I like to think of myself as a supreme detector of bullshit, but he could have given that entire speech while visibly holding a cigar up someone’s hooha, and I still would have bought everything Bill Clinton’s selling.
I’m not proud of this.
I’m just saying.
Why is that?
Therapist: “So there are a lot of changes going on in your life right now, and I know change gives you anxiety. But you’ve spent most of the session so far complaining about the NYC heat. Are you sure there aren’t other things you’d like to discuss?”
Me: “Ok. Fine. I’m just really hot.”
Therapist: “I understand. You’ve made that quite clear. How is the transition to the new apartment?”
Me: “Great!”
Therapist: “Say more.”
Me: “Well, the bedroom gets really hot…”
Therapist: “Nope.”
Me: “Ok yeah I hear it now.”
So here’s the deal. You’ve been stranded on a desert island for the past 4 years. You’re unhappy and extremely thirsty. In fact, it hasn’t rained in a while, and the thirst is getting to a point where it just might kill you. You are desperate.
But then you hear news of a rescue ship. It’s on its way, but could take a while to reach you. You’re told that when they do reach you, they have an endless supply of blue Gatorade for you. You’re ecstatic. You fucking love blue Gatorade. It’s unique. It’s satifying. You haven’t had it in forever. It’s exactly what you need to feel better. You start dreaming about it night after night. How good it’ll taste, how the moment you sip it, it’ll change your life for the better.
The rescue ship arrives. You are so, so thirsty. “Here you go!” says one of the rescue workers, and hands you a cup of water. The water is lukewarm. You know you should drink it, because you’re in a really bad spot, but you have to ask– “Where’s the blue Gatorade? I got so excited for blue Gatorade. I was told there would be blue Gatorade.”
The rescue workers apologize and explain that the blue Gatorade expired, and they had to throw it out. It was no longer drinkable.
You are devastated. You got so excited for blue Gatorade. You can’t imagine another option, because you were so determined to feel that cold, sugary sweetness go down your throat. Lukewarm water is such a disappointment in comparison.
Then you spot a bottle of unidentified liquid on the floor of the boat, and a glimmer of hope comes back. “What’s THAT?” you ask, hoping it could be Gatorade.
“We don’t know for sure,” a rescuer explains, “but we are pretty certain it’s poison. Or an explosive. Either way, we are 99.9% sure that whatever it is, it’ll kill you.”
You sit back and weigh your options. You could drink the lukewarm water– it’s not exactly what you wanted, or truly satisfying in this moment, but it will sustain you and keep you alive.
Or, you could choose the unidentified liquid, which is almost guaranteed to put you in grave danger.
Or you could choose neither option, and die a slow, painful thirst-induced death. And no one will feel sorry for you, because, well, you kind of did this to yourself.
And that, Bernie Sanders supporters, is why you should vote for Hillary.
Me: “I’ll go get the laundry. Which dryer did you put it in?”
Eric: “The one with our clothes in it.”
Set my alarm for 7:30am this morning so I’d be up and awake for a bed delivery that Eric scheduled between 8am-12pm.
Standard shotgun rules: I’m in sight of the room and I call it.
Since returning from my Mansfield/Hartford Phish weekend, many people have been asking– “So, you’ve been to 4 shows. You even traveled for a weekend of back-to-back phishing. Are you into Phish now?”
Into Phish is definitely too strong a descriptor at this moment in time. Into Phish implies you really know the music, you know a ton about the band, you know the tour history. I know none of these things.
I just learned Fishman’s first name (it’s Jon!). I know a factoid or two about Trey (he’s been sober since 2006!). I know roughly 6 words of a few songs (super helpful, though, as most songs are just those 6 words on repeat). I know what some songs are about– for example, “Runaway Jim” is about a dog named Jim. (How do I know this? Because the lyrics are, “I have a dog, his name was Jim.” Turns out my Ivy League comprehension skills aren’t entirely necessary for decoding Phish, and to be honest, I prefer it that way. I think enough during the day). I just downloaded my first playlist, “Phish for Noobs,” sent to me yesterday by a friend and phan (sidenote about phans– they fucking LOVE when a skeptical newbie starts to like Phish, and their enthusiasm is so infectious it makes you want to like it even more. There’s no snobbery or judgement about Phish knowledge, they’re just a bunch of laid-back-yet-excitable people who would like nothing more in the world than to spread the love so that you can feel what they feel).
But am I into Phish? Probably not yet. Maybe I’m on my way. I’m definitely not NOT into Phish, which I believe is what the phans call “Phase 1.” (Yeah no. They don’t call it anything. I’m just trying to give myself a modicum of credit, because the teacher in me believes in acknowledging even the most minor of progress).
I’ll tell you this much, though– during the “Lizards” guitar solo at Hartford, I waved the shit out of my white flag and surrendered to that flow. I closed my eyes, leaned into Eric, and am pretty sure I left my body for a moment or two. The music, the fans, the lights, the energy, the amazing, loving group of people surrounding me– for that brief moment, everything was right with the world. Literally all the feels, begging to be felt. I’ve never experienced that at a concert. Hell, I’m not sure I’ve experienced that at any point in my life, as my brain tends to be driven by an underlying anxiety that, even in my calmest moments, always has at least one pinky on the wheel. But in that moment, it was the easiest thing in the world to understand why this life, and everything we get to experience during it, is the most unbelievably precious gift we as human beings have.
And if that’s the feeling phans keep chasing, then I might not be into Phish yet, but I 100% get it.
Oh, look at that. Maybe that’s phase 2!
Pretty sure I’ve earned a gold star. Or, at the very least, a red donut.
Discussing our upcoming family vacation to the Outer Banks….
Watching “The Bachelorette”…
Eric: “Wait, so…at the end of this, the bachelorette proposes to the guy?”
Me: “No. The guy proposes.”
Eric: “So she chooses the guy who then has to propose to her?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Eric: <confused>
Me: “Like what I’m doing.”
(pause)
Eric: “Ok yeah I get it now.”
The dirty-hippie-induced acne that breaks out on your face after a weekend of Phish.
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