So I whet my appetite on day one of Phish Tour, bad decision; Now I swear each evening, like a person getting over an addicition, poorly, that I will not check Phish.net or Miner's site, I am torn from my daily habits just to be blasted by some breaking news that Miner and the other Phishophiles have witnessed THE Phish, again, destroying another american city, while I depserately hope they do not drop the proverbial hammer any more, or at least keep up the run of spectacular musicianship that has been the M.O. for Summer Tour 2012! (that was a thoughtful)
      Like a kid in gym class, waiting in line for my turn to sip from the porcelain Madonna of a water fountain, I stare in envious determination, as each student ahead of me steps away from the porcelain trough of an alcove, tap water cascading from their juvenile chins, for a taste of the holy life liquid. So to now, as an adult, I sit behind my plastic and glass of a monitor and read...Lighteca...Golden Ghost...Mike's Latin Lover's Groove?!?
      I seek meditation of the transcendtal kind, hoping in my mind's solace, rippling through firing neurons for a resting place, looking for sanctuary and buddhist like resiliance and am consitently burdened by whisps of electric current that wake me to awareness that PHISH is on FIRE!
      Hood Stream is but a Hello Kitty Band- Aid on Little Jimmy's broken arm after a brief, albeit disastrous, encounter with Harpua (his cat died)! And reading the lyrical musings of Mr Miner only bath my soul with scalding water, as I am dipped and re-dipped into the cauldron of the previous evenings theatrics.
      So what is my point. My point is to say I have grown to real-world integration, no longer dreaded and yearning for the sentimentalities of the near-past, I am intent on escaping my day to day existence at a moments notice. Phish is my youth, and my youthful energy, my swimming in the fountain with a dog named Jim, lapping up the fragments of my existence that I still have some seeming control over, and in those moments letting all that within me free, and reeling in the moment, thrusting outward without.
      As the old addage goes: Youth is Wasted on the Young...but when those lights drop, that anticipation rises like a temperature gauge from Hell, and the first notes linger just beyond the your ears, I am young again, able to traverse the many passages of my youth, and bask in the glow of the evening, Kuroda's Lights and the musical possibilities limitless in their fleeting existence!


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