ass-job, i know you must be scared shitless to drive fast on your leave at home, with scenes of fallujah and najaf pounding through your school, the smallest muffler snort reverting you to your martial instincts, but seriously, cut me and the other six-thousand drivers behind you some fucking slack! support the troops, fine, go ahead, i don't give a shit, but if it makes you drive faster, tell them to get bent, and let's all hope and dream that this war will one day be over, and these men and women can all drive fast through city streets, allowing all of us the freedom's we hold so dear.

If you don't know anything, Brit Hume, maybe you should shut the fuck up!

2006-01-02T19:45:00.001-07:00

Brit Hume is possibly the worst human being to ever live. Now coming from a man who shares network space with Mort Kondracke, Fred Barnes, Sean Hannity, John Gibson, Neal Cavuto and Bill O'Reilly, that's quite a feat. It isn't necessarily the clear come-over he wears with devestating phoniness, nor is it his gigantic growth dominating his right cheek. Although those all fit into the equation, if only aesthetically. The truth is that Brit Hume is the most relentless, and yet oblivious tool in human history. Hume is in charge of a sort of media wrap-up segment to get his right-wing viewers mouth watered for the O'Reilly Factor. Incidentally, the only Factor on the O'Reilly Factor is untruthes, both brutal and discouraging. Bill O'Reilly ISN'T looking out for you, but I suppose you realized that by now. Hume commands Kondracke and Barnes, the so-called Beltway Boys, with insurmountable ease. He changes their opinions if contradictory to his or his administrations. And although Hume has no sway in the administration, he's part of their propaganda wing. In the aftermath of September 11th, Hume gallantly attacked those who offered peace as an alternative. He vigorously challenged any opinion, for he is apparently the ultimate authority on everything martial, and knows way more than you, even the smartest man on the planet, Noam Chomsky, who he considered delusional. Now calling someone like Chomsky (someone with brilliance, knowledge, and above all, honesty) is a heavy deal. Yet when asked about it by liberals, he vehemently denied it. It wasn't so much that he called one of my heroes delusional in the wake of a national tragedy. It was just that he is more delusional about his beliefs than anyone other person on the planet. After Hurricane Katrina, he sided with an administration that he believed made NO mistakes. He did the right thing, however. He donated money, organized pledges and even housed several displaced citizens. Oh wait, that wasn't him? Seriously? Actually, Hume criticized those too poor and old to leave the city, and hinted that they deserved to die. Brit Hume is also a careless, nefarious person, strong words I know. So Brit, I challenge you to a battle of wits, and although you are unarmed, I'll battle you regardless. I care that much about you!

George Best 1946-2005

2005-11-29T18:44:00.000-07:00

I tried for too long to act like this would never happen. I tried to believe that will all of my might, whilst Besty lay dying in that London hospital, that he'd pull through, as he did in 1999, when it seemed to be the end. That he'd pull through long enough for me to say hello, and shake his hand, and feel the most influential English footballer to ever lives grace, wisdom and venerable power. I hoped beyond hope that he would shake his liver disease and be able to last long enough for me to say thanks. I tried to long to ignore writing about him. But he's too important to me for that.

For when we all talk football, we all mean George Best, who was football to millions throughout his career. We all mean that shaggy-haired, wide-eyed, son of a Belfast ship builder, splendor of a man. His untucked jersey, his short-shorts. That number 7 seemed to appear extra long on the back of his jersey. The prodigy, the heartbeat of Manchester United, and the most important player to ever miss out on the World Cup. Imagine if England would've had him in 1970. Brazil would've been a walkabout. But there was always something about him those pundits and plaudits back then didn't realize. His drinking, and womanizing, although well-publicized, was something they all looked past. But to know Besty as I and my generation know him, is to realize that the most gifted athlete on the face of the earth at that time (fuck you, Pele) was juiced out of his gourd a mere hour or two before every game.

Yet I can look past that. We that love him can look past that. For the myriad of reasons why he was he was, the most important aspect about him was his character. Although, he was a brilliant player, his speed was unmatched, his finishing ability, incredible. And although his side had a Holy Trinity of talent (Best, Charlton, and Law), he shone brighter than all of the proverbial stars in the footballing galaxy. His goals against Benfica to claim English football's first ever European Cup were the work of his insistent work effort and tireless gamemanship. Throughout the course of the match (helped substantially by Alex Stepney in the net, and the midfield impetus of Nobby Stiles), he changed the game from Eusebio's, the consummate striker of the day, to his own. With the memories of Munich, 1958, and the Busby Babes still fresh in their minds as they lifted the European Cup high over the Stadium of Light, the world was introduced to his genius. But like Hughie Gallacher at Newcastle a quarter century earlier, and like Robin Friday's life a few years later, Best would fall victim to himself. Time after time, until he forced out of the club by Tommy Docherty, the man who believed his morals weren't up to the standards of England's "only club built on Catholic tradition." Ironically it was Docherty to resign from his post a few years later after he was purported to have an affair with the club seceratary, a charge he couldn't deny. That was the end of Best's glory years, and he sank further and further away from the footballing life, unlike his cohorts, Law and Charlton. Finally, his journeys ended last Friday at a London hospital, and the man was only 59.

There are no players like George Best alive today. They were forced out of football as the game became more commercialized and greedy. Vinnie Jones brought his spirit back, but even the Welshman can be bought and sold. In the lack of Best's, there have been enough wankers to fill the new Wembley. Hacks with not as much skill, but more than enough swagger. The Champions of Europe of 1999, mostly now all gone, save for a brave few, still point to their inspiration on the mural at Old Trafford as their guiding light. Best was the original maverick in the days of mavericks, before Alan Hudson, Roy "Chopper" Harris, and Michael McDonald. Before Keane, Viera, and Gazza, there was Best, a genius in the time of geniuses, enough of one to have Pele to declare he was the best living footballer. Fuck Pele, Beckenbauer, Muller, Cruyff, and Jimmy Johnstone. George Best was and will always be the most influential footballer to me, and to millions. Thanks for the memories. It's been quite a ride!

And as Eric Cantona, the mercurial Frenchman and fellow United number 7 said: "After his first training session in heaven, George Best, from his favourite right wing, turned the head of God who was filling in at left back. I would love him to save me a place in his team, George Best that is, not God."

2005-10-27T08:48:00.000-07:00

Driving past Hawthorne today in the fall, and a thousand memories reawaken within me. The memories of our first championship are there, when Curtis, Dias, Kelly, Mazurek, and Chambers brought us the trophy and the picture, then played with us. Me, as a 10 year-old, not wanting anything more out of life than winning the state high school soccer championship, and realizing now that it's in my grasp is an unfiltering and unsettling feeling which permeates even the bounds of this stream of conciousness, for now, in two hours, when the shit finally does hit the fan, where will i be? will i be like geoff, stoic and forbidding in the back? or will i falter, like we faltered last year, incapable of finishing the final hurdle, instead yielding again to those fucks from billings with their hair all wavy and lame. they talk, but we have more room. this is the soccer capital of the state, this is our home, this is our time, but maybe it isn't and maybe we'll falter again, yet, with the entire town watching, i couldn't bear, and god i love katie

The Second Annal of the Bittersweet Legend: My Entrance Into the Communion of Doubt. A fictional prose based on me

2005-10-23T19:25:00.000-07:00

Rays of sunlight catch the dust, which dance and sink into the depths of inate jubilation, and cast shadows on his face, stoic and intent on concentrating about his love for this girl that he's known for a year and a half, yet have already shared so much love and joy, that is seems like it's been forever. She's immaculate, indescribable, perfect even, he contends, and that scares the living shit out of him. Because how is anyone supposed to find the one they are to marry in high school, he used to think? How bullshit is saying I love you? How bullshit is the blase ethics involved in every mediocre relationship that high school couples tend to fall into? But how much bullshit is denying feelings, and not loving someone to their absolute extent? When he found the one, he thought, it was all over. He would give up on looking, he didn't need to. But he was forced to when she gave up on him, time and time again, they gave up on each other. And they were miserable, but said they'd never been happier. And instead of having the balls to tell her, he said this is what he wanted, this is what was better for him at that time. Fuck that one chick who gives me misinformation about the girl, he thought. She's trying to end it right now. Yet something inside of him grew, and it grew until it was bigger than himself. Quietly, and with a subtlety that would make Jerry's guitar proud, a love was found, deep underneath the sadness and pain. Below all of that was the love, unextinguishable, and he found it one day. And then a few days later, so did she. And they began conversing, and figured out some days later that they loved each other, nothing sappy or maudlin, but the kind of savage love that two people should have for one another. They both love each other for the same exact reasons, and don't expect each other to be people they aren't. They want love and comfort, and they want to sit with each other and kiss each other on the cheek, and maybe she'll get him off (cause she always does) and maybe she'll let him try (although she's a bit hesitant) and they always say "I love you." Sometimes it's her saying it first, then him another time, it doesn't matter. What matter's is that they say it all. They all have friends who say it but regretted it. Yet, now, they are one of those couples that say it and mean it. No matter what is going on in their lives, they can always rely on the love they share, the most intrinsically beautiful and mundanely optimistic love that too people can share, scared as hell for the future, but focusing on the present, when they can love each other and kiss each other on the cheeks and smile at each other and not have to have a reason, apart from them loving each other. And now, the love they share grows, from day-to-day love, to an amazing feeling when she even rubs his back or hands. It's because when the growing was rough, those two kept fighting for each other. It's because when the worst was occurring, they fought through it. They loved each other for a year and didn't even realize it. And now, it's the best thing in the world.

2005-10-11T19:43:00.000-07:00

i'm trying to get as much of this down as possible, with the ringing in my ears that accompanies a massive blow to the head. but there comes a point in time in which one road, the most travelled and comfortable, should be THE road, the only road. the path is wide and long, it's beautiful up there. there's a few columbian ground squirrels rolling neatly on the ground, covering each other's asses from embarassment and trepidation. silently, a stream gathers from a mountain spring, spilling forth upon the luscious green grass below it. that road, not the road i've ever seen before, is the most beautiful. the other road is filled with fear and doubt, and the possibility of not being as beautiful. but it matters not, for today, and all the other days left, i will travel down the road i love, clear in mind and feeling fine, that i've found a road worth walking, a road which i can love.

Bad Things Happening to Good People

2005-09-12T20:11:00.000-07:00

Vast miles of distance seperate the towns in central Montana. It is too common to be driving down roads with no cell phone service or change of scenery. Drifting off into the undulating depths of the immensity of the state, roads give amazing vantage points to a visceral notion contained within each human, which is to transcend the mundane and obligatorily discover within one's self the all-to-real frailities, foibles and misgivings which make human's unique. Far into the recesses of time and space, the roads will drift, endless and enduring, miles of forgotten track with no one insight for hours.

Thus, on the morning of July 5th, 2005, Brandon Briceno ended his life on a treachorous stretch of highway 30 miles south of Martinsdale, on a lonely and unsanctimonious pitch of land that has forever changed my friends and I.

The weekend before had been the most productive, it seemed, of my entire summer. I was able to hang out with my best friends, as well as two of my best friends older brothers, Brandon included, in the bars in Harlowtown, Montana. We had a few close calls, with Brandon picking a series of fights with drunk bargoers. Drinking all night, Brandon and I stumbled into a blue Isuzu Rodeo at about 3:30 in the morning. After eating a free meal at the local town center, we were off into the night, driving home through the splattered Montana dark. At one point in the trek, for a piss break, Brandon and I stood out in the middle of Montana, staring up at the big stars that were out. Mouth agape, Brandon was stunned. "I've never seen so many stars before," he told me, cock firmly in his hand. I smile back on it now, thinking about how much it meant for him to see the big sky, the kind of sky he couldn't see in LA. And then we were home, and the next morning, we roused ourselves early for breakfast and headed up to Castle Lake for some swimming and fishing. Brandon was in his element, casting unsuccessfully a myriad of times into the crystal clear waters. Later that night, as the annual soccer game was taking place, Brandon, who was far-less inclined as a player than anyone on the field, scored three goals with his hiking boots on. Then, we all retired to the cabin for some more drinking and some more poker.

I can still see Ryan standing talking with Sean, telling Sean the news. And when he tells me, I look at Sean, I look at Ryan, and we hug, then I fall to the ground, staring blankly at the entire world which has come into focus. "How do we tell Sean? June, Kevin and little Jessie?" I can't quite comprehend it yet, but I feel different, able to comprehend that life will never, ever be the same. So we all sit out on the grass for a while, crying, and the word gets round to the proper channels. This is no fucking joke, Brandon is dead. And I miss him, and when his brother wears that hat that he wore that weekend, it sends shivers down my spine, the uncanny resemblance and all that. And when I think about that day I sat in the bunkhouse staring at his shoes, and feeling him talking to me, telling me not to worry, that it was his time, I can find some solace in hoping he went out when he wanted, but he went out when no one else wanted him to. It's not a choice, we are forced to say goodbye. No matter how infantile it sounds, we all should be able to go out when we want, within our own realm. Unfortunately, one person I knew didn't, so now, I tell people what they mean to me everyday, so if there are last words to be spoken, mine were of joy and love. I never got to say goodbye, and no one else did either, so now, why can't we say goodbye with meaning and thought and caring. Why can't we say goodbye and really mean it, in case it's the last time?

The First Annals of the Bittersweet Legend: My Entrance Into the Communion of Doubt. A fictional prose based on me

2005-09-11T13:29:00.000-07:00

18 years have come and gone: a reflection

2005-08-14T21:05:00.000-07:00

i don't know where i'm going, but i hope to know when i get there. i've seen a lot of shit, and done a lot of shit, and smelt a lot of different kind of shit in my life, and saw the sunrise over the las vegas strip with two of your best friends and two drunk, hazy eyes. i've seen the beaches of the big island dazzle with kona gold and maui wowie, and that kahala vine that you swore squeagied your third eye that one day near kohala. i've spelt big words with devestating accuracy, met Brink from the movie, and ate lunch with greatness. i was on the only team in the history of regionals to beat california south and colorado, and i met a beautiful girl that weekend that wanted to bone, but i didn't because i had something else back home. i've woken up next to three of my best friends and my coach in a hotel in san diego with three empty vodka bottles, and have spent incalcuable amounts of money on weed and shrooms. i've loved a sports team with all of my heart, killed thirty gophers, and cried as one of my best friends buried his brother. i've seen my heroes play my heroes in seattle and cheered as ruud scored the first one, giggs scored the second, solksjaer, the third, and the new boy bellion, the fourth. i've seen henrik larsson with my own two eyes and met jimmy davis a few weeks before his death. i've talked with people from every continent (yes, anarctica too, you pretentious asshole) and smelt what i'm sure it's like inside an ass. i've tripped on prom night and remembered everything. i've seen one of my teachers doing nitrous in the lot at a yonder show. i made out with a thirty-five year old house sitter once from new zealand, and liked it. i've seen two oceans, and only one is cool. i've seen the sunrise over the beaches of waikoloa, rockaway, and sequim. i've seen the second greatest touring band ever, and i've seen a rap concert and had a good time (and no, i wasn't fucked up). i've woken up my friend's parents at three o'clock in the morning by standing naked in there doorway and turning on their bedroom light, then preceded to piss in their sink. i've smoked peyote and believed to be ethereal and righteous. i've given up on a girl too many times to count, but she always comes home because i think we love each other. and i've never cried over her. i've seen my grandfather pass away, and my father cry. and i cried. i've watched the time on the clock filter away into nothingness, incapable of gathering the necessary impetus to move me from my bed. i've ridden the waves at mana kea and got substantially gnarly. one night at legendary, i got stoned on the back porch of one of the cabins. i've spent the best days of my life with ten or so of the best friends i've ever had, wasting the day no matter where we were, no matter what we were doing, spending every waking moment with each other. and then forgot about them their last summer as i chased a girl. i've been on top of shopko and the pan handler, and even made it out to wolf island using a raft and a rope. i've cried over a political election. i got head-butted by mike finch. i have finished an eighteener on my eighteenth and wondered if there was anything wrong with that. i'm deathly afraid of getting stoned and talking to my girl. and i've been late more times than i can count. i've had sex on the banks of the clark fork river, and in a tiny bathroom, but my favorite place was the couch in the duniway hall lobby at 4 o'clock in the morning because we were both sober and unafraid. i've seen john prugh score from twenty-five yards away with a side volley to beat sugah's team, with marsh in goal. i've hit the five-footer with matt troxel and cole bergquist and didn't regret it. i've finally partied with joe black, adam jensen and ben dixon after a year hiatus. i shut out pride predators at regionals, and made the save of my life against san juan sporting club. and i almost signed with grasshopper fc's youth team. and regret not signing, and can't remember why i stayed. i ain't always been right, but i've never been wrong. i've read the lyrics to the golden road and loved them and finally understood where dancing in a ring around the sun came from. and i've loved the grateful dead, and met bob weir in the airport in denver, and wish it was all of them, instead of just the one. and i've loved you.

10 years ago you went away...

2005-08-08T22:40:00.000-07:00

10 years ago you went away
never allowing me to say
how i much i love your little smile
that's on your face for just a while
as a slick groove emenates from you fingers
and the reverberations of it lingers
long into the night
exhausted with love and happiness.

10 years ago, when the world I knew was nothing more than a 10 mile radius surrounding my house, and the multisyllabic words I knew could be counted on my digits, my idea of loss, my idea of sadness and my idea of grief were born. That day, like so many of my friends, I lost something. The spirit encapsulated in a man was gone forever, leaving all of us who knew him empty, wide-eyed and sad. His words were gone, his songs never to be sung by him, his guitar left to gather dust in some museum somewhere. On August 9th, 1995, Jerome John Garcia left the world, and it hasn't been the same since. At least for me. And I was only eight.

They used to play old Grateful Dead shows on PBS during the summer time, old forgotten shows, like the Field Trip, the shows beneath the Pyramids, the closing of Winterland and an assorted collection of songs and sets from Hartford, Providence, Rochester, and Buffalo during the 1980's, with Brent thrilling us from the boards. And when I watched them, Bob and Phil and the Rhythmn Devils and even Brent faded, leaving just Jerry on the stage, just him, singing me songs, singing me stories, the great ones like Jack Straw, Tennesse Jed, and Bertha. He played those for me, and when he sang, something inside me grew, the most imaginative spirit, a rambunciousness I never thought possible, had developed. And I loved it. From 1993 to 1995, they were on the TV, and I would sit and watch as Jerry's voice spilled from his mouth in the most mellifluous of manners, permeating every single aspect of who I was to come.

He was there for me, so I decided he would be a good friend, like another dad. Then one day, he was gone, and my dad's friend called from Washington state crying that Jerry had died. And I asked why he was crying and my dad said Jerry died. And then something hit me. The man who I'd been watching on TV was gone, and I was never to feel as happy as when I was listening to him play music, just for me, as the summer's sinking sun cast unfortunate glare on the television and my vision of his was skewed momentarily. But he'd always come back into focus, but not today. Today, Jerry left, and the feelings of loss I've experienced from that moment on are deeply rooted in that feeling on August 9th: the lump in the throat, the dizziness, the shock, the anger, the denial, the realization that life will never feel the same. They all stuck with me to this very day. Ten years ago today, Jerry didn't just die, he left a legacy which will never be fullfilled, he left hearts to be forever empty, like mine, never completely full no matter what or who fills them in the future.

Jerry taught me a lot. He taught me that if something wasn't fun, don't do it. He taught me that the most important things in life were personal happiness and peace within. And you shouldn't compromise that. He taught be about love, he taught me about dealing with tragedy, and he taught me about friendship. He taught me the most important lessons that a person can learn, just by watching him play his guitar and sing his songs, and smile when he did something right. That too. He also taught me to smile when I do something right. And I'm forever grateful for everything he taught me. I'm forever grateful for the time I have spent and continue to spend listening to the Grateful Dead, for when the going gets rough and the shit is hitting the fan at a pretty substantial rate, I rely on them for a day worth living, a smile and a definite good time. I can't imagine life without them, and I owe them everything.

Standing on the moon
Got no cobwebs on my shoe
Standing on the moon
I feel so alone

I see the Gulf of Mexico
As tiny as a tear
The coast of California
Must be somewhere over here
over here

Standing on the moon
I see the battle rage below
Standing on the moon
I see the soldiers come and go

There's a metal flag beside me
Someone planted long ago
Old Glory standing stifly
Crismon, white and indigo
indigo

I see all of Southeast Asia
I can see El Salvador
I hear the cry of children
And the other songs of war

Its like a mighty melody
That rings down from the sky
Standing here upon the moon
I watch it all roll by
all roll by

Standing on the moon
With nothing left to do
A lovely view of heaven
But I'd rather be with you

Standing on the moon
I see a shadow on the sun
Standing on the moon
The stars go fading one by one

I hear a cry of victory
Another of defeat
A snatch of age-old lullaby
Down some forgotten street

Standing on the moon
Where talk is cheap and vision true
Standing on the moon
But I would rather be with you

Somewhere in San Francisco
On a back porch in July
Just looking up at heaven
At this crescent in the sky

Standing on the moon
With nothing left to do
A lovely view of heaven
But I'd rather be with you
A lovely view of heaven
But I'd rather be with you.

Thanks Jerry from the bottom of my heart, for if nothing else, that last line that you loved so much, that helped us all through this tragedy, and keeps us going day after day. We love you and we miss you and we'll never, ever forget you. Sleep well until we see you again.

You'll Never Walk Alone

2005-05-25T19:52:00.000-07:00

Tonight on Merseyside, the street parties and bonfires will last all night. And deservedly so. After am 21-year sojourn, the European Cup has returned to Liverpool in the most amazing of fashions.

Every so often, you are blessed to watch a game that so transfixes your eyes as well as your heart that you are glued to your seats and can't contain the raw emotion involved in the match. My last match that I described as the best I'd seen was Celtic-Barcelona at the Camp Nou, quarterfinal of the UEFA Cup last year, where young David Marshall kept out Ronaldinho, Javier Saviola, Luis Enrique, and a whole slew of capable forward-involved players for the most memorable match of that years competition.

But today, we have a new favorite, arguably the greatest match of all time. 4-times winners Liverpool dressed in their famous, undefeated-in-European Cup Finals all red, and seven-times winners AC Milan in their undefeated-in-European Cup Finals all white, the Attaturk Stadium, Hell as it's been called, in Instanbul.

AC Milan get a free kick inside a minute, with Andrea Pirlo sending a splendidly low driven ball across the Liverpool box, to be met by Paolo Maldini to finish past Jerzy Dudek. Carlo Ancelotti said they'd score early, and he was right. Liverpool are crushed. Chance after chance doesn't fall for Milano, as Luis Garcia deflects one of his own line as Hernan Crespo flicks one on after a well-placed corner by Clarence Seedorf. 39 minutes gone, on a typical Milano counterattack, Kaka feeds Andriy Schevshenko a delicate ball and the Ukranian striker surges bast Dmjiti Traore. Sheva sends a low ball across the face of goal, through a bounding Jamie Carragher, to Hernan Crespo, who braces a technical finish into the back of Liverpool's net. Ancelotti jumps in jubilation, Liverpool hang their heads. 5 minutes later, Kaka sends Crespo on an amazing run past Carragher, Sammi Hyypia and Traore, and daintily flicks the ball past an outstretched Dudek. 3-0 before half-time, an unfortunate situation for Liverpool, and the half ends.

54 minutes in, Liverpool, after just nearly conceding a free-kick, take the offensive. John-Arne Riise finds Steven Gerrard in the middle of the box, and he powerfully opens the scoring for Liverpool. 2 minutes later, Vladimer Smicer recieves a deflected ball from Alessandro Nesta, and batters the ball into the back of the net from 25 yards out. Liverpool is back, their fans chanting and singing once more. 6 minutes later, Gerrard is fouled in the box, setting up a Xabi Alonso spot-kick which is saved by Dida, yet followed up by Alonso, into the back of the net.

The second most amazing turn-around in all of European Cup history. The tale of two halves, with Liverpool being outplayed in the first half, then outplaying Milano in the second, securing the impetus going into a crucial silver goal stoppage time. Sheva is unable to connect twice on open looks, and Liverpool save energy for the shootout.

SHOOTOUT:
Serginho- Miss
Hamman- Make
Pirlo- Miss
Cisse- Make
Tomasson- Make
Riise- Miss
Kaka- Make
Smicer- Make
Shevchenko- Miss

Dudek with the final touch on the save from Sheva, who tries a chip down the middle.

This match gave me goosebumps. I was so astonished how a team could come back on AC Milan, down 3-0 at the half. That speaks loads about Rafa Benitez and this Liverpool side in general. Shanks and Paisley would be so proud.

When you walk through the storm
Hold your head up high
And don't be afraid of the dark
At the end of the storm
There's a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of the lark

Walk on, through the wind
Walk on, through the rain
Though your dreams be tossed and blown
Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart
And you'll never walk alone
You'll never walk alone

Fucking Scousers, puts a tear to my eye

One year later...what's changed???

2005-05-23T19:42:00.000-07:00

on may 24th, we slept peacefully, but in burlington, vermont, our world was crumbling. we didn't know it yet, but something was coming to an end. the rumors had built that weekend; someone met trey in a bar, someone talked with mike at a grocery store. the news was bleek. but for the most part, we were all optimistic that it was the same 99% untrue rumors that we'd been hearing ever since 2000. it's happened before, but never again. not this time. this time, we really need them. this time, it was personal. and we didn't let it bother us, we just kept trekking ahead to may 25th, and then at noon, the rumors from the east coast had rolled in. BIG PHISH NEWS- post titles declared, the biggest phish news since hiatus. what could it be? additional tour dates? what's so big about that? the long awaited cypress dvd/cd? nothing huge utterly earthshocking about that. what was it that they were going to tell us? we were intrigued, but optimistic. then it came, like a brick on your chest. you get home from school to 100+ messages on your computer screen. the news that would kill you, you swore once, had come true. no more phish in the sea? what does that mean? how can you comprehend that? where are they going? unable to do anything else, you cry. you cry huge tears, welling from your eyelids and slowly cascading down your cheeks. phish was you. phish music was life music. you couldn't believe that they were gone, you couldn't believe that they'd leave you in the way that they did. we were all stunned that may afternoon, as the dark clouds of emptiness peaked across the horizon, your motives became a little less clear and your ambitions changed. fuck the girl, fuck the soccer, let's see phish. that lasted an hour, yourself realizing phish wasn't mine anymore, phish was gone, and i'll miss it, and when i still think about those summer nights riding home in the back of my brother's friends car, blazed out of my mind, finding solace in their tasty grooves. solace in knowing that i had what i had for as long as i had it, and when i had it, it was good, and when its gone, its over. there's nothing you can do to replace the memories they gave you, nothing like the look on trey's face, and the smile mike gives you, or the way you feel when fish just plays for you, and how page's hair would always get caught in the wind. one year later and i miss them more than i did. one year later and i'm still thinking about how they affected me. one year later and phish is still gone, never to sing us another song, never to give us an adventure when we need it the most. why can't all days be like may 24th?

2005-04-19T21:14:00.000-07:00

it's awful shitty liking somebody, awful shitty indeed. don't get me wrong, for a few weeks when the love is flowing strong and hard between you, the mere mention of your girl will send shivers pulsing through your body, and an anticipatory flutter through your stomach. yeah, i dig that, i dig it hard and long, and it makes me feel good, but instead of all of that fluttery, shivery shit, you don't necessarily get the same satisfaction weeks and weeks after the thought of your girl gives you some benign feeling. it's almost a lethargic feeling, and you know it's shitty when it gets to that point, time to talk, to sort thinks out, make sure everyone is on the same page here. because there's nothing like being with somebody, nothing at all, no dead or phish jam can do it justice, not enough boomers or salv in the world can equal the feeling.

the shittiest feeling, for me, right now, is the getting over part. it's hard. i've tried, and i've been failing as of yet. i don't know how my opposite number is faring, but hopefully better than me. i'm too scared to ask. i want to make sure we are both still mad for each other, but i can't bear the thought of losing her again. so inside, i cling to the vain desperation that from somewhere inside, deep and swollen, is our love for each other still hanging out, unable to be quelled by the petty differences we share, the sex, the time spent apart, and the sadness it brings me whenever i think about how she isn't a part of my life anymore. when someone affects you, when someone gives you another direction, when someone helps you quit the potheading lifestyle, you tend to remember them, you tend to care an immense amount for them. i don't care if she has changed, i feel i need her more than ever, my life isn't as fun, the road that i'm on doesn't seem as clear, and every accomplishment shallow. she may still care, she may not, and if it's the latter, she's not the one for me, if it's the former, i'll be with her in spirit until we feel we need an end. but right now, i am honestly stuck in between two points on the map, one leading away, one leading back home, and all sorts of people can't comprehend me turning home, but fuck them, they don't understand. they don't realize how important this person is to you. so want to sit around and wait for her to come to you again, and emanate out of the clouds right in front of your face, but it's not in the cards, you feel. now what are you supposed to do? do you return home or do you move your things and find another home to reside for a while? what if this home just fits, and the thought of her smile brings you back to all those car trips across town to the fields to play soccer with your two friends, and hoping that she was thinking about you, all the way playing all of those songs that jerry and robert wrote all those years ago, and when you do the same with two other friends who have gone on many adventures with you, it still feels the same, the same anticipation you get when you roll down city streets, hoping that maybe she is just there, hanging out, driving with no particular destination in mind. hopefully she is there. but she never is, which makes seeing her so wonderful. she'll be a part of you for too long, you concede, too long into your future will you wonder. you don't care about all of the existential bullshit, the shit's she done to you in the past, the fact that she'd ended possibly the most important thing you could've had with a girl. you remember that night in october when she wrote "i miss you" big and black and you stopped thinking for a moment, and realized you had her back. you need her to do that to you. you need her to send you the same life preserver you sent her. you need her. you forget that, just to remember how good it is for those two weeks when it's just you and her talking and looking at each other, both knowing that the only other thing to do on a night like that is sit patiently and quietly as 10:36 come's rolling in.

c'est la vie, avec ca je ne sais quoi

2005-03-21T22:21:00.000-07:00

how come it happens in life that things we've wanted more than anything are the things most impossible for us to grasp? why must we struggle with such insurmountable odds in order to possess just an inkling of a feeling? why was i not born in south london, or the east midlands or south yorkshire?

i've wanted to be a professional footballer ever since i can remember. i used to watch matches on t.v. back when pallister and mcgrath and mcclair used to play with the blistering pace that allowed them to reach the unclenchable number of modern title's they've had. i used to watch a young giggs, and a young andy cole, idolizing each touch, waiting for the moment when they'd find one another for a finish. i remember watching Cantona, Ooh Ahh Cantona! shred oppostion defence's like foie gras. immediate, mercurial, consummate. he'd make a break that henry would love to have. such deliberate touches on the ball, such knowledge of his job. i'd sit in amazement.

but the man that amazed me was the great dane, the eternal manchester united number one (sorry fab, leighton and ray wood). green shirt, of course. arrogance, yeah, that too. no matter what opposition strikers through at him, he was there. he was the man who made it ok to dream to be a manchester united player. he made it ok to believe that it's possible, oh it's possible.

i've had a lot of dreams once, and some of them came true to quote the grateful dead song, but i've never had a more intense feeling than i do when i think about my possible exploits in the world's first league. yeah, maybe not at old trafford, i thought once. maybe i'll step out to "you'll never walk alone" at anfield. or sprint on to the turf at highbury with the crowd on top of you, or maybe side-step against downing up at the riverside, or play with shearer at st. james park, or roker park, although now there is no roker park, no baseball ground as well. stamford bridge, i could settle for, or the dell, but there's no dell anymore. the city ground, sure, why not, or maybe make my exploits north of the border, in Paradise, celtic park. a lot of choices i had once. and i was 9. totally idealistic. there's nothing to me like the feeling of the ball in my hand, looking out across the vast pitch of earth, looking for somebody to find, and give them hope.

footballers used to give their community and their fans hope. sadly, the game i once knew not so long ago, is being suffocated by big money players and new stadiums lacking the atmosphere as the stretford end once had, back when it was an all seater, or the holte end, or the shed end, all those famous stands where thousands poured their hearts out for victory. i'd love to play below them.

its a possibility i once thought was insane and foolish, borderline dangerous. i now realize, it's still the same. but there is this one chance that i have to take it or leave it, to take all the potential i once thought was just waiting in myself to leave all i know and love behind and play for 8 months in switzerland for Grasshopper FC. they want me. but do i want them? what do i do?

2005-03-09T18:56:00.000-07:00

the street is burning
lights sink low
an oncoming breeze
meanders in slow

the flicker of flame
erupts in the air
flickering once
in the car window's glare

all is quiet
save for the sound
of two unsure children
and a joint they have found

stunning blue twilight
enters their eyes
maticulously drowned
in morning's disguise

the world sleeps well
tonight no danger
save for two unsure children
and their white, fatty stranger

asleep for a moment
they waken to see
enlightment calling them
just to BE

forgiven as they are
they never know
that you need to suck
you can't ever blow

suck the end
until it's rotten and brown
and watch as the resin
falls softly down

the street will eat the ash
from the magic white stick
rolled with love
and sealed with a lick

RIP Hunter S. Thompson

2005-02-22T17:49:00.000-07:00

So I'm sleeping, right, and from the basement, i hear my mom say to my dad "did you see that hunter s. thompson died?" My dad politely responds, "shut the fuck up, when?" and i fall back asleep, content with the knowledge that Hunter S. Thompson dying is playing a particular role in my dream that early morning. So a half an hour later, i rise up for the day, and awaken to a cloudy, morose looking day, low clouds hanging in the sky. Then, i sit down with the newspaper. Right on the front page, just below a story about an Iwo Jima veteran, are the words Writer Hunter S. Thompson Commits Suicide. The first thing that hits me is that I'm dreaming still, well wake the fuck up then, I say. But I can't this time. This time it is real. This time, it isn't my dad coolly telling my mom to shut the fuck up, this time its true: Hunter S. Thompson, the man who has shaped why and how I write, is dead, and I'll never be able to say thank you.

I've found it absolutely impossible to read one piece of his work just once. It seems to me that no matter how much I read, or how much knowledge I can take in, his works appear to be some of the finest, most intelligent works I've read. I've read Joyce, but "The Two Gallants" didn't make me laugh the way the first chapter of the Great Shark Hunt did. I've read Kesey, but the opening of Sometimes a Great Notion (in my opinion, the best work of the past 40 years) doesn't hold a candle to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas's signature beginning "We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs started to take hold." I'm not saying that I'm a critic whose opinion should be respected. I'm saying that I personally cannot think of anything more influential to me than the first time I picked up Hell's Angels. I wanted to be him, I wanted his style, I wanted to make every word count, like he seemed to do. I wanted to draw the reader in with my impeccable knowledge on a subject. I wanted my writings to be esoteric in a sense that some people could only get the jist of what I was saying. Like he did. I wanted to write up and down and side to side, to captivate my audience and make them understand what the world we were living is really was. He made it possible for me to write about that night far away on the magic mushrooms, those nights drunk and high, writing for my friend's delight. I wanted to be the man with the dark-tinted glasses and the cigarette holder coming out of my mouth. I wanted to soak those fucking floorboards with ether. I wanted to give that booze to those fucking lizards, I wanted to be a Hawaiian god, I wanted to be in Oakland with the Hell's Angels, beating fags. I wanted it all, I wanted his life.

Which is tragic in a way, for his life seemed to me the sort of outlaw life that was only possible to those who were so deranged they'd lost center, and to those so unafraid about what people thought, thhat they just smiled politely, and through gritted teeth, said fuck off. I never really understand the magnitude of what his words have done, but they have transfixed my heart in a way I've never known. Everytime I write, I think about him, what he'd think about all of this shit. Why did he do it? Because he wanted to go out on his own terms. Dr. Gonzo was no slouch in the narcissist department. He came under criticism from Jerry Garcia and Ken Kesey when he claimed he had been soaked up in the Acid Test culture of San Francisco's Bohemia. He said he'd been there, but had he? It didn't matter. Fuck them, he'd said, and he marched on, brazen and unabashed by criticism against his holy regimen.

He was a character, supreme and sublime. That day he showed how he practiced shooting with a glass of wild turkey in one hand and a glock in the other, aiming through narrowing eyes at a target, a teddy bear for fuck's sake. It's hear where we see the tragedy. He was consumed by his willingness to close people out, to not accept people, save for a few precious days. He wanted only love, he could only breed mistrust. He never told the world to love him, we did anyways. Because when times are strange, when politics appears at its most absolute fucked up situation, Hunter S. Thompson was there to make us laugh, to remind us that shit hadn't hit the fan yet, that the world was still relatively sane, but heading down a long road of fear and loathing, toward the catharthis when the world will be spun upside down, distracting us yet again from the conventions we have, until another one just like him comes along, and you know it'll be one of his disciples, one with the power to change and voice an opinion so crazy enough to be thought of as true. Remember what he told when he said "Walk tall, kick ass, learn to speak Arabic, love music and never forget that you come from a long line of truth seekers, lovers and warriors." We are the truth seekers, lovers and warriors. We are as special as we can be, and thanks to him, no matter what, the world is coming into its own, and he'll sit some where with a glass of Wild Turkey, his trademark Gonzo glasses, and a smile on his face, laughing his fucking head off.

I guess what I want to say is thank you, Hunter. Thank you for giving me a direction in life. Thank you for letting me know that politics isn't about who's winning the race, who's fucking who, or even who's doing what, politics is all bullshit. You truly are the greatest, and I hope you and yours find peace wherever it may lay, be it above Aspen and the mountains, or in the somewhere around Barstow in the middle of the desert. Shine on you crazy diamond.

2005-02-07T21:18:00.000-07:00

tendrils of smoke
are the misty cloak
covering eyes
with utter surprise
letting no thought
to wisdom untaught
voidless whims
in it love swims
following a stream
a boundless dream
quelled summer sun
i wish for just one
squallid hopes
entangled in ropes
the lines have been crossed
now all hope has lost
forget what you know
watch the wind blow
see where the seed
will finally recede
the earth is tainted
like a bench spray-painted
earthen desires
flicker like camp-fires
dropping anchor
like so much rancor
question your will
eat your fill
swallow
live
breath
again

2005-01-26T18:27:00.000-07:00

Dressed up in Stone Island shirts and Doc Martens, clinging to ticket stubs, clinging to the vain hope that they will something this night, they trudge into the stadium, under the floodlights, preparing for it all to rush over. You hear "that new centre-back is shite, where they playin' that young striker, saw 'im play up at Forest, fuck me, he's got pace." The field, green and alight, glazed over with a fine dusting of an afternoon sprinkle, glows like epic, sparkling field. In the stands, three-thousand black and white clad supporters are seperated from a jeering red and white mob by a partition of policeman, in some places 10 wide, keeping order. In the West Stand, the policeman are in full riot gear. This could be a battleground. It has been in the past, that Boxing Day in 1977 when the crowd erupted into violence never seen. Inner-City Jibbers and Toon Army factions battling over the terraces for supremacy. Tonight, former Crew leaders sit with their son's, Lacoste polo shirts and Burberry caps covering up old tatoos of dying Liverpool fans and the crest of the club they still hold the most loyal of allegiance to. The crews are just a ghost now, of course. No Inter City Firm, no Headhunters, no Zulu Crew, not anymore. They've all gone now and grown up and realized charging into crowds with machetes and hacking off limbs isn't necessarily the best way to go about business, and that getting a dart stuck in your head is never going to feel good. So tonight, when Shearer runs out the tunnel in his black and white, everyone knowing full-well he would've one a shite's eye more trophies and honours at United, give him a boo. But don't sing the song in which Shearer get's his bollocks cut off by a hacksaw. Tonight, its the FA Cup, Beckham's running out on the right, Giggs on the left, Yorke and Cole up front, Jip Jaap Stam and Ronny Johnsen in the back, Neville and Neville, Scholes and Keano in the middle. And Smeichs in goal, tall, blonde, unforgiving. The relentless attack gives great pace to the match, Yorke scores a great individual goal early on, the Stretford End is in raptures. Then just before the half hour mark, Cole is sent into the box with a fantastic weighted ball by Giggs, he controls it with one touch, flicks it over Robert Lee, then rifles a brilliant right-footed blast past Shay Given. Sir Bobby is livid. His trenchcoat down to his shoes, he screams Cockney obscenities. The half is called with the crowd buzzing with general abboration, basking in the glow of a 2-nil lead so early in the match. At half-time, in confidence, Sir Alex puts on Ole Gunnar Solksjaer, the baby-faced assassin, later of Barcelona fame. But the half doesn't go well, sixty-six minutes on, Shearer gets a ball from young Kieron Dyer, so glorious that Shearer will later attest to its Gazza-like similarities. Shearer flicks the ball past Johnsen, stumbles, but with the far outside of his right boot, catches the bottom of the ball and lofts in a fantastic goal to Smeichel's outstretched left-glove. It doesn't look good for the Reds, Guiv'arch comes close, so does Gary Speed. And again, its Shearer, Alan Fucking Shearer, recieving a splendid through ball from the aforementioned Welshman, he runs on to it, stops to evade Gaz Nev, then slides the ball past the Great Dane, its all tied up, and theres eighty-five minutes gone. Its now stoppage time. Out of nothing, United attack, against the flow of play. Keano and Giggs connect for some creative passes. Giggs on the far left sends a cross field ball for Beckham. Which he traps well, spreading Robert Lee. The gap the ball made is enough for Solksjaer, and he bursts into the space, calling for the ball, he recieves the ball, pulls a trick on Titus Bramble, evades his outstretched right boot, skips into the box with defenders closing in. He looks up, back peals, executes a perfect rilouette, then looks up once more. Off the side of his boot, he lofts a fantastic ball for the far corner. Running on is Dwight Yorke, his head connecting with the ball, right into the bottom corner. Yorke runs to the Stretford End. "Get the fuck up!" he screams, and they do! He is mobbed by team-mates, even Jaap Stam runs forward for this one. Manchester United 3 Newcastle United 2. Aaaaah, when the boys in the Red played like that!

You Might Be a Phish/Deadhead If....

2005-01-21T10:53:00.000-07:00

35 minutes doesn't seem that long to you

People constantly ask you what you're smiling about

You understand that there are few things better than THAT solo in Disease or you are in the midst of one of Jerry's signature loopy jams, rising higher and higher, then you think its done, then he just keeps going and going for 1o minute and you can't commit to anything but the jam

Numbers like 6-11-94, 12-14-97, 12-31-99, 2-28-03 mean more to you than your birthday

5-8-77 ISN'T the best show, but that Scarlet > Fire is absolutely ridiculous

You know what the word bunk, molly, 6-up, custie, n00b, shakedown, kickback, heady, dank, and buddha mean, there real meanings

Your nuggets have no chicken in it

Dank isn't describing a dark basement

you listen to 73-74 Dead without Mickey, and you can feel something missing

You want to take a pilgrimage to the Ranch, Haight-Ashbury, Burlington, La Honda and Muir Beach

Every New Years Eve just doesn't feel quite right

Your two favorite covers are Roses are Free and Johnny B. Goode

You know who Russo is

You put garlic on your grilled cheese

Contact speaks absolute truth to you

You've had battles over who is a greater songwriter, Tom or John Perry Barlow, and your adversary finally concedes that Guelah doesn't hold a candle to Looks Like Rain

Gamehendge is your favorite story

You have at least three Dead shirts and three Phish shirts, you so can switch hit everyday of the week if you wanted to

You bought the End of the Road DVD and it was broken, but for those 30 minutes that it worked, you were on every lot there'd ever been, smelling the pot, the sizzling onions and peppers, hearing the monotonous "where's my miracle" and "garlic grilled cheese, only a buck, what the fuck" chants for all eternity, finally getting what you've realized for so long, that if you could have anything in the world, you'd have tour back more than anything

The Vegas DVD narraration disgusts you now (17 more years Trey?)

Yonder Mountain shows make you miss them that much more, especially when Jeff will bust out a They Love Each Other or a I Know You Rider

You have friends from Chicago, Washington, DC, Seattle, New Jersey, NYC, Long Island, San Diego, Wisconsin, BC, and you can't wait to see them again

You just might have to finally see String Cheese this summer, and can't wait to see Shanti Groove in March

The last Wading ever will always make you cry, and watching the video makes it much more real, and you realize what you missed out by not being there, and not being born in the right time kills you

Standing on the Moon sends shivers up your spine, especially on August ninth

Whenever you see a steal your face sticker, the skull and roses, an antelope crossing sign, or 4:20 for that matter, your mind will go back to everything they've ever done for you

Smoking without them is like smoking without a phatty 15 rolled into a J or a fat bowl loaded into a piece

You've finally admitted that life will truly never seem normal without Phish touring, and that if you could, you'd go to that show every day

You can honestly say that they changed your life for the better, that life is amazing everyday having them around, they make you smile more than any of your friends, and when ever shit in your life gets a little too loud and a little to banal, you could slip a disc in that you know you've heard hundreds of times, but you find out that you can hear a little drop of the bass line from Mike, another Rhythm Devils beat that'll beat your face, Trey's signature groove, the pre-hiatus groove, the wild and brazen Trey, unafraid and unabashed, a crazy Trey face, squinting his eyes or staring off into the crowd to dig off someones energy for a little bit, a new note from Page, dominating the keys, truly the chairman of the boards, the harmonizing of Weir, up and down, up and down, trying to follow the old man, Lesh just taking it for a while, beckoning an Estimated Prophet if he fucking feels like it, Pigpen thrashing and keeping the band stable, Godchaux, along with his wife, making the most beautiful harmonies, Myd, man, nothing like Myd, you always have to listen to Myd a few times, and Welnick, trying to feel something thats been around for too long. And of course, the Old Man, when he plays or sings, you listen. You listen to every single lick of the guitar, every little vibration, every time he opens his mouth, beautiful words spring forth, remaking the world, recrafting an artform to make it more less unstale and interesting again, challenging you to doubt, but knowing the whole while he couldn't give a fuck if you dug him or not, because he was going to keep playing that guitar and no matter what, he would show you that his way was the right way, he was the truth in the world, he was the musical messiah, we are his disciples, but he wouldn't want us to call him that. he loved all of us, and we loved him, and everytime he plays his guitar, the spirit embedded in those strings changes a few more lives. he is the man of the century, the greatest human to ever live, he is the one and the only

my letter to sean hannity

2005-01-13T19:31:00.000-07:00

Dear Sean, My name is Brendan Ward, I'm a seventeen year-old high school junior from Helena, Montana, no bastion of liberalism as I'm sure you're well aware. I'm asking you, if you have any decency in your heart, and any responsibility left in your soul, to please stop doing what you continue to do. please stop your radio show, your television show, your website. end it all. the united states of america is reverted decades backward everytime you open up your mouth. i'm very sure that you are aware that you are having a detrimental affect to the american physhce, causing considerable damage to its much esteemed national fabric. every turn of phrase by you sends shivers down my spine. your narcissism is incomprehensible, even for someone, like me, who is the self-proclaimed "grooviest cat ever." i'm sure you're well aware of that, however. sean, from one irishman to another, from one human being to another, if you cared at all for humankind, and our progression as a species, you would immediately stop doing what you're doing. you are slowing down our evolution, holding every single achievement we've made from the acquisition of an opposable thumb, to the creation of democracy, to the development of american society as we know it, back. in fact, sean, although you are still in your mid-50's, its quite possible that by the time you reach your more ripe and vulnerable years, your tyranny will be far-reaching and flagrant. i'm sorry if this offends you in anyway, dear shawn, but you have to realize my, and the entire worlds discontent with you. unfortunately, i fear, this request will fall on deaf ears. please sean, grant me my one wish. stop. take a holiday, take some time, collect yourself, do some reading, begin to know things, but quit making yourself available to be seen on tv, to be heard on radio, or to be read about on the internet. thank you, and have a pleasant evening.
cordially yours
brendan ward (grooviest cat ever)

2005-01-12T22:20:00.000-07:00

Ending of life ain't nothing to fear
When you live each day like it was a year
Take all the sequenced time you need
To hike up that mountain or stop, sit and read
Collect your thoughts everyday
Never let moments of joy slip away
Tackle your heart wherever it flutters
And catch the name your lips softly mutters
Breathe in hope, let out doubt
Figure out what this shit is all about
Challenge yourself to write in rhyme
Make sure its clear, not jumbled like last time
Forget the pain she brought to your heart
Enjoy each moment that you are apart
Struggle to grasp infinitesimal things
Be glad of the gifts that knowing brings
Listen to the voice far in your mind
Use two eyes in order to find
Trample hard across roads long and deep
And on nights like this, write, don't sleep
Inhabit a corner of life for awhile
Use your entire face just to smile
You're unique, just like everyone
If your eyes are closed, you'll never see the sun
Remember that Jerry lives in your heart
Take gentle solace in truly knowing his art
He reshaped your world, squinted your eyes
And when it became, to your surprise
A comfort was reached you'd never'd know
And you'd found a compartment for emotion to stow
The strings of your soul reverberated again
Because living right now is the best thats it been

Need A Little Trust

2004-12-27T01:35:00.000-07:00

Since when is it a bad idea to feel attached to somebody? Since when is it a bad idea to run from your feelings, and try to sever them from yourself? in my experience never. i was walking one day, on top of this mountain, and it was my birthday, and i kept thinking about this girl, kept thinking what she was up to, kept thinking what she was doing. it was the sphinx, and its 10,876 feet tall, and when you look west, the Madison meanders through its lush valley, and when you look south, the Taylor Peaks stand like twin sentinels amidst of clutter of badly organized foothills, escarped with vernal features that attract your gaze from across miles and miles of wilderness inhabited by the fiercest fucking bear in the world. on top of the mountain, the three kids from bozeman talk about class, you talk a little about kerouac, a little about kesey, a little about garcia, weir, kreutzman, hart, lesh, and pigpen (because you were listening to a whole lot of 68-71 Dead back then, and never were too fond of the godchaux's, although Donna Jean's harmonizing on Looks Like Rain from 5-5-77 is something you need to check out) and all the while thinking about this girl. you find it strange, at your age, and with your mindstate, to believe that you could ever be so wound up on a girl. a girl that hasn't even sucked your dick yet. but there it is. there she is. and as you gaze 1000 feet below you into the Indian Creek Valley, knowing that you shouldn't be so cavalier about hanging on to such a thin precipice, you realize that life isn't about worrying about this girl, life is all about being with this girl, or any girl, or anybody. life is about sharing time with the ones who make you smile and make you happy. and jerry garcia is dead, and i miss him. and when he plays that bluegrass, it sounds almost as good as when he hangs on that word lad-y in Terrapin Station, or goes up and down to beckon Dark Star, yeah, MY Dark Star, the one with the eleven minute intro, the jam in the middle that lasts fifteen, making it around thirty or forty minutes long, depends how long it takes for HIM to spill those liquid, poetic lyrics into your ears. wow, you say, thats even better than before, i didn't hear those percocious little beats by Kreutz (you know its Bill, because you always know his little rythmic pounding), or wow, bobby is really laying it down tonight, i didn't realize how OFF and ON he really was, he was out there, but he was right on. and i dig that. i dig the fact that JERRY would always look up and stare into the atmosphere, gaining power from all of those greats that went before; hendrix, morrison (who i think gave him some soul), russell, and bill henderson. taking his notes higher and higher, he clings to the ceiling, he clings to the life he has created, wrought with the impression that he CANNOT do any wrong. every note is intentful, every inflection necessary, every lyric meant. nothing was spoiled, his missing digit only satisfying the masses more. just imagine if he had it! That finger could've rocked this world into bliss, into utopia, JERRY, we miss you. i've never felt your touch like i did until last night, when you sat right in front of me with your banjo and you sang me that song, and you made me cry, and you said to take her back, that there will always be time for her, that i was right, she was worth it. i think that needed to happen. i needed to hear that as i embarked on this trip abandon that i call Infusion, which is nothing more than my own adjective for a trip to Hawaii, but no matter what, i'll remember what you said JERRY, i felt it, and i felt that you were right, she is worth it, she is the best, she will realize it someday, and you and i will help her.

and no i wasn't high

Whoever Sent Me feedback....

2004-12-21T15:52:00.000-07:00

I appreciated it very much. Hit me on AIM at DrGonzo21204 please

France Rocks, Ban Bill O'Reilly

2004-12-02T19:33:00.000-07:00

I have stayed quiet for far too long. I have bit my lip for the past three years. I swore I wouldn't say anything. Then yesterday, I was in need of a good laugh, so I laugh, so i flipped on the The O'Reilly Factor. Now let me tell you, I love Bill O'Reilly. He is one of the most humble men on the planet. And he never lies, which is rare in mainstream media. Oh, and also, he's never wrong, which he'll be sure to point out to you. His opinion is the only opinion in the world that matters or is logical or makes sense. In fact, why not make Bill O'Reilly president of the United States?
This is why I despise Bill O'Reilly. I will try to keep this short. No, you're right, I won't. I never really had a problem with Bill O'Reilly until I saw his tv show. I was astounded by his narcissism. It honestly made me very, very angry the first time I heard him speak. He has an intentional slightly fast-paced cadence, with minor to major vocal inflections that are neither aesthetically appealing to my ear, nor believable, because this man changes his allegiances at the drop of the hat, in order to retain his "the spin stops here, fair and balanced" mantra. In reality, Bill is the king of spin. As I recall, at the start of my sojourn watching his blubbering, sell out (yeah, he's a sell-out, Irish-Catholics CANNOT be Republicans, it's almost as inconcievable as African-American's being Republican) figure on tv, he was very kind to the Bush administration. This was pre-September 11th, mind you, and the monumental failures of the Bush administration were still a hope in John Ashcroft's and Karl Rove's brains. He never seemed to me to be a moderate person, yet at the end of every episode (i call them episodes because thats what they are) he would say "we report, you decide" or my favorite "fair and balanced." I'd often ask myself, who the fuck does this guy think he's fucking? Not me, thats for damn sure. I read through the bullshit, some of it was so high, i needed a ladder to stay above it all. He clearly had the morons impressed, however. Everynight, he'd read mail from his adoring fans from all across this nation, all the while, having a despicably evil smile crawl across his face whilst trying to keep his hard-on down to a miminally small growth. His views got more and more outrageous, boycott this, ban that, Rap this, Rap that. It was obvious to everyone who knows things that he wasn't moderate at all. In fact, Bill O'Reilly is one of the most conservative voices in news media. Which made it very interesting the day he turned against his base, even himself, belying everything he'd ever said, and told the world he was disappointed that Bush misled us into war!
Now that may not sound so surprising, but remember, it was Bill O'Reilly, the chickenhawk. His adrenaline was at a fever pitch in November 2002, and it seemed like a moment of absolute catharthis for him when the bombs finally started falling on Baghdad on March 19th, 2003. His hard on at full mast, his shirt tucked in, he figured himself a Walter Cronkite-type news agent ready to report on the news. However, Walter Cronkite's Walter Cronkite, and Bill O'Reilly is no Walter Cronkite. His war report was biased, his message was that of disgusting bloodlust, and his motives seemed to be pure and savage visceral hatred of the enemy. And then, when no WMD's were found, Bill O'Reilly was "disgruntled, disenchanted, and angry" about our reasons for entering Iraq. Welcome to the club, Bill. The Human Club. Let me take your jacket.
So during this whole lead up to war, and the miserable disaster that followed, Bill O'Reilly ordered a boycott of France. Really, Bill? Boycott France? Rather difficult when its a country. In fact, impossible. Has the boycott dented the French economy? Absolutely not! Has the French boycott had any effects, other than producing a lorryload full of tasteless bumper stickers and license plate holders. And anyways, France rocks! Paris, Marseille, Caen, Nice, Rouen, Brittany, Mount St. Michel!! Come on, Bill, even your tubby ass has to admit that France is one of the most beautiful nations on Earth! Its people are seen as arrogant and myopic. And this is coming from Americans! Fuck you, Bill O'Reilly, you're nothing more than a massive tool.

Do these things and your life won't suck

2004-11-30T22:14:00.000-07:00

Dream Once; Dream From Far Away
Dream like she is still important to you
Imagine the feeling you will never feel
Congratulate those who do better than you
Contend with those who think they are better than you
Understand why life works in the ways that it does
Never forget anything
But feel empathy.
Touch the sky
Kiss the earth
Love everybody
Determine your Own path
Stay on it, no matter what
Never care too much
Always play your favorite song, no matter how many time’s you’ve heard it
Be Annoyed with the mundane
Stand up for yourself, as well as others
Cringe at your past failures
Always be open
Always give advice
Always take advice
Always take compliments
Always welcome criticism
Understand that you never will understand why she did this to you
Know that it is probably better that way
Surrender to the flow once in a while
Listen to Phish, and thank them
Remember that one night in July when time seemed perfect
Never Forget important people in your life
Call your great grandmother
Smell the flowers
Hug everybody who has a bad day
Give people your favorite cd’s to listen to
Don’t Despair
Let inspiration move you brightly
Remember that you used to be a genius
Forgive her, she’s being her, and I’m being me
Touch people with your words
Touch people with your ideas
Imagine what life would be like without being able to feel this good
Write for your own god-damned sanity
Write so you can have something to say about your life
Keep moments, like playing soccer with your friends every Wednesday night, in your mind forever
Remember those two weeks, the weeks of her and I
Remember them as the best two weeks you’ve ever had
Remember that they are all over now
Stop and think about Dean Moriarty, and the father they never found
Preach about the perils of Catholicism
Always stick it to the Man
Be everyone’s friend
Tell the Truth
Embellish the Truth, sometimes
Write like you know how
Appreciate the beauty of teenage life, it’s simplicity and it’s complexity
Destroy your mind with television
Remember that Joyce, Kerouac, Kesey, and Hemingway are you best friends
Forgive everyone, but forgive yourself first
Become everybody’s friend
Never settle
Sit and listen to the Grateful Dead once in a while
And Smile
And think of Jerry

Helena and Weed

2004-11-30T21:39:00.000-07:00

It was one of those mornings, you know the morning’s I’m talking about; the ones where you are so tired you haven’t even touched your dick yet, and you aren’t wearing any underwear and you stare at your ceiling with a feeling of every intensifying banality increasing from the very depths of your bowels. You lean over to the opposite side of the bed to scan a quick glance at the clock: buzzing one-eleven in hachured, red letters. Damn, you think, its sticky hot out today. The smoke from the forest fires penetrates your olfactories. Burning heat enters your room, but you are stuck in a tangled web of light emerald bed sheets, twisting around you like the intertwines of an immense spiders web. A web of lies, possibly, that you’ve been trying to detach yourself from. When you’ve felt the banality reach a fever pitch, you rescind hold of the situation, and lay on your bed, naked, your dick hanging low, your hairy chest glistening with sweat, and the surreal notion that life ain’t what its cracked up to be, threatening to spoil your day.
You find yourself at two thirty two stretching in your living room for a run you probably won’t go on, but feel good enough about running that you’ve put on socks and shorts. Yeah, you think, now I’m ready. If I go on this run, she’ll go out with me, that god-damned girl will go out with me, the girl of my dreams? I don’t know, I don’t know much about shit like that, I confess. I really don’t think I need to feel this way.
So as you run, you see the hopelessness of it all. You’re tired, you’re groggy. You’ve been smoking and drinking for about a week, your body doesn’t react kindly. In fact, you feel downright shitty. And you huff and puff for a half a mile, the same half a mile you ran as a child The same damn half a mile is giving you a heart attack today. Quit smoking, quit drinking: smooth.
You come back home with a feeling of shallow accomplishment. You aren’t happy with your efforts, but it matters nought. You enter the basement, cool and all dark. Its 90 degrees outside, but its all cool and all dark in the basement. You turn on the TV, and what do you see? Iraq, the quagmire, deaths again. Fuck, how many soldiers are going to die? Why are these kids dying like this? This one lost an arm, this one got decapitated. In the longest recesses of time, no human being will ever find an accord with war. No war is humane, no war is necessary, and no war is true. A war is a fiction, it’s a nothingness, a vast ocean of intangibility. It’s essence is unexplainable, its message is incomprehensible and its goal is savagely and obediently visceral and undetermined. The deaths of those who are innocent, on both sides, is completely irrational. The sadness, the collective grief the world feels over this conflict, is something stratospheric. It shouldn’t be like this. We should all share the joy of brotherhood and sisterhood, and live like real humans. Without the necessity to get rich and destroy, without the possibility of fearing each other. Without it all, we are free.
If you smoke weed and live in Helena, Montana, get used to parking lots. Get used to three hours spent in a hot car, with three annoyed people, blaring everything from Blink 182 to Phish to Bob Marley to 50 Cent to the Grateful Dead. Get used to deals falling through, an ever present authoritarian presence, and the intense scrutiny of someone watching your every move. Get used to paranoia. Rampant paranoia. Get used to parking lots for fast food cravings. Get used to waiting for people who never show up. Get used to cell phones ringing in a chorus. Get used to the feeling that yeah, you are doing something wrong, but not having the brains or the balls to stay out of it. Get used to the smell. Get used to that aroma, the pine-skunk aroma, that will always get you excited. Get used to biting your nails, staring blankly around, having no recollection of anything. Having just woke up or just went swimming, you don’t know. Everything feels like you dreamed it, and the dreams you dream are vivid and real, so much so that you feel you are one with the intense, pragmatic moment, and voice. You think about things, you think about being dust underneath a broom, the fine line of dust that isn’t accepted into the dust pan. You are just there, existing, waiting to be swept away into nothingness, into the far gone expanses of time. Envisioning your own demise, yeah, you’ve done it. You’ve gone out whilst slipping off a mountain, falling into Yellow Mules Country, off the big cliff, and down. Into the Indian Creek Valley. Silent and beautiful, a downed butterfly. Yeah, you’d go out like that if you could, you thought. Then you take another suck, and your mouth feels like its full of cotton and pennies. And you realize, shit, why not just stay here for a while, stay here with your friends, and toke up. And play some music, and talk about the old days. No ladies, although they are coming soon, no curfew, although you have three hours until you need to be worried, and no matter what, you swear to god or Allah or whoever, that this is the place you will always want to be. With your best friends, smoking the finest herb, listening to the finest music, and drifting off steadily and captivatingly close to Nirvana. The perfect place. The perfect time and place. The immense green valley beneath the mountains of snowy caps. And in that valley lies everybody you’ve ever met, yes that girl who pisses you off now is there, the girl who still makes you want to do a double take, with her long legs, and long brown hair, hanging and swaying. The band that changed your life is there, Jerry is there. There is a stadium there, filled with thousands of fans, all grooving to the groove he gave us. The drink of choice is lemonade, there are steaks on a pit and ribs too. And a big bowl of mashed potatoes. A wooden bowl, with a large wooden spoon, and you dip the spoon in deep, and eat from it. Everyone is laughing here, the guy who makes the koala bear joke is over there, dressed up for the cd. And as you see the beauty in the valley under the moon, you realize the only thing missing is that dream girl, the one who’ll change everything for you, the one who knows the answer to every question you’ve ever wanted to ask. Why was it called the Island Tour? (Because they played two shows on Long Island, and two shows in Rhode Island). How did Neal Cassady die? (Face down on a train track in Mexico, drugs being the cause). Every question. She’ll be tall, so I can groove with her. She’ll look me in the eyes. She’ll tell me what I mean to her. She’ll smoke with me. She’ll be so beautiful, she’ll have tan skin and dark hair, and it will be long and there will be roses in it. We’ll climb mountains, we’ll make love, and we’ll share things. Everything. I will tell her everything. She will tell me everything. We will go places, and we’ll sit out and look at people who are in the same situation as us, and smile. Because there is no feeling better when I am with her. Her name is Annie, and she’s from Carmel, California. She is laid-back, she is a hipster. We get down to some serious business, we dig everything. The Northwest is our domain. We haunt it. We are the ghosts with the voyagers spirit, irreconcilable miles we’ve traveled. Days we will have spent. "Love is in the air, I know it is. It’s all up to you, it’s all up to you." The wonders of the root, the smell, the thoughts it brings you, the visions. Wow, there is the girl of my dreams, standing ahead of me. And I’m opening all of the doors. She is so beautiful, we are so beautiful. This world is so fucking beautiful.

Just the Beginning

2004-10-18T20:35:00.000-07:00

Harrison Street was burning, in the ill-timed, delightful way the street you’ve seen everyday of your life burns on the day you leave it forever. With those long trees in the background, the castle house in the foreground, and the upper ridges and folds of Mount Helena, not too far away. A symphony of sounds; the wind in the trees, leaves being crushed by the feet of the movers. All with the intent of leaving that place forever, never returning to your city in the trees, the place where you grew up, the place in which every single important event in your life occurred; the first toke, the first make out, the first tit feel, the first beer, the first time you uttered "I love you" and really meant it. All in that neighborhood. Where you met that girl, where you laughed with your friends on your front porch in August, watching the bats crisscross through the trees. Watching that god-damned dog, "Chelsea, Chelsea" stealing a few glances from behind the hedge. You remember those thoughts as you stare on your lawn looking around, taking it all in. And as you see your couch being lifted onto a large truck, you understand that life in this wonderful land is really beginning to end. You gaze into your empty house, hardwood floors once inhabited by your toy soldiers, a corner in your kitchen that once held a plant. White book cases that once held a myriad of books; from Herr to Joyce to McDonald Fraser to that naked lady in the leaves. The entertainment center with the Magnavox, that remote controller utilized by myself like a samurai utilizes his sword. I knew that thing inside and out. The bedroom where I would wake my parents up every summer morning with a countdown to my birthday. And in the backyard, scenes of my birthday with the Batey’s, the Metropolous’s, and the Shue’s, down in New Mexico now. The horse chestnut tree, unable to deflect a basketball shot. The red fence we painted, the brick walkway outside that made me feel good to finish. And the alleyway, where I’d see a car drive down it as often as I saw an airplane land in it. Where my golf club was an M1 Garand and I was an American soldier fighting in World War Two. Outside is my brother’s window, where I would survey things, and those last couple of mornings when you swore to god that there was a mist in the Rappaport’s yard. But alas, those memories aren’t anything to worry about anymore.
To be seventeen, and have your life savagely undetermined, walking ever closer to that line of banality that stretches your contact lenses just a little to thin, and pervades those existential parts of you that exist only in the midst of thirteen thousand others exactly like you. Where you go, you have no idea, but when you get there, you are grateful that you are there, with no particular destination in mind, just cruising down the street with four of your best friends, talking about the things in life that make the world go around for us; girls and sex. And you often too unsure about either one.

Yeah, I know...

2004-10-12T19:34:00.000-07:00

It was one of those mornings, you know the morning’s I’m talking about; the ones where you are so tired you haven’t even touched your dick yet, and you aren’t wearing any underwear and you stare at your ceiling with a feeling of every intensifying banality increasing from the very depths of your bowels. You lean over to the opposite side of the bed to scan a quick glance at the clock: buzzing one-eleven in hachured, red letters. Damn, you think, its sticky hot out today. The smoke from the forest fires penetrates your olfactories. Burning heat enters your room, but you are stuck in a tangled web of light emerald bed sheets, twisting around you like the intertwines of an immense spiders web. A web of lies, possibly, that you’ve been trying to detach yourself from. When you’ve felt the banality reach a fever pitch, you rescind hold of the situation, and lay on your bed, naked, your dick hanging low, your hairy chest glistening with sweat, and the surreal notion that life ain’t what its cracked up to be, threatening to spoil your day.
You find yourself at two thirty two stretching in your living room for a run you probably won’t go on, but feel good enough about running that you’ve put on socks and shorts. Yeah, you think, now I’m ready. If I go on this run, she’ll go out with me, that god-damned girl will go out with me, the girl of my dreams? I don’t know, I don’t know much about shit like that, I confess. I really don’t think I need to feel this way.
So as you run, you see the hopelessness of it all. You’re tired, you’re groggy. You’ve been smoking and drinking for about a week, your body doesn’t react kindly. In fact, you feel downright shitty. And you huff and puff for a half a mile, the same half a mile you ran as a child The same damn half a mile is giving you a heart attack today. Quit smoking, quit drinking: smooth.
You come back home with a feeling of shallow accomplishment. You aren’t happy with your efforts, but it matters nought. You enter the basement, cool and all dark. Its 90 degrees outside, but its all cool and all dark in the basement. You turn on the TV, and what do you see? Iraq, the quagmire, deaths again. Fuck, how many soldiers are going to die? Why are these kids dying like this? This one lost an arm, this one got decapitated. In the longest recesses of time, no human being will ever find an accord with war. No war is humane, no war is necessary, and no war is true. A war is a fiction, it’s a nothingness, a vast ocean of intangibility. It’s essence is unexplainable, its message is incomprehensible and its goal is savagely and obediently visceral and undetermined. The deaths of those who are innocent, on both sides, is completely irrational. The sadness, the collective grief the world feels over this conflict, is something stratospheric. It shouldn’t be like this. We should all share the joy of brotherhood and sisterhood, and live like real humans. Without the necessity to get rich and destroy, without the possibility of fearing each other. Without it all, we are free.
If you smoke weed and live in Helena, Montana, get used to parking lots. Get used to three hours spent in a hot car, with three annoyed people, blaring everything from Blink 182 to Phish to Bob Marley to 50 Cent to the Grateful Dead. Get used to deals falling through, an ever present authoritarian presence, and the intense scrutiny of someone watching your every move. Get used to paranoia. Rampant paranoia. Get used to parking lots for fast food cravings. Get used to waiting for people who never show up. Get used to cell phones ringing in a chorus. Get used to the feeling that yeah, you are doing something wrong, but not having the brains or the balls to stay out of it. Get used to the smell. Get used to that aroma, the pine-skunk aroma, that will always get you excited. Get used to biting your nails, staring blankly around, having no recollection of anything. Having just woke up or just went swimming, you don’t know. Everything feels like you dreamed it, and the dreams you dream are vivid and real, so much so that you feel you are one with the intense, pragmatic moment, and voice. You think about things, you think about being dust underneath a broom, the fine line of dust that isn’t accepted into the dust pan. You are just there, existing, waiting to be swept away into nothingness, into the far gone expanses of time. Envisioning your own demise, yeah, you’ve done it. You’ve gone out whilst slipping off a mountain, falling into Yellow Mules Country, off the big cliff, and down. Into the Indian Creek Valley. Silent and beautiful, a downed butterfly. Yeah, you’d go out like that if you could, you thought. Then you take another suck, and your mouth feels like its full of cotton and pennies. And you realize, shit, why not just stay here for a while, stay here with your friends, and toke up. And play some music, and talk about the old days. No ladies, although they are coming soon, no curfew, although you have three hours until you need to be worried, and no matter what, you swear to god or Allah or whoever, that this is the place you will always want to be. With your best friends, smoking the finest herb, listening to the finest music, and drifting off steadily and captivatingly close to Nirvana. The perfect place. The perfect time and place. The immense green valley beneath the mountains of snowy caps. And in that valley lies everybody you’ve ever met, yes that girl who pisses you off now is there, the girl who still makes you want to do a double take, with her long legs, and long brown hair, hanging and swaying. The band that changed your life is there, Jerry is there. There is a stadium there, filled with thousands of fans, all grooving to the groove he gave us. The drink of choice is lemonade, there are steaks on a pit and ribs too. And a big bowl of mashed potatoes. A wooden bowl, with a large wooden spoon, and you dip the spoon in deep, and eat from it. Everyone is laughing here, the guy who makes the koala bear joke is over there, dressed up for the cd. But you realize that the only thing missing is the sound of her voice, from afar, and you listen for it. and you hear it, and its calling you home, calling you back to 1st grade when you met her first, calling you back to that bus ride that reintroduced you to her, and calling her back to kiss you planted on her. calling her back is what you've always wanted to do. she is so fucking amazing.

"This could be the last time..."

2004-09-26T03:13:00.000-07:00

maybe it was that when phish broke up, i felt totally unconnected from the rest of the world, and needed something tangible which i could grasp and take hold of again, something unfiltered and uncommercial, something that made me feel just as good, and something that i could understand as being uniformly and without doubt, reality. or maybe it was because all roads led to you, and we were introduced to each other on a night long ago for a reason, maybe the reasons you think differ from mine. but we all differ from each other. and nobody is ever right. yet for some reason, i figured that what we had was something that we could both share joy in, both have fun with and both understand. now, that is not the case. and i don't know what to do. i wouldn't say i've had to deal with a whole lot of shitty times in my life, i live in an amazingly beautiful town, i get to wake up everyday to food and a hot shower, i get a lot of things from my parents, and i have a lot of freedoms, so i'm never going to be depressed. i just am feeling really, really bummed right now, and you're not necessarily the root cause of it. class > sports > yonder mountain string band not working out, has all been building up inside of me, and whenever i get the chance, i spill my thoughts like this. but last night, when you kept turning your back on me after we were done dancing, i felt you were telling me something, that i wasn't wanted anymore. maybe for a moment i was wanted, but not for long. i can honestly say that i enjoy spending time with you, and every moment we both shared that was somewhat meaningful i still remember and it puts a smile on my face. i'm just asking you to chose; do you want this thing to work out or not? because i do. and if you don't, i'll move on. believe me, it will take a while, and it will suck for a while, but i just want things to be like they were between us, when we were just starting out, when we were always game to hang out or talk or whatever. and if you don't want that again, just let me know. and if the only way we can normalize this situation is for us to be friends, let me know. i understand thoroughly. i just want to know why you feel like you can't talk with me or articulate your dischords. i'm an understanding person, and apparently easy to talk to. so why can't you tell me the reasons for my shitty feelings? please take this to heart and make some attempt to respond back to me. because every single day, when i'm bored in class or carl straub is giving me shit or i'm falling asleep or hiking to the top of the Sphinx or playing FIFA 2004, it is always 10:36 in my book.

standing on the moon
got no cobwebs on my shoe
standing on the moon
i feel so alone
i see the gulf of mexico
as tiny as a tear
the gulf of california
must be somewhere over here, over here

Standing on the moon
I see the battle rage below
Standing on the moon
I see the soldiers come and go
There's a metal flag beside me
Someone planted long ago
Old Glory standing stiffly
Crimson, white and indigo - indigo

I see all of Southeast Asia
I can see El Salvador
I hear the cries of children
And the other songs of war
It's like a mighty melody
that rings down from the sky
Standing here upon the moon
I watch it all roll by - all roll by

Standing on the moonWith nothing else to do
A lovely view of heaven
But I'd rather be with you
Standing on the moon I see a shadow on the sun

Standing on the moon
The stars go fading one by one
I hear a cry of victory
And another of defeat
a scrap of age-old lullaby Down some forgotten street

Standing on the moon
Where talk is cheap and vision true
Standing on the moon
But I would rather be with you
Somewhere in San Francisco
On a back porch in July
Just looking up to heaven
At this crescent in the sky

Standing on the moon
With nothing left to do
A lovely view of heaven
But I'd rather be with you - be with you.

my thoughts exactly

The Best Phish Article Ever

2004-09-05T23:32:00.000-07:00

THE MOMENT ENDS? By Jonathan Kiefer
Years ago, that was us, the nascent Phish Nation, honking audience participation into "Stash" on the horns of our Saabs, snowboards roofr acked; haunting head shops, you know...as if; hauling out the dusty four-track recorders, making trouble for the other members of our INXS cover-bands; loping, lacrosse sticks in our hands, through the halls of prep school dorms, having sought music that could be ours but couldn't be ruined, music impervious to overplay on the radio or at the prom, having scoured the college radio stations for some kind of awakening. We had found it.We'd been told we had to hear this. Vermont-spawned quartet, unlikeanything: frontman Trey Anastasio, lead vocals and guitar; Page McConnell, keyboards; John Fishman, drums; Mike Gordon, bass. At first, we might have hated it. Or started off skeptical. Listened impatiently, wondering, What the hell? Or thought it was just weird and probably took some getting used to. Word was, they were fluent in various styles. Okay, we said, sure, it sounds like bluegrass because you don't really listen to bluegrass. Yes, tell me about Latin funk, white boy. I mean, fluent? We'd always felt sorryf or the kid who played seven instruments half-competently, instead of playing one well. But we caught two or three live shows and came back thinking it could have been two or three different bands.We hadn't known how to categorize them and eventually got the idea that it couldn't be done. We liked the idea. It was cool and exclusive to be uncategorizable. We almost got polemical about it. "Hardening of the categories promotes art disease," we quipped, quoting whoever said that. Gradually, we relaxed-we didn't want to be fetishists, after all. No, they weren't virtuosos, but they were aficionados-real music lovers-and they were willing to try anything, even if they screwed it up. They were goofballs, these Phish, and good examples for us. Of course, some of us had our minds blown from day one. The incidence of blown minds, we should say, was not directly proportional to our ability to recognize a few bars of Gershwin tucked into "Bathtub Gin," like a tongue in a cheek, or the melodic palindrome within "The Divided Sky" or other unannounced, too-clever and surprising musical structures, quotations and allusions. If we'd expected three chords and the truth, we got five chords, sometimes with substitutions, two meters at once, and a riddle. We liked it. So we made it familiar. Whistling, humming, mastering even those mathematically mind-numbing syncopations, if only to prove that we could, that tapping along was doable, even through the sustained anticipation. We finally learned all those cryptic words and wondered what they meant, hatched our own theories. In any event, we could sense what the band was getting at, and we liked it. We loved it. We had to know what they'd do next. More shows. Calling them "concerts" just didn't seem right. They opened it up. Jammed. Gliding and riding and weaving those songs out into space somewhere. Twisting around. We'd been treating these 20-minute improvised, exploratory ditties like background music before, scoring chores and homework and drives to the movies and sometimes getting high. The shows changed that. Being there made all the difference.It was comfortable inside the joke. The more we learned, the more immersed and conversant we became about this phenomenon-which we were helping to create-the cozier we felt. We saw more shows, and more. We knew, because outsider friends told us, that we talked about Phish too much. They also told us that, hell, we'd have been Bruce Springsteen fans if Phish were to cover one of his songs. It was a fair point: as if hundreds of originals weren't enough, our boys added music by more than 200 other artists to their live rotation, including one by the Boss himself...but only once, on July 16, 1999, with longtime Phish lyricist Tom Marshall on vocals. Yeah, try and stump us.These tricksters were willing to cover just about anybody. The Allman Brothers, sure, sure, makes sense. Willie Dixon? Nice. Whoa, that's a Van Halen tune, remember that? And...um...ZZ Top? Ellington, Coltrane, Mingus, Monk, Miles-dig it. Wow, Neil Diamond, huh? Frank Zappa, yeah, he's...yeah. Oh, the Beatles wrote that? Seriously, I didn't know. What? Shut up.Sometimes they played entire albums of other people's music, by request. They kept us guessing. And listening. We went out and bought more music. Theirs, yes, but also caught up on the pop and rock we hadn't gotten around to, the jazz or rhythm and blues we hadn't known about, the other stuff we'd stayed away from. If we had instruments, we practiced playing them, hoping to improve by osmosis. With Phish for guidance, we experimented more with writing music of our own. We became active listeners. We were hooked.

It isn't so hard to have groupies these days. Politicians, businessleaders, fraudulent religious figures and legitimate ones, athletes,painters, writers, actors and musicians all have them. Teachers, public radio personalities have them, and death row defendants. Institutions have groupies, thanks mostly to advertisers, and advertisers do, too. Nor is it hard to be a groupie. Who doesn't want to get behind something, get inside? Who isn't a collector of something, and who isn't entitled? America's great plurality is a plurality of scenes. And Phish has one of the big ones.Of the available musical subcultures, the school of Phish is rather benign, even earnest. It tends to avoid, or at least not dwell on, the angrier, more punishing and reactionary aspects of rock. To enjoy and participate in their scene, Phish fans do many things, but rarely do they seethe. When the band "really rocks" or "has a serious edge," as they sometimes do, some fans still express surprise.Then again, expressing surprise, and inducing it, is the band's moduso perandi. This has earned them a devoted and constant audience. Groupies. Devotion here isn't defined by knowing all the minutiae, seeing all the shows or collecting all the recordings. It's more about how Phish can do no wrong. They've cultivated an atmosphere of curiosity and experimentation and gambled that fans would find it breathable. They chose hard work and word of mouth over posturing and hype and extensive public relations, and they succeeded famously. Here is the band that played the world's largest NewYear's Eve concert in 1999 (estimates of attendance range from 75,000 to 100,000). Here is the band that had to be forgiven for making a music video (only one). And they were.Attention came, eventually, from the elite press because how could it not? This was a fairy tale band, having come up on its own, beholden to no one. Not even the fans. Predictably, the attention didn't spoil them. For the most part, they ignored it.The Phish subculture is democratic, at least in spirit, alleging a sense of community and, in one way or another, palpably creating one. A community doesn't mean a utopia, of course, and a mobile, makeshift commune doesn't mean a community. But the Phish subculture is more than its scene. For one thing, Phish usually codify their music-and make it familiar to fans-in concert, long before recording it in a studio and releasing it on an album (they sold out two national tours before ever signing a record contract). This offers a rare perspective in pop or rock, more common to the quiet-seeming, steadily creeping influence of genuine folk or the loud, public ceremony of gospel. Some hard-line Phish Heads, having grown accustomed to live dynamics, find the crisp, contained studio versions chafing and difficult. But they can forgive that, too. Really, the worst thing Phish could do to the fans would be to stop making music together. And last October, at the peak of their popularity, that's what they did. Wrapping up a typical fall tour, they thanked the fans, explained it was time for an "extended hiatus" and dutifully pressed on to the two final shows at Shoreline Amphitheatre in Mountain View, California. Then they went home to their families. They told the press "no comment" and never really said goodbye.

We are the Phish Nation. How do you like the sound of that? The Phish Nation, we are. We are your phriends and phamily. The true, blue phans of Vermont's phinest. What's it all phor? Some hippie band? Some smart person's band? Some good-humored, avant-garde rock band? Some experimental, nouveau-folk, electric jam band? The most important band in America?It's this: Phish is where we go for solace and release. Phish is where we go to not be alone. To rest our minds and expand them. It's as spiritual as we want it to be, and the rules are pretty easy to swallow, the grooves are easy to follow. For some of us, this is the holiest thing we have. Look, we're not going to hang around the airport, trying to convert you...though now that we think about it, that's not such a bad idea. Come with us. Pheel the phlow. You know you want to. Okay, okay.Time has passed. Years. Let's have a look at the Phish Nation now. Mostly white, mostly male, mostly upper-middle class. Must we apologize? We are the crunchies, the wookies, the tapers, the taper-wookies, the tourists, the yuppies, the yuppies who don't think they're yuppies, the stoners, the stoners who don't think they're stoners, the yuppie-stoners and you get the idea, the clean-and-sobers, the Deadheads, the anti-Deadheads, the posers, the neo-slackers, the college-towners, the UVM'ers, the all-American Yaliequarterbacks, the California Berkeleys, the Boston Berklees, the community college tryers, the mousepad Mafia, the assistant service consultant-PR manager-programmer-implementation coordinator-client services executive-web designer-dot commers, the lot commers, the kid brothers and sometimes sisters, the music snobs, the music snob snobs, the bike messengers, the outdoorsies, the need-to-get-out-moresies, the nomads, the miracle seekers, the miracle workers, the proto-hippies, neo-hippies, prep school hippies, nobody's hippies, nobody's fools, the occasional ravers, the accidental hip hoppers, the one-in-a-million ganstas, the others.We are the Phish Nation.By now, it's evolved into-we don't know if it's fortunate or not-anobsession. An addiction? Gosh, we say, we've spent more than a decade on this band, and who knows how many dollars? Saved our wages and salaries, planned our vacations around them. We've done hundreds of shows, seen the country. Descended in hordes on supermarkets and rest stops in the heartland, hearing: So where are you guys from? And answering: Everywhere. Those Mom and Pops must have loved the looks of us. If we could camp, and were into that, we would. We'd earn what we could in the parking lots, selling arts, crafts, T-shirts, food, dope. It really became a lifestyle. We tried not to romanticize it, but that was silly. It is romantic.Or it was. Evolution means change, and we've seen it, all right. The shows are one thing, but nowadays that scene in the parking lots is something else. We've got that younger generation now, and with it a generation gap. The youngsters are suspicious. So are the oldsters. We have factions. Our opinions differ. Why do the yuppies have to ruin everything? Why do the hippies have to ruin everything? Hugs? Drugs? We're losing our phamily values. We were brothers and sisters once. Now we're far removed. Are these trying times for the Phish Nation? Yeah, no question, the scene is pretty wack.***Breakups and breakdowns are common enough in popular American music. Plain old breaks, "extended hiatuses," though not unheard of, are less common and less successful. The touring life, however attractive, however rewarding and necessary, is a strained one. Sometimes a loss of momentum becomes, a point after which things won't be the same, becomes necessary. Staying the same, of course, is anathema to Phish. Improvisation includes the risks of lost momentum. And exhaustion is counterproductive.For seventeen years, Phish spent most of their shared life on the road. They shared themselves, stayed together, stayed out of trouble and tried to stay open, innocent. Meanwhile, they practiced as determinedly as conservatory students and wrote music prolifically. Together or not, they're probably doing something musical right now. As Phish, though, they may have arrived at a point where the dismissal of preconceived notions itself became a preconceived notion. They may have reached a critical mass. Few people think they don't deserve a break.If Phish wanted a West Coast "home town," they could have San Francisco. The Bay Area, with a rich but not yet daunting history, still enjoys some version of youth, some vivacity. It's as good a place as any for the Phish scene. A place for possibilities and paths not taken, a haven for the otherwise marginal, where the spirit of bohemianism, of creative self-invention, will be nurtured-and tested-daily. This is a natural destination for personal pilgrimages. Or musical ones. True, according to volume 5 of "The Pharmer's Almanac," Shoreline Amphitheatre isn't among the fans' top ten favorite venues for witnessing live Phish. But, then, "Anywhere" is number three.The blessing or curse of Phish's current success, the relative wack-ness of the scene, neatly reflects that of the Bay Area, whose cultural identity, after a few seismic shocks, might seem on shaky ground. In both cases, a debt is owed to the legacy of the Grateful Dead-the band that took free flowing, electrified communal music on shared, ritualized road trips from under to aboveground decades ago and recast San Francisco's cultural reputation. Jerry Garcia's death in 1995 blanketed the area, like a persistent fog, with the devastated sense that a real movement had ended, a scene was lost. From another perspective, it was wide open.Phish is not "the next" Grateful Dead, but the Phish scene is to theGrateful Dead's something of what Volkswagen's new Beetle is to the old: obedient but hardly servile; bigger; bolder; with more horsepower; slicker seeming, yet goofier when you think about it; a good idea to some, a bad one to others; an idea whose time has gone, or come.But not merely a replacement. Such things, to the people who hold them dear, the true groupies, are irreplaceable.***We've got Widespread Panic here. And String Cheese Incident and moe. And Galactic and Karl Denson and Sector Nine and Medeski, Martin & Wood and others as yet unheard of. We've got Phish solo projects, Anastasio's new band and tapes to trade, CDs to burn, the old stuff to hear, again and again. We've got websites to check, just for the hell of it. But for how long, how long? We'll need our phix.We've been good to them, and God, they've been good to us. Swum us through the highlights and traumas and transitions of our comings-up: left nests,invented independences, beginnings of academic and professional careers, the finding of peers or friends or lovers and the losing, the deep, dark, uncharted waters of adulthood, of life.At that very last show, we told ourselves to ignore the rumors, good and bad. Never call it a breakup, we said. It's a break. No reason not to believe that, right? Hadn't Trey said something about 17 more years? No, not a breakup. A setbreak, of sorts, between two great jamming epochs! That's it, that's it. We'll be back in 15 minutes, folks! Or months, whatever.They played "You Enjoy Myself" for an encore, and we sure did. We showered them with applause. They looked at us, we at them. They left, saying nothing.We passed a wave of shock between us. The house lights rose, and we didn't move. Okay, maybe not all of us, maybe half or fewer, but we stayed. The soundman played the Beatles' "Let it Be," and the crew came out to strike the set. We showered them with applause, too. Clapping and cheering and whistling and shouting. We hugged and cried our tears of joy, of melancholy, and you can't take that away from us. It was beautiful, we agreed. We recognized the solidarity.And, as instructed, we let it be. Evolution means change, and change means growth, right? Let's remember what we have. We are the Phish Nation.Maybe it had been an escape. Maybe so, maybe not. Maybe so, maybe not. Yes. We admit it, we concede. An escape from all the irony, the edge, the useless rage that permeates our really pretty good lives. We love these guys, because they aren't rock stars, and they aren't anti-rock stars, either. They aren't dumb, and they aren't affected. They're just not wrapped up in all that knowingness (How about not knowing? Expecting? Hoping?), the self-consciousness-which is not to say self-awareness. They're aware, and so are we. More than an escape: an impulse, for all its progressiveness and moving forward, of nostalgia. To find a childhood, yes, that's what we said, a childhood. Of ideas that would take us all around the world, of curiosity and precociousness, sure, of course, but the good kind, the hungry kind, pre-competitive precociousness, the kind in which we played, the kind we displayed before the Saabs and snowboards and lacrosse sticks and seeking out a new sound. Before finally settling in to our low-slung, former-warehouse offices with exposed bricks and ducts, free Cokes and casual Monday-through-Fridays. Before finally settling in to the commitment of second-hand chic or fleecesembroidered with dancing bears, emblematic Birkenstocks and poser dreadlocks, or even authentic ones, whatever that means. Yes, is it so far-fetched to think that ours is a backward reach, a relaxation or an exhalation-sometimes smoky, okay-and that sure we want to be kids or kid-like and you know you do, too, right? It is possible thatyou know exactly what we're saying, and it's not so far off, come on, it's what you'd expect from the inheritors, the babies of boomer-hippie pairings, with more privilege than perspective but admittedly, admittedly...and isn't that a prerogative of youth that's been earned for us, however ungrateful we are? Ours is a nostalgia not for the cause, the "day," the original scene, but for ourselves. Look, we want to believe in karma, we really are a can't-we-all-just-get-along crowd, and we're learning, hard, that it's notworking, that love isn't really free, but jeez, we're trying to keep the cost down, and what if there is such a thing as a collective groove, and it's not so complicated after all? Can't we live while we're young? Can't we get off on that vibe, the community, the anticipation, the familiarity, the deviation, the sense-making-nonsense, the seeming spirituality, the music, the expanding vamps that build and build and Oh my God where are we now? And keep building, is it possible?! Outwards, onwards, becoming something so far away from where we started that it just seems-it is possible, and return, just as we've almost forgotten how it began, to where we always were, to a phriendly, remembered refrain.Sure, we can. We are the Phish Nation. Sure, we can.

I Love you Mike, Trey, Page, and Fish

2004-08-16T22:39:00.000-07:00

i just wanted to let you know, i love you guys. when i heard page break down during the 8-15-04 Wading, i began to cry. when trey broke down during his post-glide speech, i began again. but when trey says, "lets blow off some phucking steam!" and they tear into a massive Split Open and Melt, bringing the smile back to my phace as mike harmonizes in his dulcet tones. and now, i can honestly say, that i am better and pheel the best i've ever phelt and i owe to a couple of special people, besides Phish, you know who you are.

So Phish Breaks Up

2004-08-16T12:27:00.000-07:00

so the band that has changed my life, changed my entire perception of the world, is gone from my world as quickly as they arrived, with one final, emotional concert last night in Coventry, Vermont. many of my good phriends, including a phriend i've known almost my entire life, was in attendance, and some local helena kids i met this summer. and now it's all over, they played their last song, The Curtain With, a song i was listening to yesterday, a song from a show, another beautiful show, 12-14-95, where the segue gods came out in force and drilled the listener with some insane sounds. page crying during Wading, trey unable to speak, a Split Open and Melt jam to blow the steam off. an insane setlist, an insane end to the most gifted rock band from the last twenty years. in my opinion, the second greatest american rock band behind the grateful dead, the torchbearers for the jam industry. will we never hear another mike's > Hydrogen > Weekapaug, another flawless 2001 > Down with Diseas, and no more Fluffhead's, with Fluff's Travel's included or not. Will we never see page tinkle the ivories on his baby grand, or Joe C or Greasy Fizeek or Henrietta, or whatever Fish's name is that night, pick up his vacuum and play something, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, or Terrapin. Will we never see another Trey face, another Mike head bob, another I Didn't Know? Remember how they sang to us? will this be the end, will this be the last we will see of Phish. Simple answer, no. because when human beings are kind to one another, when human beings share mutual love for one another, when human congregate at special places for strange reasons, phish's legacy will grow, and flourish. and maybe, when the time is right, they will return to us, from their mother ship, and lead us to another place, although i can't imagine a place better than the place they've led me.

Has music ever made you cry?
Has a guitar solo ever made you feel like you were being lifeted up onto your feet and carried above all things?
Has the voice of a familiar singer never let you down?
Has the pounding bass line ever made you slap your wheel so hard that it hurt your hand?
Has the sound of the piano meant more to you on the day your grandfather died than your own father's eulogy?
Has Jon Fishman's face ever made your day?

if so, you've experienced the power, the strength, and the stability that is Phish

the rock, the foundation, the core, the essence, the School

Now That's More Like It!

2004-08-11T22:11:00.000-07:00

Set 1
The Divided Sky, Suzy Greenberg -> Down With Disease -> Prince Caspian -> Scent of a Mule -> Tears of a Clown* -> Scent of a Mule, Mexican Cousin
Set 2
Run Like an Antelope -> 2001 -> Golgi Apparatus, Waves -> Tweezer -> Hold Yourself High ->Terrapin** Hold Yourself High*** -> Timber Ho! -> Sample In a Jar
Encore
Bouncing Around the Room, Tweezer Reprise
Notes
*With special guest picked from the audience on vocals.**Fishman on vocals and vacuum.***Trey and Fishman drumming

One of the last sets in Phishtory, and what a way to go out! Divided Sky Opener, the first real Golgi in who knows how long. Just puts a tear to my eye, THAT part in Down with Disease, the Divided Sky solo that always takes me up to the ceiling of wherever i am, and of course, a Fishman vacuum solo that begs the question will we ever hear another one? and to a syd barrett song? come on, this setlist is almost unbeatable. reaffirms my love, my respect and my languor for this band.

Great night tonight, peter, stuart, daniel, gary, nick, cason, alec, and i, really fun, bummed that i couldn't spend more time, but am headed to the Sphinx tomorrow with my bro, 9,342 feet of sweetness and a view worthy of Zeus

Hampton or Should I Call It: Asston!

2004-08-09T23:45:00.000-07:00

Set 1
Chalkdust Torture, Bathtub Gin -> Runaway Jim, Walls of the Cave, Loving Cup
Set 2
All Of These Dreams, Limb By Limb, Lifeboy, Crowd Control, Seven Below ->*Stash -> NICU, Bug, Contact**, Character Zero
Encore
David Bowie
Notes
*Trey thanks his guitar tech, Brian Brown, on stage at the end of Seven Below.
**With "Little Drummer Boy" ending

In my opinion, the most highly anticipated phish show before coventry's last set, all the rest cannot be more important than this. bob weir and phil lesh in the audience, jerry's anniversary, hampton! HAMPTON! a set unworthy of all the history phish has filled that place with over the years, from their incredible '98 run there to their triumphant return in '03, it oozes history, not just for phish, but for the grateful dead as well. this was the site of the return of the warlocks show in october 89. there set lists for a two-night stand:

Hampton Coliseum, Hampton, VA, 10/8-9 1989
10/8
Set 1: Foolish Heart, Walkin' Blues, Candyman, Me and My Uncle, Big River, Stagger Lee, Queen Jane, Approximately, Bird Song, The Promised Land
Set 2 :Help on the Way > Slipknot! > Franklin's Tower, Victim or the Crime > Eyes of the World > Drums > Space > I Need a Miracle > The Wheel > Gimme Some Lovin' > Morning Dew
Encore: And We Bid You Good Night
10/9
Set 1: Feel Like a Stranger, Built to Last, Little Red Rooster, Ramble on Rose, We Can Run, Jack-A-Roe, Stuck in Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again, Row Jimmy, The Music Never Stopped
Set 2: Playing in the Band > Uncle John's Band > Playing in the Band Reprise > Dark Star > Drums > Space > Death Don't Have No Mercy > Dear Mr. Fantasy > Hey Jude Reprise > Throwing Stones > Good Lovin' Encore: Attics of My Life

The Grateful Dead pulled out all the stops, with Brett Mydland laying down some fierce sounds from the boards, bob and jerry's thrashing guitar licks resonated, and phil's, and mickey and bill's bass line was grandiose. You see, this is why i'm disappointed. Phish is done in a week. One last week for them to pull out all of the stops, and they give us a 5 song first set! i'm not complaining about the song selection, but in the second set, a crowd control! come on! i'm just a little disappointed that they chose to end their illustrious hampton career with a second set closing Character Zero, but from what i've heard, the Bowie encore was sick, possibly the best Bowie encore of all time, first one since 11-16-97 and only the fifth one ever. but again, no nod to the old man, no onstage antics, no phil or bob, seems a little of a bummer when you expected the world.

theres a lesson in that: when you expect the world, you will be unpleasently disappointed

don't disappoint people. and remember that no matter what time of day it is, YOU CAN STILL WRITE COMMENTS ABOUT MY POSTS!

coooool breeze

Phunniest Hiatus Analogy Ever

2004-08-09T09:41:00.000-07:00

"You know when that girl broke your heart, and told you “we need time apart.” Then you spent a miserable year trying to get her back, and when you finally convince her to give it another shot, after two weeks you realize she was right all along. But you have a good couple months of drunken, sloppy sex anyway before you both eventually decide to just break it off for good? That was the hiatus." From Glide magazine

Jerry

2004-08-09T08:00:00.000-07:00

And remember as you saw that man, wearing his thirtieth anniversary tour shirt, you wearing your Jerry Althea shirt in that cozy La Honda street. It was the morning of August 9th, 1995, and you’d just heard, and apparently so had he, and you walked out of your house, and sat on the grass for a bit, crying. Yet something beckoned you upwards. So you stood up, and you saw a shirt design you’d recognize from anywhere in the world, a shirt design you’d seen millions of times. He is crying, too. You don’t know what to make of it all. You are both so stunned. You can’t fathom no fall tour, no Jerry, no Jerry, no fall tour. It hasn’t even begun to sink in yet. It’s only eleven-fourteen. Yet, you feel you’ve endured ten years of pain, ten years of grief, when you received that phone call from your friend from tour, Stella Blue, that the old man was gone. He’s gone, you thought, like a steam locomotive rolling down the track. Your first instinct whenever you hear a Dead song is to smile, but today, it isn’t the same, and it’s all over for you. You get up, look on your floor, and you see the shirt you once decided you’d wear when this day came, but you never really expected this day would come. They would always be around. Then you begin to categorize every single show you ever missed; great ones like 5-14-74, 5-5-77, 5-7-77, aw shit, the entire May east coast tour of 1977, and that final show at Soldier Field, where Stella Blue said that the Box of Rain they played had some special meaning, especially when Bobby belted out "A box of rain will ease the pain, and your love will see me through." So you see Jerry’s face, smiling through it, and above him, it says "There’s Thing’s You Can Replace" and below him, it says, "And Other’s You Cannot" and you categorize how many show’s you’ve seen when they played Althea, all the while feeling this immense tightening in your throat, and an immense bout of sobs threatening to begin. So you let it go, and it all comes out, every last bit of energy you had is bent on sobbing for Jerry. Your vision is skewed now, and you cannot understand why this is happening, why there isn’t going to be a fall tour, why there isn’t going to be anymore Terrapin Station’s with Jerry hanging on the word lad-y, and why oh why will there never be another veggie burrito, with cucumbers, carrots, tomato’s, all the vegetable goodness, all gone, every last thing, your purpose on life for the past twenty-five years, your source of income, joy, pride, your family, your grateful family, your kind family, all of it over with the one call from Stella Blue. So you have to leave your house, and you do, but you don’t get as far as the grass, where you begin to sob again, then you see him, with THAT shirt on, the shirt which will always tie you to anyone who wears one. You see each other, you look into each other’s sobbing eyes, and you embrace, for five minutes you embrace, laughing, sobbing, laughing, sniffling, it’s all wet, it’s all uncomfortable, but it’s all fine, you don’t care, you don’t care anymore. Yet when you leave each other, you keep walking, down the cozy streets, where V-Dub’s with the Roses and the Skeletons, or the Steal Your Face logo haunt you. Some of them must know, but other’s don’t. And as you see those who do know, you embrace them as well, and down on the turnaround, by the beach, a dozen of us get into a circle, sway back and forth, find the groove that he gave us, and remember watching him smile, smile, smile, and remember that there is nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile, and you do, and as we smile with each other, through red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, you understand that everything will be all right, because you are a family, a grateful family. So that is that, you think, but the pain doesn’t go away, it’s always there whenever he sings, or his guitar reverberates where you, or you remember him smiling at you, and you smiling back, and you feel the hair on the back of your neck begin to stand on end. And you realize because you were there for Jerry, and he was there for you, that you two are cosmically bound, with some indelible ray of light, no matter how infinitesimally inane you feel at times, Jerry is inside you, looking out for you. No Jesus, no Buddha, no Mohammed, no Vishnu, no matter, because you’ve had Jerry, and that’s all you need, thank you very much, all you need for joy, for brotherhood, for friendship, for everything was included in Jerry, the old man. Thanks for everything. b J Ward

i wrote that, also in may, for a creative writing showcase at my school to convey the strong feelings i was having for a man i'd never met, a man who to me was still a mystery, a man simply named jerry, a man who died 9 years ago today. whenever you watch him perform, his shaggy hair dropping down to his all too familiar black shirt, his right middle finger non-existent, his voice so soulful, believing in every word he ever sang. every note was special. but to gaze out into the audience, to see people transfixed by this man, is truly special. grown men cry when he plays guitar, people with no other will to live other than seeing the Grateful Dead perform shower themselves in his watery tones, his sublime skill only matched by his supporting cast, no matter who's on keys; preferably pigpen, but keith and brent sure had their day. no matter if its just bill, but preferably its both bill and mickey. there will never be another jerry, no matter what. nobody can capture what he captured. he is the epitome of the visceral spirit of the human being. he truly is one of the most important human beings to ever live. his music is timeless, his smile is flawless and his legacy golden.

so this is robert hunters eulogy for jerry, a very amazing and immensely powerful piece to read

Jerry, my friend,
you've done it again,
even in your silence
the familar pressure comes to bear,
demanding I pull words from the air
with only this morning and part of the afternoon
to compose an ode worthy of one so particular about every turn of phrase,
demanding it hit home in a thousand ways
before making it his own,
and this I can't do alone.

Now that the singer is gone,
where shall I go for the song?
Without your melody and taste to lead an attitude of grace
a lyric is an orphan thing,
a hive with neither honey's taste nor power to truly sting.
What choice have I but to dare and call your muse
who thought to restout of the thin blue air,
that out of the field of shared time,
a line or two might chance to shine ;

As ever when we called,
in hope if not in words,the muse descends.
How should she desert us now?
Scars of battle on her brow,
bedraggled feathers on her wings,
and yet she sings, she sings!
May she bear thee to thy rest,the ancient bower of flowers
beyond the solitude of days,
the tyranny of hours;

the wreath of shining laurel lie upon your shaggy head,
bestowing power to play the lyre to legions of the dead.
If some part of that music is heard in deepest dream,
or on some breeze of Summe ra snatch of golden theme,
we'll know you live inside us with love that never parts
our good old Jack O'Diamonds become the King of Hearts.

I feel your silent laughter at sentiments so bold
that dare to step across the line to tell what must be told,
so I'll just say I love you which I never said before
and let it go at that old friend,the rest you may ignore.-Robert Hunter

So beautiful, so true, one man's best friend gone. puts a tear to my eye, i'm not ashamed. when you are touched by something, you have got to show it. today, i challenge everyone reading this to be kind to someone they otherwise wouldn't be kind to, to show someone how truly they special they are to you, to thank them for being there. i'd like to thank jerry right now, thank him for all he taught me, without ever speaking to me, thank him for all the memories of riding in a car, listening to his music. jerry truly is an ethereal gift, a special person set on this earth to bring happiness. he truly is missed. have a nice sleep, jerry, i can wait to meet you but i can't wait you meet you

with love

He's Back

2004-08-08T19:46:00.000-07:00

no worries, he's back

Good Vibes for My Bro

2004-08-08T16:17:00.000-07:00

My brother, and his two good friends, who i've known for almost all of my life, were supposed to be home from climbing the great northern mountain north of flathead lake yesterday evening, it's now 24 hours later with no word, i'm in desperate needs of some good vibes to be sent my way, it's kind of starting to freak me out, because the weather wasn't the best, a sudden thunder shower on saturday afternoon could've done some shit to them, and my brother is wildly idealistic, climbing a mountain in the class 5 range in shitty weather, them being less than expert hikers, i just hope they are ok, anybody reading this, i'm in need of some good vibes.

Once in A While You Get Shown the Light, In the Strangest Places if you Look at it Right!

2004-08-08T15:21:00.000-07:00

So you appear on the corner of Reality and Dreaming, with no particular direction in mind, except heading from this place abandon, leaving all your ties on the ground, all your soul-crushing elements on the grass, the trite, deer-shitted grass where the color scheme is all wrong. It looks monumental; the grass. Something distinguishable there, indistinguishable here. Contradictory patterns, of course, resembling an evoking memory from far off in the cosmos. Where the light of your eyes shines but once, and is lost forever. Forever seems too vast, and the present to unimportant, and all the while your thoughts run down from your ears like a trickle of some leaky faucet in a dank basement. Dripping, dripping, dripping. Then Collecting on the floor below your head. Drip, drip, drip. The puddle contains many things, many irrational things, many undesirable things, like the insides of a milk carton or an orange peel from the days of yore, the days before yore, the days when the rain was warm, the snow was cold, the wind was blowing south, and there was never a threat of either on a sunny day, when the sun’s rays were peaking, and the smell of those fine huckleberries beckons you back, far into the recesses of time, back when 5 was your age, not your raison d’etre. But, oh well, that is life now, with it’s wide plateaus, steep valleys, thatched-roof houses, and cozy fireplaces. Smelling like some pipe. Some pipe, some pipe, some glorious, glorious wide-brimmed basin filled with the jovial root of earth, twisted bracken like a gnarled tree up on a brazen, wind-racked hill, sloping silently upwards to meet the mass of the sky that lies just above it. In that sky lies the hopes of it all, the infinitesimal boundaries of sanctity and unity, and brotherhood, and peace, and justice. Wherever you go, wherever you are, you are bound, intrinsically, to that essential part of the sky, the sky so beautiful, so savagely undetermined that it must be from somewhere else, some long, and beautiful world, where people are always dreaming and shining, the sun is always high and warm, the breeze is always cool, the water is always cold, the women are always beautiful, the music is always kind, the smell is always home, the life you lead is never normal, and the life you want to lead is always possible, and never will you retreat from your position on thing’s of this earth, such as the color of the trees and the feelings of a wind on your face. And as you stare atop a peak, looking west towards the towering peaks of sustenance and beauty, you remember that Life is Beautiful, and beauty abounds, and you remember that Life is Good, and that Everything WILL Be All Right, and you descend back into the heartless world below you. Where there is no soul, no majesty, just an emptiness and the rumble of cars, trucks, and buses, and a train whistle blowing. Wherever you feel the most complete isn’t around you, and there is never going to be another feeling like it. From the far off distant hills you feel that cool breeze, feel that beautiful woman, smell that air, taste that cool, crisp water, and hear that beautiful music. Aaah, what its like to be home.

I wrote this once, in May, because i was the happiest i've ever been then, and i wished to express my happiness in some way. i owe it all to the life sport, grateful dead and phish music, and this really special girl i'll just call katie.

It's alright, 'cause I love you.
And that's not gonna change.
Run me round, make me hurt again and again.
But I'll still write you love songs
Written in the letters of your name.
And brave the storm to come,
For it surely looks like rain.
I only want to hold you.
I don't want to tie you down.
Or fence you in the lines I might have drawn.
It's just that I've gotten used to
Havin' you around.
My landscape would be empty
If you were gone.

Looks Like Rain written by Robert Hunter
Expressing my feelings like no other man can

Sugaree

2004-08-07T16:49:00.000-07:00

It's August 7th, it's sunny, it's not too hot out and i'm back in helena after a couple days excursion in the wilderness of Glacier National Park. the song of the day is 5-6-77 Sugaree, possibly the best Sugaree of all time, definitely the most underrated song in that 4 day binge of excess that we deadheads call May '77 with such joy and pleasure as adults refer to their children. may '77, with its powerful second set at the boston garden (5-7-77) and possibly the greatest show of all time in 5-8-77 has leant more in the way of quality tapes and shows than any one stand of shows in dead history.

nice to be back home, with a computer. looks like i didn't miss much. not a whole lot of news these past couple of days; bush still in the white house, we're still in iraq, southend united still in division three. Phish still broken up, Jerry still gone.

The Massive You Got Served Thread

2004-08-02T22:52:00.000-07:00

i watched you got served last night, and well, i do believe i've been served by the makers of this film. you got served is quite possibly the greatest piece of cinematic genius ever put to film, capturing an alluring part of america much like henry james captured victorian life in A Portrait of a Lady. it's sensual, it's free-flowing, it portrays the very essence of human nature, it's frailities, it's triumph's, and it's love. never before and never again has a movie thus summed up the era we are living in. you got served transforms the conventional thought put on us by ourselves, develops a rich, harlequined pattern, likened to lace and gold, and takes our minds to a place, far, far away from here, away from the sadness, away from the pain, away from our comfort zone, if only for two and fifteen glorious hours. no matter where you are from or what you are doing, no matter if you are the lowliest peasent or the most decorated king, this movie speaks volumes about the transcendent nature of the human spirit, and our ability to overcome obstacles of not just time and place, but eons of adversity. this movie truly is a gift, an ethereal gift, something to be kept in a time capsule in fort knox and preserved as a testament to the greatest this country has to offer.

My Favorite Scene from you got served again, the sequel to You Got Served

David: I think we got served!
Elgin: No way, dawg, no way did we get served!
David: Can someone please check if we got served or not, come on!
Elgin: Yo, i don't think you understand. this thing we're in is bigger than us, bigger than any serving their crew can dish out. They are the new crew, and if we get served by them, god-damn it, we'll never show our face around here anymore!
David: El, it's not always about who got served and who didn't get served. i mean, there's a war going on for pete's sake, and what are we doing? just dancing? how's dancing going to bring the deficit down? how's dancing going to make the economy stronger? how's serving wade's crew going to affect global warming? how are we going to get out of iraq? can john kerry establish an international coalition? how do we deal with the situation in iran? by dancing, and serving people? no, i think not, my brother. we get wise, we read the newspaper and watch cnn, nigga, we are going to stand up and say, hey man, this world has had enough of it! i'm sick of serving people, i'm sick of it all! i want an end to this. and then, my brother, the world can be a much safer place and you won't have to serve people. you can serve them with love, serve them with kindness, and brotherhood. Go out, El, and serve the world!
Elgin: Aight

end scene

Wade and Brendan: 7-22-04

2004-08-02T16:17:00.000-07:00

It's a great day, it's not very hot out.

a conversation i had once:

me: have you ever wondered what the hell is going to happen to yourself in ten years?
wade: yeah, then i get really scared
me: why's that?
wade: because i'm 24, and i don't have a job
me: so...?
wade: are you fucking serious?
me: yeah, i mean (voice trailing off)
wade: well, i'm 24, right?
me: right
wade: and i'm unemployed, meaning i have no source of income
me: oh, i see what you're saying
wade: no, i don't think you do
me: oh, i do
wade: what i'm saying is that i'm broke right now, and i have no job, meaning, and no matter what way you slice it, i'm fucked!
me: dude, you could just pull a kerouac and go wander all over the country
wade: kerouac was a pussy
me: how so?
wade: he just wasn't very manly. he sipped wine
me: wine's good, what's wrong with wine
wade: it's all a little girly to me
me: jesus wade, you are an accepting kid
wade: the world hasn't accepted me, so i don't accept the world
me: you sounded really goth just then
wade: thank you
me: you aren't welcome
wade: damn
me: i know, it hurts, doesn't it
wade: what are you going to be doing in ten years?
me: probably trying to understand why my life sucks
wade: that's a shitty attitude
me: oh wade, i know, i fucked myself over
wade: how so?
me: i'm not rich
wade: good point, pass me the lagoon
passes wade the lagoon bong
me: wade, want to come hit the road with me, just you and i, us versus the rest of the country, billowing out across the prairie, meeting different people everynight, sleeping in another place every night. digging everything as we go. we'll start here, then go dig missoula for a while, then spokane for a time, then the cascade villages, think about, you and i up the cascades, DESOLATION PEAK, like Japhy and Sal! wouldn't that be wonderful? and then go up to seattle, hang out there for a while, then up to BC, then down Interstate 5 along the coast for days, oregon and stuff, then california, san francisco, we'll dig san francisco like dean and sal did that end of continent night!!! man, we just got to do that! then we'll go down to mexico, all the way down, to guatemala and everywhere in south america, we'll dig it all up wade, it would be the greatest adventure on the history of the planet! we'd be legends, they'd talk about us in the same breath as Jack and Neal, man, could you dig that? wouldn't that be fun??
wade: no
(silence for the next 15 minutes as i get unexcited about this trip)
finally me: fucking wade
wade: what?

wade is a kid i met a couple weeks ago standing outside matt g's house. i went over to drop something off at the g's house and he was standing outside of it. he asked if i wanted to go to a party, and having nothing to do that night, i said sure, why not. and i did, and it was really fun. i met a lot of new people. and i owe it all to the phish tour shirt i was wearing.

8-2-03

2004-08-02T14:13:00.000-07:00

A year ago today, Phish played in Limestone, Maine in front of 70,000 people. The IT festival was a moment i will remember most, although i wasn't there, simply because i felt so close to the band at that moment. all summer, leading up to my first show (7-12-03 Taste, Mexican Cousin, Stash, NICU, Heavy Things, Mock Song, Army of One, Maze. Piper, Two Versions of Me, Tweezer > Dogs Stole Things, Water in the Sky, Ghost, David Bowie. Frankenstein, Tweezer Reprise) i had this amazing closeness with the band, something indescribable. They meant more to me than anything i had come across; more than my family, more than my friends, more than writing or reading. Every happy thought i had ever experienced or ever wanted to experience culminated into 4 very special individuals. At the concert, i experienced more than i ever thought possible, things i've never told anyone happened there; the ten or so seconds when trey and i stared at each other, him digging off my energy. that beautiful, and i mean the most beautiful girl in the world, dancing a few feet in front of me and to my left, her hair flowing, smelling like some ethereal dreamlike olfactory scent, kicking my nose straight into my balls. i even saw my friend benj burke, the man who introduced me to phish.

But alas, it's all over, all of it. no more phish after august 15th. what will we all do?

"there are things you can replace, and others you cannot" you can't replace phish, you can't replace the memories and the feelings. you can only hold on to them, forever.

why is it that we never appreciate the truly important things until they are gone?

why is there no fall tour, no festival outside reno in the nevada desert, no more shakedowns, no more calls for set openers, no more BLISS or LIZARDS signs, no more Forbin narrarations, no more trey banter, no more chairman of the boards, no more greasy fizeek, no more vacuum solos, no more NYE shows, no more harry hood glowstick wars, no more of the infinitesimal things that make this community the best community on earth to belong to. i've entered it far too late, and really don't have much to say for it. i wish everyone of you who reads this will someday experience what phish has meant to me, because it truly is the most amazing experience in the world, far better than a blowjob, far better than saving a penalty, far better than even chilling at home with your friends. phish music is life music. they dedicate it all to you. you've got to feel something when You Enjoy Myself or Divided Sky comes on. if you don't, i'm sure you just haven't experienced life yet. no matter how many bands i will see, no more how many cd's i'll buy, nothing will ever compare to the time spent listening to phish, blazed or not, with friends or by yourself, driving or sitting on top of Red Mountain, they are always going to mean an immense amount to me. and i dare you to find anything that can improve your life as much as phish's music. for whenever the going is shit, the road you are leading is a little tilted and skewed, you can rely on phish to make your life great, by just listening to them play music. i owe an immense debt of gratitude to phish, for they honestly have changed my life. i can't comprehend life without them. on days when it was hard to get up, what got me up was knowing i'd be able to listen to them, to throw in 12-31-95 Reba, or the 11-19-92 Divided Sky, or some classic shows like 12-13-97, 8-9-98, or 12-14-95, and be saved. i've been saved by four goofy looking guys from vermont, who play the music they love because they love the music they play. it truly is time for the last rewind, this has all been wonderful, but now they're on their way, just when it's time you think to leave it all behind, you've got to find a way to but there's nothing i can say to make it stop. thanks phish, thanks ernest, thanks fish, thanks gordo, thanks mac, it's been a wonderful experience, thanks for the music.

and now i'm on my way. do yourself a favor: open your mind and listen to some phish. you'll never forgive yourself if you don't.

signing off

This is my Introductory Post

2004-08-02T00:19:00.000-07:00

Hello and my name is brendan ward, i live in helena, montana, i'm 16 and 354/365th days. i used to have a website hosted by blogger, but it was quite inappropriate and quite defaming to certain people i.e eminem and ally meyer, so i decided to lay off of that whole thing.

But this website will take ship once more, it'll basically be a daily journal of my life as i see it, with hopefully a lot of good stuff, and hopefully a lot of fun as well.

A little about me:

Favorite food: steak and baked potatoes
Favorite movie: Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and The Grateful Dead live at Winterland Arena 1978
Favorite song: Terrapin Station by the Grateful Dead
Favorite move: right jab to the throat with a tire iron
Favorite sports icon: Heinrik Larsson
Favorite Football Match of all time: Celtic 6 Rangers 2- Martin O'Neills first Old Firm match
Favorite Book: On the Road- Jack Kerouac
Favorite Fashion item: my adidas one-piece jumpsuit or my man camel toe shorts
Favorite line from a movie: "and one more thing...it's been emotional" big chris from lock stock and two smoking barrels, a film everyone should see at least 3 times in their life
Favorite human being of all time: che guevara, james joyce, and jerry
Least Favorite Human being: G W
Favorite curse: for fuck's sake or fucking shit
Favorite word: brendan
Favorite voice: katie f.'s
Longest period of time without sleeping: 65 hours with horrendous hallucinations
Longest period of time without showering: 5 weeks in 2003, just because i wanted to smell like shit
Longest time without eating food: 4 and a half days. just wasn't hungry. then i ate a lot and got hunger pains
Most famous claim to fame: met abe from the road rules
something odd about yourself: i have a third nipple and i sleep naked, no matter what time of year it is
Another interesting thing: my intelligence peaked in the third grade
One more interesting thing: i'm the only kid i know to get suspended from elementary school. i told this fatty new girl that hanson sucked.

favorite drink: fierce melon gatorade or lemonade

i just watched You Got Served tonight and have been unable to listen to rap music or watch coreographed dancing on t.v.

this website will express my innermost thoughts, have lyrics i find inspirational and will be a good stress reliever. peace,

brendan