Forced friendships and the joy they bring

The old adage says, "You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family," but that's only half true. And really, it's only a quarter true.

People do seem to "choose" their friends, but in reality, you don't so much choose who to be friends with as you choose who not to be friends with. The people who actually become and remain your friends, they were placed there not by your choice but by circumstance and ... well, fate. If I had my choice of friends, I would probably choose George Clooney, Peyton Manning and Tony Kornheiser. The problem is they wouldn't choose me.

So you tend to gravitate toward people who share similar interests and have similar tastes. But that is not really "choosing." And sometimes, those people do not become your closest friends. The ones that are closest are usually the ones that you wind up with because of forces out of your control.

I'm thinking of work ... or school ... or church. You can be placed in an environment, and because others are placed there as well, your social antennae operate to help you survive. And because those people are doing the same thing, there is a bonding that can occur that is greater than, "You like sandwiches? I like sandwiches, too!"

I've thought on more than one occasion why white supremacists seem so unhappy.  (Actually, that's not true at all, but go with me) It's probably because they seem to be in total control of choosing their friends, basing it on one deciding factor. One of the joys in life is to have a bonding experience with someone who you would never have had the chance to because of disparate backgrounds, different life choices, different skin color. Of course there is a natural segregation at times, but part of being alive is discovering friends that you may never have noticed before. They can turn into your soul mates.

That seems to be the basis for what I consider without a hint of sarcasm to be the best show currently on television. "Community" is the most deceptively brilliant 30-minute program in years because it seems to be silly, light-hearted and shallow. Sometimes the best comedies are all three. But I think it is much more than merely funny, and its return after three months of forced hiatus is a little like reconnecting with a long, lost friend.

"Community" has a standard premise that has always worked for comedies: Create a scenario that places individuals in an environment and have them react to certain situations. Hopefully, hilarity will ensue. We have seen it in coffee shops ("Friends"), bars ("Cheers"), the office ("The Office") and that classic comedy minefield ... an actual minefield ("M*A*S*H"). "Community" does this in a community college, which is actually very important. This is not one of those fancy schmancy real colleges. This is one of those tuna net colleges that catch those of us who may have swam away from better opportunities in life. It also gives the show the grounds to cast a variety of people with different ages and ethnic backgrounds, forcing them into a situation that they would never be otherwise. Let's remember this about "Community." These people became friends only because they all took Spanish at the same time.

A quick primer: leading the ensemble is Jeff, a lawyer who faked his degree and has been disbarred. He had chosen his old friends through a series of manipulations, and that deception has landed him at Greendale Community College, second only to City Community College in terms of the two community colleges in the area. Further deception while at school has forced him into a Spanish study group. His circle of friends has now become thrust on him, and he has no control over it.

Of course, to be a comedy, there must be an acceptance of contrived encounters, and that has become the study group. There is a middle aged African-American mother of two (Shirley), a young, study-obsessed and inappropriately hot jewish girl (Annie), a former quarterback, also African-American (Troy), an older white male titan of industry (Pierce), a middle-eastern,  movie-obsessed geek (Abed) and the initial object of Jeff's affections, the blond feminist (Britta). Of course those broad brushes needed to be painted at the beginning of the show in order to get it on the air, and it may be why I initially gave it a pass. It seemed a little too cookie cutter. How else would you get these people in the same spot than to show their differences each week? The same question could be asked about why the erudite Frasier and Lillith Crane spent so many nights in a dungeon bar in Boston. Because it serves the plot, silly!

But once the "Community" creators were able to spread their wings a bit, what emerged was poignant without being sappy (I'm looking at you, "Friends"), clever without being snarky ("Always Sunny in Philadelphia"), absurdist without being unbelievable ("30 Rock"). It was, and is, a perfect show. Now after more than 50 episodes, Troy has been able to shake off his jock exterior and reveal the 10-year old that doesn't want to grow up yet. Abed reveals that his Rain Man shell covers an ability to see the true nature of his friends. Britta wants to be tough, but she clings to her new companions like a blanket. Annie is blossoming and maturing physically and mentally, much to Jeff's bewildered delight, Shirley is finally seen as a fully formed Christian on television (not what Kirk Cameron wants us to be), and Pierce remains a bitter old prick, but with shades of kindness and depth. His journey from hanger on to outcast in the second season was particularly touching.

Within the bubble that is Greendale, most anything can happen: campus-wide blanket forts, a school flag that resembles a butt and most memorably, a paintball war that engulfs the school in a wave of rainbow colors while testing alliances throughout the college two years in a row. Could any of these things ever truly happen? Of course not, but once a trust has been established between those making the show and those watching it, nearly anything will be accepted.

The show rewards its fans by not treating them like idiots. It remembers every nuance from the opening shot and expounds on that minutes, episodes and seasons later. Remember when "Happy Days" was about a Milwaukee family with three kids? Richie Cunningham had an older brother who was written out of the show after season one and never mentioned again. Didn't that strike anyone as odd? How about the fact that the show was supposed to take place in the early 1960s, and the show allowed their stars to maintain 1970s hairdos? Even Howard Cunningham had Foster Brooks glasses toward the end of the run.

By contrast, "Community" respects its history by keeping a diligent ear toward what it has said before. Maybe its stable of writers has been upset by shows of the past. Maybe they are just as nerdy as the rest of us who watch it. There are catchphrases within cathphrases. There are instances where the background is more interesting than the main action (Abed actually delivers a baby and counsels the young couple in the blurred edges of one episode, and I watched it three times before I caught it). There is a "Beetlejuice" gag that took three seasons to complete. Now if that's not respect for intense viewing, then I don't know what is.

Like all great shows, "Community" has developed a secondary cast of characters who have become fan favorites in their own right. Magnitude, Leonard, Fat Neil, Professor Duncan, Starburns, and most importantly Senor Chang and Dean Pelton have created a show filled with familiar faces that make us smile every time we see them "Pop POP" up again. Much like ancillary characters in "The Simpsons" or "Seinfeld," these side players provide a world outside the study group, and it shows that the writers are paying attention once again since, much like our own college experiences, we would see the same faces year after year without being very close to them.

I haven't even mentioned the style, which pays homage to nearly every major movie and television show, including "Goodfellas," "Star Wars," "The Good, The Bad And The Ugly," "The Right Stuff," and most ingeniously, a mash-up of "Pulp Fiction" and "My Dinner With Andre." To try and explain it would be a disservice to their brilliance. They did "Glee" better than "Glee" (which really isn't saying much these days. That show, which used to be good, has delved into some of the most horribly written pap I've ever seen. It's the anti-"Community"). I am almost done writing this, and I am still embarrassed that I haven't conveyed how smartly written each episode is, how layered, how dense and how sincere. And maybe that's why it has a small number of devoted followers. When comparing it to something popular like "Friends," it earns its heart points rather than bludgeoning us over the head with the perils of Ross and Rachel and Chandler and Monica. (Don't get me wrong. I still have a soft place in my heart for "Friends." But it does seem a little fake when placed next to something with more substance.)

Then there are the friendships. I have said that your friends aren't always chosen, and that is certainly the case here. None of these people would have ever wound up together by choice, certainly not Troy and Abed, who have created the single greatest bromance since Bert and Ernie. Images of them doing a fake morning show or attempting random world records call to mind the silly things we would do with our best friends, especially when time and responsibility weren't constraints.

                                             

Britta, the atheist, and Shirley, the Christian, are able to coexist and even bond when picking up a hitch hiker. Each of these people must have had friends before, maybe ones they chose, but sometimes by being forced to deal with what makes you different, you can create a stronger bond than if you like someone because they are into the Grateful Dead, too.

I have seen that in my own life. My closest friends are not exactly the ones that I selected. They are the ones that were placed in my path at some of the toughest times in my life. Maybe that is why they are my closest friends. I found the woman of my dreams because I was fired at a previous job and wound up at a desk next to her. I thought that it was fate that led me there, but I ruined that relationship, and that has sent me down another path which may very well place me next to the closest friend I will ever have. That bums me out a bit, that negative actions from my past would be the only way I could achieve happiness in the future. It's certainly not scientific, but it is hard to get through the days knowing that.

I'm a little like Jeff (except for the low body fat and perfectly coiffed hair). I'm cynical, I have been deceptive in the past, and it has led me to a place where I have to accept what is around me. If I do that, I could see that the friends placed in my path are the ones I deserve to have. And if I ever feel lonely, I have my friends at "Community." It is one of those rare shows that can be sharp and witty and still leave you warm inside. It doesn't sacrifice hipness for heart. I only hope I can say that about the friends I continue to make.

And in the end, that's pretty cool. Cool, cool, cool.

Only the heartbroken on my bandwagon

It's easy to grin when your ship's come in, and you've got the stock market beat, but the man worthwhile is the man who can smile when his shorts are too tight in the seat.   — Judge Smails, Caddyshack

I will never understand the concept of the bandwagon. The very notion that, in sports, when a particular team is doing well, they seem to generate more fans than when they are getting their behinds kicked is alien to me. I lived in Louisiana for about three years in the late 1990s, and it was amazing to see a sudden emergence of Green Bay Packer fans just at a time when the Packers were dominating the NFL landscape. Really? You've always been a Packer fan? I have a sneaking suspicion that most of those cheeseheads were placed in moth balls until this year.

The opposite of that are us — die hard fanatics who root for a team no matter what record they have. We have for years before, and we will for decades to come. In many instances, we root for them no matter who is suiting up for them. To paraphrase Jerry Seinfeld, we basically cheer for laundry.

My allegiances have been etched in stone since I was a baby, and I have never deviated from them. I was born in Dallas (I have the birth certificate in case Donald Trump needs some sort of proof), and I have been a lifelong Cowboy fan since as long as I could remember. With that comes a lot of tongue-biting over the course the team has taken throughout my life. There have been new owners and fired coaches and rival players you hate now wearing the immortal star. Yes, I cheered for the laundry on more than one occasion. It was hard, but I am die-hard, baby.

My family is from north Arkansas, so baseball season has always revolved around the St. Louis Cardinals. Although the championships in my lifetime have been fewer than the Cowboys, the integrity of the organization has been a little more respectable, save for one steroid-juiced first baseman a few years back.

When it comes to colleges, most people know where I stand, and this is where my hatred for the bandwagon takes full form. Those people who claim to be sports fans really aren't. Because real sports fans know about heartbreak. And that's what makes these games special for us.

I achieved another level of it Tuesday night watching my beloved Baylor Lady Bears fall in the NCAA Tournament ... to the Texas A&M Aggies. I can't believe I just typed that without throwing up on the keyboard. With the Lady Bears, I was living a dream that I haven't experienced since the Aikman-Irvin-Smith days of the Cowboys. A team that I loved was the best, at least for a good part of the season. This program had already won a national championship and had spent most of this past season as No. 1 in the nation. "We" had beaten A&M three times this season, each by the slimmest of margins, and doing it a fourth time would not be easy. It turned out to be a very easy game to win ... for the Aggies. They beat us down and are heading to the Final Four next week while we are heading home. Blah.

I wasn't shocked by the outcome. Being a Baylor fan in any sport, you are never shocked to lose, even with a team as great as this one. But I was more than disheartened. For the first time in quite a while, I actually had a quiet sense of confidence. Unlike last year when our men's team lost to Duke a game away from their Final Four, I actually thought this team had a chance to win it all. Last year, both the men and women made it further than I would have ever imagined. But this year, my heart was broken — again.

I remember that national championship game in 2005 and how wonderful the feeling was, and I have great memories of great wins by my alma mater. There was the football victory over Arkansas in 1993. The temperature was about 8 degrees, and the Bears won in Fayetteville 9-5, the last time those two teams ever played.

There was a basketball win over those same Hogs my freshman year in college. Arkansas was third in the nation, and losses by Kansas and Missouri earlier in the week meant that if the Razorbacks could just beat lowly Baylor, they could vault to No. 1 in the nation. Well, we played over our heads all day and won 82-77. It was the one time in my life that I was part of storming the court. That night, a multitude of freshmen gathered around the community televisions at Penland Hall to watch Sportscenter (yes, it existed back then). We knew we would be the top story of the day.

That night, Buster Douglas beat Mike Tyson for the heavyweight boxing title. The first 20 minutes of the broadcast were dedicated to that historical event. Even when we won, we lost.

But for some reason, I always tend to dwell on the losses. I remember so many defeats to Arkansas and A&M and Texas and Oklahoma and Missouri and Kansas and ... well, you get the picture. This latest one just adds to to the misery.

But it also makes loving a team that much more special. One goes through so much heartbreak when following a sports program that it makes the winning that much sweeter. And I have seen my share of heartbreak. That's why bandwagon fans make me sick. What's the point of celebrating with your "team" if you weren't around when they stunk? For every glorious win, I have burned-in memories of every stinging loss.

While I appreciate every Cowboy victory ...

I cannot forget every embarrassing defeat ....

For every Cardinal championship ....

We have to deal with soul-crushing injuries ...

When Baylor football qualifies for a bowl after 18 years ....

We had to finish the season with this ....

So this week was just the latest in a big, fat pile of bad memories for me. I do realize that I am just a fan in the midst of all of this. The players want to win 100 times more than I do. The coaches agonize over every botched play and missed opportunity. All I can do is watch and sigh.

But I wouldn't have it any other way. I have had enough heartbreak in my life to worry too much about sports heartbreak. It's tough, but I always get up the next morning and get going. Maybe being tied to these teams (as well as the Texas Rangers and Dallas Mavericks) have helped me in other struggles. The sun does come up the next day.

Today is Opening Day for baseball. While the Lady Bear basketball team is done for the year (and guess what Aggies. I'm rooting for Stanford!), the Cardinals are gearing up for a hopefully glorious season. They probably won't win it all, but that's not what I'm concerned with. I've dealt with misery before, and I'll do it again. It's the way true fans are. We don't waver. We become stronger.

So come on, everyone. My heart is ready to be broken again.

Love and marriage .... and the opposite

When you are a writer — either a great one, a good one, or, in my case, a starving one, you sometimes look to other writers for inspiration. Although I do not tend to see myself living off my own writing (I do it only as sort of a cathartic release. That's why these blogs are rarely ever well thought out. They are, to excuse a vulgar visual, brain vomit) I would like to try and get better.

So I read others. And as I did recently, I came across this nugget of info from Mr. Anton Chekhov: "If you're afraid of loneliness, don't marry."

Alright, you got me. I'm never going to just pick up Chekhov. I read a book that quoted Chekhov. So at least I was reading someone who was sophisticated. Of course, me reading someone reading Chekhov is like a copy of a copy of a copy. My words tend to be a little blurrier.

But let's get back to that quote. Being fiercely independent and being lonely can go hand in hand, and it seems that while people really need to see how they can live and survive on their own, life works better when you have a connection with other people, and especially with that one special person. Does that mean that everyone is required to pair off? Of course not. In one simple sentence, Chekhov points to a fear of being alone as precisely NOT the reason to marry. There has been that standard among friends as "fallback" wives or husbands. "If neither of us are married by the time we're 40, we'll marry each other." As if 40 is the magic cutoff age for attractiveness or happiness. I'd like to tell everyone ... I am 39 and 10 months, and I am single and occasionally lonely, but I would be the worst candidate for marriage at this point.

So many people seem to have relationships figured out (judging by facebook posts at least) and sooooooo many others do not. There are books and classes and counseling sessions and exercises, and none of them really do any good. Only the actions of those involved in a relationship will decide whether that relationship will survive. Outside influences can help, but you can't "Dr. Phil" someone into making a marriage work. The only way you really know if that pot is boiling hot is by touching it. And by then, you've got a burned hand.

In job interviews, I always had a truthful and effective answer to the traditional question, "What is your biggest weakness?" Instead of that old standby, "I care too much," I say what is true. I tell them that I usually don't learn something new until I fail at it. Once I make a mistake, I know what not to do, and it always makes a greater impact.

Maybe that's why I am batting 0-for-1 in the marriage department. While not getting too detailed, I did things that I thought were in the service of the relationship that were for the most part, causing its demise. It was a series of bad decisions and explanations that will never be repeated if I have another chance at it. Ladies and gentlemen, the pot was scalding hot.

So now being thrust back into singledom (although that implies some sort of attempt at dating and a love life, which is so far from reality right now and in the foreseeable future that I tend to stay away from anything revolving around relationship status) I have had more time to become obsessed with particular things ... like reading people who read Chekhov, for one. And music, particularly old blues and jazz .... then classical ... then Phish (obviously) ... and then back to an old favorite, Stephen Sondheim.

Let's get the jokes out of the way. A single man in his late 30s listening to an inordinate amount of Sondheim might have to prove that he is heterosexual. But I can appreciate a Broadway showtune at the same time that I am filling out my March Madness bracket. It can be done, fellas.

So inspiration for writing can come from the man who Time Magazine called the great American playwright, even though he has been relegated to music and lyrics of stage shows. Sondheim, in my humble opinion, is the American Shakespeare. Of course in terms of playwrights, we have our Arthur Millers and Edward Albees and Tennessee Williamses, but more than any other person working in the theater, Sondheim writes words and poetry in a way that you believe cannot be constructed by any other human. His songs are like the perfect Tetris game. Not only are his words perfectly placed to rhyme and give meaning, but it's as if there is only one word in the human language that will fit at a particular place, and he always seems to find it. To do that, you have to be extremely intelligent and the opposite of lazy. Anyone can rhyme June with moon and spoon. Sondheim can do it in a way that makes simpleness become profound. He would most definitely not be attempting a "brain vomit."

Let's take an example of one of my favorite Sondheim numbers, "It Takes Two" from Into The Woods, a musical journey through the lives of several famous fairy tale characters and their lives after living "happily ever after." This duet takes place in the middle of the first act when the baker and his wife are in the middle of a journey to retrieve items that will reverse a curse and allow them to have a child. The song is not a showstopper. It is a diddy. It is not brassy and bombastic, like something from The Phantom of the Opera. It is simple, giving us a little insight into these two characters whose marriage is more than rocky. And yet, despite the innocence of the tune, it is simply brilliant songwriting.

I'm not an English teacher, but let's look at the fact that he sets his rhymes at the ends of his lines, like most people do, but he makes sure that words in the middle of his phrases are symmetrical as well. He doesn't need to do it, but it's why he is the master.

"If I DARE, it's because I'm becoming AWARE of us as a PAIR of us each accepting a SHARE of what's THERE."

I mean, come on! That's just not fair! (Yes, I'm joking) But on top of that, the sentence speaks to the event in the play, the actual journey of the characters and the emotional journey within their relationship and the fact that it is taking the "woods" to strengthen their bond. And he accomplished all of this in a little first act diddy. A diddy!

But now we come to my recent obsession, Company. Sondheim and playwright George Furth wrote this groundbreaking musical in the early 1970s about a bachelor about to turn 35 observing his married friends and contemplating why he is still single and if their marriages are any indication of true happiness. I have never been able to see this show live, but I have listened to the cast album countless times. I first heard it in college. In the days before Amazon.com, if a person wanted to purchase an album that was not readily available in their local store, they had to have the store order it. You would head to the cashier and leaf through a large book containing UPS codes, write your order out on a sheet of paper and wait 2-4 weeks for delivery. I ordered Company and Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti on the same day.

I enjoyed it in college, but mainly for the technical appreciation. I loved the music and lyrics and appreciated the humor and drama. I "got it." I knew what it was about, but only now, decades later, I really know what it's about. A few years ago, a young woman who is a friend told me that her favorite musical was Company. I responded, perhaps unintentionally rudely, "Really?" The woman was 20 or 21. She is studying to be an actor. She is incredibly talented and smart and clever, so I know that she "gets" Company the way I "got" Company back then. She will be in for a surprise in 20 years. If she loves it now, she will be overwhelmed by it later.

Unlike any other musical before it, Company truly is an adult show about adults. The creators have stated that every type of musical coming before it was about escape, and the people who would attend these Broadway shows would be upper class New Yorkers, most of them married, and they wanted that escape. Company was the exact opposite. It showed them everything about themselves. Sondheim said, "We wanted a show where the audience would sit for two hours and scream with laughter and then go home and not be able to sleep."

The show is about Bobby (or Bobby, baby or Bobby, bubby), who spends time with his friends, five married couples, each one at a different point in their relationship. One is in the process of getting divorced, but they still live together and have found that it has strengthened their relationship. One couple is about to get married, but not before the bride can have her showstopping cold feet number "Getting Married Today." Since it doesn't serve the purpose of this blog, I won't post it here, but seek it out on YouTube. It is astonishingly good.

Still another couple acts out through passive aggressive means including an impromptu karate match while another reveals hidden feelings after smoking pot. Each interaction is all too familiar to those of us who been in those battles, and it is sometimes hard to watch, even if the scenes are funny. And toward the end of the show, the matriarch of the bunch, who is on her third husband, does everything to get him to leave, but he knows her better and remains loyal.

During this time, they attempt to help Bobby find someone, the right one. A classic line from Furth is, "You've got to marry somebody, not just somebody." But maybe he is happy by himself. At the end of the first act, Bobby sings about what a perfect marriage should be, but never is. "Marry Me A Little" is exactly what the title implies: Don't get too deep because that's where the pain can lie. 

Marry me a little, love me just enough. Cry, but not too often, play but not too rough. Keep a tender distance so we'll both be free. That's the way it ought to be.

But we all know that isn't a marriage. It's not even what we really want a good marriage to be. So when Bobby declares, "I'm ready!" the close the song and the act, those of us who have been in it know he is not really ready.

It doesn't help that he gets advice from his friends that are all over the map. Most of the women want him to settle down, but they do not approve of any of his prospects. The men envy the freedom he has but only up to a point. They can live vicariously through him, but I doubt they would trade places with him. In one of the most poignant songs, the husbands feel "Sorry-Grateful" for their fates, a feeling that everyone has to posses at some point in their marriages. The second verse contains a haunting line that comments on Chekhov's earlier declaration.

You hold her thinking "I'm not alone." You're still alone.

Finally, Bobby realizes everything that goes into a relationship: the good, the bad and the extremely ugly, and decides, by way of the final song, "Being Alive" that he actually is ready. Who knows if he goes through with it. We have all had inspiration on Friday night only to find it gone by Monday morning.

This is a plotless show, the first of its kind, really. The vignettes give us glimpses into the couples and shed more light onto Bobby since he is involved in every scene. There are his dates with three prospective mates and his birthday parties at the beginnings of both acts and at the end of the show, although they may all be the same party. It is never really explained. The clips shown here are from the revival from 2006. I had a chance to see this when I went to New York, ironically, to propose to my future ex-wife. I stayed away, however, because does anyone really want to watch a play about the perils of marriage right after becoming engaged? We opted for three excellent alternatives.

But now seeing this version — where the actors play the instruments on the stage, not something in the original concept — I kind of wish I had seen it live. Maybe it could have been some sort of primer for what was to come. But probably not. Like I said, I have to touch that pot. I don't think a play would have changed anything.

It is amazing that Sondheim could be so astute about relationships when he stated that he didn't find lasting love until he was 60. He is 81 now, so a 21-year relationship is not too shabby. It also makes being 40 and alone a cakewalk.

This 2006 version of Company is on DVD, and the entire show is available in consecutive snippets on YouTube. I linked them in order below. If you have two hours, I highly recommend sitting down and watching it.

Company, Part 1   Company, Part 2   Company, Part 3   Company, Part 4   Company, Part 5   Company, Part 6   Company, Part 7   Company, Part 8   Company, Part 9   Company, Part 10   Company, Part 11   Company, Part 12   Company, Part 13   Company, Part 14   Company, Part 15   Company, Part 16   Company, Part 17   Company, Part 18   Company, Part 19   Company, Part 20   Company, Part 21

In defense of Phish

Q: What did one Phish fan say to the other when they ran out of drugs? A: "Dude, this music sucks!"

Hahahaha ... now that we've gotten that out of the way (and I've heard that joke on more than one occasion) I'd like to tell you about my favorite music in the world. For those who know me even slightly, that music comes from the band Phish. Known by that horrifyingly stereotypical moniker of "jamband," Phish came into being in the mid-1980s, but were unknown to me until the late 90s. That's kind of the way they like it. 

Instead of bursting onto the scene and flaming out just as quickly, Phish spent the better part of 20 years playing music the old fashioned way — live, in front of more and more people each time. They have done this without the benefit of radio airplay or MTV. They don't have a hit single nor do they have charismatic members, unless you call a drummer who wears a dress to every show charismatic. They are four nerds, for lack of a better word. And yet their music has transformed me in a way that none other has outside of The Beatles.

I think the reason that I respond to it so well is that they really love music. What other band out there can realistically pull off traditional rock and roll, a prog-rock composed piece, bluegrass, funk and barbershop quartet, sometimes in the same show? They truly are "students of the game."

Three of the final four members — Trey Anastasio, Mike Gordon and Jon Fishman — joined forces in late 1983 with another original member, Jeff Holdsworth, to play at the University of Vermont ROTC dance. It is believed that Phish performed "I Heard It Through The Grapevine," "Proud Mary" and "Long Cool Woman In A Black Dress" among other bar band favorites. The band stated that their performance was so bad that Michael Jackson's Thriller was popped into the tape deck during their break in order to get everyone to dance. The band didn't perform again in public for another year, when they settled into the haunt that shepherded the early part of their career, Nectar's, a bar and grill in Burlington, Vermont that still stands and serves a mean french fries and gravy.

A few months later, keyboardist Page McConnell joined the group, and a year after that, Holdsworth exited, leaving a foursome that has stood to this day. The group was still unknown to anyone outside of a few Northeastern college towns, and it would take another two years for the group to venture outside of their own state, all the way to ... Rhode Island. 

But that's where the legend takes off. This is a band who ripped a page from the Grateful Dead's playbook: Play here, play there, play everywhere. And that's what they did. About the time that I was cruising the halls of Jonesboro High School in Arkansas listening to Milli Vanilli and Fine Young Cannibals, Phish was building a fan base whose loyalty has yet to be exceeded. They played 108 shows in 1989 alone, while at the same time releasing their first major label album, Junta, and playing their first New Year's Eve show to 1,700  devotees in Boston. In what would become a tradition of NYE merriment, the band provided hors d'oeuvres and champagne to the crowd while Fishman bypassed the traditonal tuxedo garb worn by the other three members and came out on stage in nothing more than a top hat and a g-string.

In the following years, their influence began to spread wider and wider, although always underground of what mainstream music was accomplishing. While they were filling up larger venues in Vermont and neighboring states, Phish would still play to less than 100 people when they ventured south or west. At least that would happen the first time. If they ever returned, they would see those numbers increase exponentially. The now routinely play multiple nights at Madison Square Garden to sold out shows. Their NYE festival in 1999 was in the Florida Everglades in front of 90,000 fans. To paraphrase the late great John Houseman, they were becoming a big-time rock-and-roll band the old-fashioned way — by eeeaahhrrrning it.

Two Phish fans left a show, both of them complaining. "Man, that show was horrible," the first one said. "Trey sang off key, Mike never came in at the right time, and Page forgot all the words." "I completely agree," the second one said. "And it was way too short."

The stuff above is just a history lesson. What I really want to talk about is the music. Phish is formed out of four guys who love music ... all music. They are sponges. While the earliest songs have the basic rock backbeat to them, the writer of most of the songs, Anastasio, was really learning how to create large composed pieces and turn them into prog-rock songs along the lines of early Genesis and Rush. But instead of sounding dark and gloomy, these songs sounded fun. I realize that some of the lyrics deal with walking lizards and dancing pigs. I realize how nerdy it can feel to try and gain meaning from the words, "The tires are the thing on your car that make contact with the road." It ain't Dylan. I mean, there is a song called "Dinner And A Movie" where all they sing is "Let's go out to dinner and see a movie." Their song "David Bowie" has the immortal lyrics ... "David Bowie ... David Bowie ... David Bowie ... " well, you get the idea.

But there are poetic moments. A favorite of many non-Phish fans is "Waste" which I included on my wedding CD.

There are other pearls of wisdom including "Can't this wait 'til I'm old? Can I live while I'm young?" or my favorite, "Whatever you do, take care of your shoes." The immortal line "This has all been wonderful, but now I'm on my way" has been scrawled on more than a few yearbooks. But on the whole, if you're trying to get true poetry, you might as well stick with Paul Simon, John Lennon or Robert Hunter.

Like I said, I am interested in the music. This is a band that has never rested on its laurels. In the mid-90s, they wanted to learn how to play real bluegrass, so they enlisted a tutor and incorporated their progress into their shows. Remember that in attempting this, the bassist played banjo, the drummer played mandolin, the pianist played upright bass and the guitarist played ... well, guitar. But it was different. They wanted to do something new by learning their musical history.

While none of them are really strong singers — there are definitely no Freddie Mercurys or heck, even Steve Perrys in the group — they have learned to sing together, and they have flirted with barbershop music from time to time. Venturing into acapella territory during a rock show is not how you keep the party going, but they cared more about getting better and exploring all types of music.

When you can't pin down one particular type of music, it makes going to these shows so much fun. Every concert is different because they play whatever they want. Without one hit single, they can play a completely different setlist four or five nights in a row. And since they are musical chameleons, they have attracted every type of respected musician to sit in with them. The diverse list includes Allison Krauss, Bela Fleck, Bob Weir and Phil Lesh, Dave Matthews Band, B.B. King, Kid Rock, Neil Young, Paul Schaffer, Carlos Santana, Jimmy Buffett and some of these gems ...

Wynona Judd

Jay-Z

Bruce Springsteen

There are no rules in a Phish concert. They once arranged all their songs so that they could spend an entire tour with a horn section. On one tour, they played chess with the crowd (one move was made by the band and one was made by the crowd during each show). Their Halloween events have included playing entire albums from The Beatles, The Who, The Rolling Stones and Talking Heads. They aren't afraid to tackle other musicians' songs as well, and they have tried their hand at "Gettin' Jiggy With It," "Tubthumping" and "Purple Rain" just to name a few. Their NYE shows can involve anything from marching bands to broadway dancers to a human cannonball. But at the heart are just four guys playing for about three hours (along with a killer improvised light show) and the possibility that you may hear or see something that you never have before. 

Q: How many Phish fans does it take to screw in a lightbulb? A: 100. 1 to screw it in, and 99 to tape it.

Phish is one of the most successful rock acts in history, but it's not traditional means that brought them there. Unlike many artists, who lashed out at unauthorized use of their music in the age of the mp3, Phish encouraged the taping and trading of their live shows, knowing that word of mouth would be a much sweeter brand of success than having one particular song shoved down people's throats. Yes, there have been concessions. One video was made for MTV. One song appeared on an episode of "Dawson's Creek." But by and large, the reason Rolling Stone called Phish the most important band of the 1990s is because they were at the forefront of bringing a fan base together through music trading and the Internet.

Before Napster, Phish fans were emailing each other shows and placing them on Web sites. Of the 1,400 or so concerts that they have played, there are nutjobs out there trying to track down a copy of every one. I was once one of those nutjobs, but I have since decided my time is better spent just listening to the couple hundred that I already have. But even better than listening to them at home is seeing a show live. The experience is unique to say the least. While the outside world may laugh and use much of the fan base for jokes about drugs, the majority of Phish's core base, including myself, is there for the music, and although I have been to some of the greatest live shows by music legends, I never have felt the energy that I do at a Phish show. It is a day-long event. You don't just arrive 30 minutes prior. You get there early and spend all day with your new "friends." Phish is basically the SEC of musical tailgating.

My first show started in the middle of a cornfield. I was introduced to Phish while I camped in the sweltering Indiana heat. I can remember almost every moment of that first show, and although the rest tend to run together, I know that I will experience something magical almost every time. I will make new friends, and I will forget my troubles for a few hours at least. I am going to do it again this year ... in North Carolina. I have seen Phish in San Francisco, Seattle, Saratoga Springs, NY and Columbus, Ohio. I have seen them in the midst of a raging storm and in the middle of flying tortillas and marshmallows. I will continue to see them until they quit. They have tried to quit before, but it never sticks. And despite Trey's horrible grammar in the clip below, he is absolutely right. There is nothing more real on this earth than music. It can get inside you more than any book or movie. It can connect with you in a matter of seconds. And everyone knows what I mean. Your "Phish" may not be Phish. It may be Brooks & Dunn or Justin Beiber or Bon Jovi. But it means something. And you know because you will be able to defend it to anyone.

Now quit reading and go listen to some music.

The sound and the fury

Time and again, we have marveled at what our founding fathers went through to complete what is the greatest constitution that any nation has ever put forth. Does that sound a little windbaggy? Well, so what? Thanks to these guys, I have the right to be a windbag.

Thomas Jefferson, John Adams and all their wig-wearing brethren could not possibly conceive of a world where bloggers would send their messages through space to a waiting world in a matter of seconds. But they held the basic tenant of the very first amendment to be the building block of what made our nation superior to all others. Speech is free. All speech is free. We have obviously put parameters on this remark. Libelous or slanderous speech is not free, nor is speech that directly puts someone or some group in danger. Death threats are not free. Cyberbullying is not free. The classic example of yelling "Fire!" in a crowded theater is not free.

But when we get to free speech and what we need to defend, it is so easy to fall back on our laurels and talk about the free speech we love. Tea partiers protesting new taxes or school unions protesting the loss of bargaining rights, we as a nation have always been "taking it to the streets," and it is one of the glorious aspects of our nation. It is something that we have had to battle internally through the years. Civil rights and gay rights marches have been met with violence, and those stains still linger, but it seems that maybe we have gotten to a point where the exercise of free speech is completely protected.

Enter Fred Phelps. The leader of the Westboro Baptist Church (Let's get this straight. It ain't a church.) has made quite a name for himself as the new litmus test for free speech in America. Does he care that he has placed himself in the middle of the most sacred of all our nation's institutions? I would guess not, although I am sure he loves the publicity. Phelps and his band of wingnuts have taken it upon themselves to tour the country and demonstrate at various funerals, usually those of American soldiers. Their sole purpose is this: they are convinced (or are trying to convince others) that the United States is a current Sodom, and God is killing soldiers because we have tolerated and embraced the homosexual lifestyle. That's pretty much it. Phelps hates gay people, and he has decided that every soldier that dies is God's punishment for this one particular "sin."

Much like the tax lawyer who finds a loophole to allow a corporation to pay three percent in taxes, Phelps and his crew know how to protest and get away with it. Phelps was a lawyer until the mid-1980s, and ironically, he fought hard as a civil rights attorney in the 1960s, taking cases of African Americans in Kansas, often against the hostile establishment of the time.

The "church" only attends public gatherings, and they usually stay 1,000 feet away (about three football fields) according to whatever local ordinance is in place. To my knowledge, they have never engaged anyone physically. They just know how to press buttons ... and get press. Although they are mainly known for their presence at military funerals, Phelps has a long list of individuals and groups that he has placed on his "naughty" list. It is quite expansive and includes Billy Graham (who Fred calls the greatest false prophet since Balaam), Ronald Reagan, William Rehnquist, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, Fred Rogers (MR. FREAKING ROGERS!!), Heath Ledger, Jerry Falwell, Bill O'Reilly, Jews, Catholics, Swedes and the Irish. Their speech is filled with hate and venom. It is disrespectful and sickening, and until recently, it had gone on without a challenger.

Albert Snyder sued Phelps' group in 2006 after they protested at the funeral of his son, who was killed in Iraq. He cited emotional distress, invasion of privacy and a violation of his right for free exercise of religion and peaceful assembly. He initially won $11 million, but the case was appealed all the way to the Supreme Court, who rightly rejected his case. The court, voting 8-1, said that the group had complied with local officials and protested in a peaceful manner on public property and in no way disrupted Matthew's funeral.

This is where we have to take a good hard look at where we stand as a nation. The defense of free speech is only important when we defend the speech that we most vehemently disagree with. Is does us no good as a society to hold up our own protests and demonstrations as a beacon to others. We have to show that the worst type of protected speech is still protected. This is not a slippery slope. This is the entire foundation. Phelps' speech is not just the opposite of what 99.9 percent of the general public believes. It is stomach-churning bile handled in such a way that incites the most heated of responses. In fact, many message boards are filled with much of the same hate-filled rhetoric that Phelps himself spews. In a free-speech society, those comments are protected as well.

To those people who believe that this is equatable with a hate crime, remember that Phelps says, "God killed your son." Not "I am going to kill your son." He's not dumb. He could very well be the worst person in our nation, but he knows where that line is.

So the Supreme Court, minus Samuel Alito, has stated that this speech is protected. We all knew that it would come to this point sooner or later, so now the best thing we can possibly do is ignore the group. I realize that I am contradicting my own advice by writing this post, but this is the only time I will speak on the matter. If the Phelps clan is treated like they don't exist, they could very well wither on the vine. That is much like asking the fat kid to ignore the big piece of chocolate cake in the kitchen, but it does us no good to engage with these creatures. Violence toward them would only result in a lawsuit and more publicity. Now that they are completely protected (and I must say, rightly so), we must take our own stand. No more coverage by the local newspapers or television stations. No counter protests (although it is perfectly legal and justified). Now that they know they have the right to protest, let them ring on deaf ears.

And if you really want express yourself, just wait for Phelps to pass on. The man is 81. That, my friends, will be one crazy funeral.

Men Of Great Potential

"Potential" is such a tricky word. It seems like a compliment — "He has such great potential" — notice how the word "great" sits right next to it? But potential is an unseen entity. Personally, instead of having great potential, I would rather have great abs. Or great access to money. Potential is what is not there ... but could be. In fact, the overused term "untapped potential" is a bit redundant. If you tap into the potential, it's no longer potential, right? Okay, this is getting confusing.

I don't mean to discourage the use of potential because right now, it's pretty much all I have. It may be something that is not seen, but sometimes it is all we can hold on to. And those of us who appreciate being told that we have great potential .... well, there isn't much of a support group. We see ourselves not in each other, because let's face it, most people don't want to show that underbelly to anyone else. What we show is the best possible side of ourselves. To other people, our potential is all tapped out. We've used it, and life is great. But everyone thinks they can do better. So we cling to the potential that we still think we have.

Sticking to this theory, if we think we are not living up to our full potential, but we think others certainly are, then we have little that connects us. If everyone else is doing great, they don't need to hear about my problems. I need to find someone who isn't afraid to bare their soul and say that they are trying and failing as well.

My heroes (or antiheroes) come from the movies, and they aren't afraid of revealing their weaknesses, most likely because they don't realize a movie is being made out of them. We have moved beyond traditional marks of right or wrong. Our superheroes nowadays are the vainglorious Iron Man or the tortured and slightly demented Batman. It's not that we want to see people in misery. We want to see them conquer whatever demons they have because it can somehow help us as well.

So, as with any major crisis in my life, I revert to the movies. I see myself in so many characters that it feels like I pay $7 to sit in a dark theater and look at a 50-foot mirror. But it's the cheapest kind of therapy there is.

Now, I don't want to follow up my last statement with a film starring George Clooney, but I just can't help myself. I have a tendency to be cute at times, but no one would confuse George and me in a police lineup.  And that's where Clooney spends some of his time in "Out Of Sight," a movie that is so much more than it seems to be on the surface. Pulled from a pulp novel by Elmore Leonard, "Out Of Sight" gives us the character of Jack Foley, a three-time loser spending a lengthy time in prison for being a bad bank robber. Why does he rob banks? He just can't see himself going through the same method of work and home that many of us appreciate and cherish.

He's not dumb. In fact, he's pretty smart, especially when it comes to aligning himself with allies and sizing up his competition. A particularly clever breakout attempt, however, places him in the crosshairs of federal marshal Karen Sisco, played by Jennifer Lopez in probably the only two hours ever where she has not come across as incredibly annoying. Their meet-cute in the back of a trunk will go down as one of the great romantic scenes in movie history, and it sets in motion a sequence of events where Jack must try to resolve his chosen life with the want and need to become a better man for this woman. Women often say it is pointless to try and change a man. In this case, they are right. Jack cannot change, but he can act like he's trying.  

In one way, he seems to be lazy. Why can't he use that energy he crams attempting big scores into something more worthwhile? Maybe something that would keep him out of prison? But of course we see all shades of him. He is not ubercool. He is flailing. He is trying not to drown. And when he and Karen have a final showdown, they both reveal that they are who they are no matter how much they try to be something else. The way Karen reconciles this while keeping Jack in her life is something most of us men would wish our women would do. But most women don't have the tolerance of Karen. In a sense, she is a glutton for punishment. She sees the good in Jack, but she knows he won't ever really use it.

Appearance-wise, we go from the sublime to the ridiculous. Paul Giamatti in "Sideways" is no one's idea of the wayward hunk needing rescue. No, he's worse. He's the schlub whose life has not gone the way he had planned. Giamatti plays Miles, a struggling writer masquerading as a high school teacher. His novel is unpublished, he is divorced, and he tends to escape his demons by creating new ones through excessive drinking — "going to the dark side." Oh, did I mention that he's also a wine snob? What a winner!

Miles' best friend Jack (why are all the bad boys in these movies named Jack?) is a wannabe actor who has gained notoriety doing commercial voice work. He is in his 40s and is getting married because ... well, he guesses it's time. And he seems to really love this girl.

Miles and Jack, played by Thomas Haden Church, spend a week in Napa celebrating Jack's last week of freedom, but mainly it's a chance for them to flee their sorry little lives for a small while. On the way, Miles steals money from his mother, Jack flirts with anything that moves, and they get really, really drunk. So why do we want to spend time with these creatures at all? That's the brilliance of the film, in my opinion. The people who hate this movie — and there are so many — point to the fact that these guys are losers. Why would we want to watch these two do anything for two hours? I can't explain it other than this. I think many people are afraid to admit their own problems, and it's easy to condemn others, especially if they are fictitious people. What amazed me is how much I related to them, more so now than ever.

It's hard to stay with these fellows, however. Jack cheats on his fiancee not once but twice, and in one of the toughest scenes to accomplish, Jack has to reveal that despite his wolflike tendencies, he cannot lose his chance at happiness with the woman he loves. He breaks down crying, naked on the bed and shows the pitiful human being he has become. To some, it may seem over the top, but to me, it is the vulnerability that we all try to conceal.

Miles is harder to pin down. He is drawn to Mya, a waitress in wine country, and he seems to be a person who is smart enough and strong enough to enjoy life, but too many things have dragged him down. He is still reeling from his divorce, and a meeting with his ex-wife is one of the hardest scenes to watch for anyone who has ever been dumped. But it's the conversation he has with Mya that will go down in film lore as wonderful screen writing. Miles and Mya speak to each other about wine, but they are really speaking about themselves. Their entire courtship is based on these few minutes, and both get it exactly right. Miles points to his love for Pinot Noir, and everything he says tells Mya what she needs to do to get through to him. And Mya points out in the same fashion why Miles needs to break out of his funk.

In the end, there is hope for both of these guys reaching their potential. It is what keeps us rooting for them, I think. They need not change everything about themselves. But they do know what they need to change.

In an earlier blog post, I spoke of John Cusack in "Say Anything ... " and his character in "High Fidelity" seems to be an adult version of Lloyd Dobler, a man stripped of that unbridled enthusiasm 15 years after high school, left with nothing more than his cool factor and his two funny but lame co-workers and friends. He too has been left by Laura, a lawyer who senses that Rob, the record store owner, has gone about as far as he can go, and she thinks it is time to move on. He tries to convince himself that she doesn't matter as much as all the other women who have trampled his heart in the past, but more and more, he realizes that she is the one who could change him.

Rob is a snob as well. He and his cohorts delight in knowing more about popular music than the denizens that muck up their store looking for old vinyl copies of rare rock gems. This book and encompassing movie came out on the eve of the mp3 revolution, but I still think there are plenty of Robs out there shunning the iPod for their classic mix tapes.

Rob is in a place that many of us have been or are in right now. We have things to say and do, but we feel stuck. Is this where we are supposed to be? Is there anywhere else we could wind up? Is there always something better out there? Although it looks like Rob was the one getting the boot, we learn through his confessionals that he pretty much did everything to roll the red carpet to the out door for Laura. And now that she is gone, he wants her back more than ever.

So he does get her back ... sort of. I'm not spoiling anything. It's just one of those endings where she basically states that she realizes that he may never reach his potential, but that she's too tired to deal with the unknown. It's seen as a happy ending because he looks like he is ready to refocus. But, as we all know, he's a dude. It's real hard to change the wiring of these kinds of men. I should know.

I haven't even touched on "Wonder Boys" where a Pen Award winning author/professor spends a weekend with his student and woos the dean of the college despite his ability to not do much of anything except smoke pot and try to piece his life back together. There is the recent masterpiece "The Town" where a bank robber falls for a clerk and tries to work his way to a better life away from the Boston underworld. One could always watch the entertaining if slightly overrated "As Good As It Gets" about the crabby writer (another writer?) who works through his obsessive compulsive behavior for a diner waitress. The classic line from that movie, "You make me want to be a better man," has been uttered by many, including me, at one point or another in our lives. Let me just tell you ... we really mean it. It's just very very hard to do.

The one constant that these films has is that the men either change or try to change based on the love of a good woman. It's a powerful drug to be sure, but it can't be a cure-all. There are those of us who have to reach our potential on our own before we are any good for anyone else out there. It makes it much harder, but it also makes it sweeter when we do.