No, I am donning my second-cleanest cutoffs and spending an hour in traffic to go to a Phish show—my first—alone.
Here, flying solo at this Phish show, I will confront the very personality traits that have probably led me to attending a Phish show by myself.
I am both tremendously judgmental of strangers and impatient. In dating, this leads to being unreasonably picky and dismissive.
(This combination makes online dating mostly impossible, by the way.) With music, these two traits manifest themselves as an abysmally low tolerance for longform instrumental noodling and a bad attitude toward my fellow attendees.
My former teacher’s “bring it down” premonition seems to manifest in slow motion. Still, at this point, I have gotten through about two hours of Phish’s music, which is about an hour and 50 minutes more than I thought I could handle.
My teacher’s teachings become useful again: When I feel my mind wandering, I re-focus on drummer Jon Fishman. I am prepared for the end of the concert as it winds to a close.
Since a tax on property would be a direct, unapportioned tax that the US Constitution does not allow, even selling a house for more than you paid for it would be a direct tax on property.
As you will see below, the US Supreme Court has ruled, not just once, but repeatedly, that the federal governmnet cannot levee a tax on your property, and ultimately, your labor.
As the daylight dims, the near-capacity crowd appears as a squirming singularity, coexisting peacefully.
People weave among each other, seeking out and selling bootleg shirts, pins and paraphernalia.
I run into a few acquaintances, and I wish I were more of a Grateful Dead fan, because the merchandise selection out here is truly incredible.
As Trey Anastasio and company take the stage, the smell of weed hangs in the air, and the cloud only thickens as the night progresses, as I'd expected.
Though a few folks are clearly having a more colorful time than others, no one ever seems to bother anyone else.