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Denny's #0823 Langhorne, Pennsylvania 13 August 2004 11:00am EDT 640 E. Lincoln Hwy. (215) 757-1115

• Attendees: P7A77, Lindee
• Wait-person(s): Josephine
• What we ate: P7A77: Veggie Cheese Omelette, Hashbrowns, English Muffin, Water; Lindee: Philly Melt, Seasoned Fries, Water
• So the guitarist for my favoritest band in the whole wide world - Phish - decided, "hey, I don't feel like practicing or playing well any more, so let's just break up." I, being a slobbering fanboi, immediately booked passage to the last leg of their last tour EVAR. Two shows outside of Boston, one outside of Philadelphia, and a two-day festival in northern Vermont. I reserved a fast car with no top for the trip from Philly to the festival, and I secured my plane tickets, but outside of that I was winging it. Well, I had plans to meet up with various people who promised me transportation, but we all know how those things usually work out.
• Took the redeye from Oakland to Boston, where I met up with prak, a gentleman who fears his soul will be sucked out of his eye sockets should his face be captured on film. I had never met him in person before (and obviously hadn't seen a photo), so how was I to recognize him at the airport? I looked for the guy who seemed prak-ish in nature, of course. It helped that he was wandering around in a prak-like manner looking for me. It helped more that he was late and I was the only person sitting at baggage claim. It helped still yet even more that he was one of the elite few who received a Project: Denny's t-shirt and chose to wear it (and as you can tell from the faded yellow in the photo, he's worn (or at least washed) it a lot). I was wearing my old-skool Denny's logo shirt, so we must've looked like a convention. A scary, greasy, borderline serial killer convention.
• It was a beautiful weekday morning in Boston, and I had never been, so we wandered around downtown a bit. And lemme tell ya something... Bostonians (at least the white collar workforce) are a grumpy bunch. I don't understand it. They get to walk around one of our oldest and most charming cities on a gorgeous day, and they're all scowling. I smilled at everyone I could, and not one returned it. Maybe I've been made soft by left coast living, because people in the SF Bay area smile back! They say hello! They acknowledge your existence! I mean, if YOU saw a tall happy dude with a giant backpack lumbering down the street with a big dopey grin, wouldn't you at least be mildly amused? Not these folks. Oh well. Who needs 'em! They don't even have a Denny's anywhere nearby. Maybe that's why they're grumpy.
• Lacking Denny's, we traveled by bus, foot, and train to Sunny's Diner, a little hole in the wall behind a gas station near one of those higher learning institutes they have out there. For some reason they have Simpson's memorabilia plastered everywhere. For some other reason, I didn't get photos of any of it. I had the spinach and feta omelette; prak the Gentle Giant. It was all delicious.
• From there prak hung out with me at the train station where I kicked his ass at Gin Rummy before boarding the commuter line down to Mansfield, a city with no Denny's, and the site of the first shows. I had plans to meet up with two random dudes who were giving me lodging and a ride to Philadelphia, Nick and Willly. Note the "what the fuck?" look Willy shot me. I like that about him the best. We hung out in the lot and commenced lot-type activities. After grabbing the obligatory New England Phish show Hood photo, we went into the venue. Lodging for the night was Willy's girlfriend Noah's house in Providence (another town with no Denny's), where I slumbered on the most uncomfortable couch in the world, at least for someone of my rather lengthy frame trying to sleep. There was also a notable lack of hot water. Good times. And I mean that sincerely. My hosts were quite gracious and even warmed up to my Clif Bars after a while. Or at least pretended to.
• Time to geek out for a minute here. I'd been going to Phish shows for ten years, and I had never seen my favorite "small" song, Suzy Greenberg. I plugged all my shows into a site that tracks stats, and it was top of the list of songs I should have seen already, with a 1.8% likelihood of not having seen it based on whatever it is they base those things on. Since all my stories have happy endings, astute readers not bored to tears by my Phish blathering have probably figured out that they busted out with it in Mansfield. Second night, second song, and it just tore shit up. My first Suzy, the last Suzy. As soon as the first notes started up, my undivided attention was on the music, grin solidly planted on face. Tight, fun version, with a little "curtain call" reprise afterwards. A fitting final version of the song, and I was pleased to get it out of the way so I wouldn't be itchy about it for the rest of the tour. Oh, and I totally called the Antelope second set opener.
• And now the plans started to fall apart. Nwickilly were skipping the Camden show and heading straight up to Vermont. They were willing to give me a ride to Philly anyway, in exchange for my extra ticket for the sold-out festival, but getting out of the lot that second night was insane. Nobody was moving and time was ticking down. To cut to the chase, we woke up some people to check transit schedules and prices, and I ended up taking Amtrak from Providence to Philadelphia, the commuter rail from there to the airport, then a taxi to the Motel 6. As I was checking in, the woman at the counter asked if I was there for the show, and put me in a room next to other people in town for same. And it was even room 420, dude. Well, okay, room 421. Close enough for a silly reference. And check this out, the motel was right next to a Denny's! Bet ya thought I wouldn't get around to that, eh? Well, hold your horses because I didn't eat there yet.
• Taking advantage of my room placement, I hit up the guys next door (Justin, Dylan, and Kibbel... I may be wrong on that last one... at least I hope so) for a ride to the show, which they gladly gave me in exchange for my purchasing for them some beverages of a certain distilled nature. Lordy, but I'm getting old. They regaled me with tales of cooking moonshine in the hills of West Virginia and seemed in awe of my first shows, as they've become historically significant. Lordy, but I'm getting old. They happened to be from Beckley, which is the town where Das Büs broke down and required a new transmission back in the day. It's also the name of my cat. I lost track of them in shakedown street, so I picked up a new pipe (going out of business sale! everything must go!) and headed in. I didn't take my camera that day, which sucked because the venue was right on the waterfront, with a beautiful view of the bridge and Philadelphia skyline. At one point I saw a woman taking photos and freaked her out because she thought I was busting her for having a camera, but no, I just wanted her to take a shot and send it to me. The file name she assigned was "who is this guy.jpg". You can't see the bridge or skyline, but you can see me doing I don't even know what with my hands.
• After the show I wandered around the lot advertising gas money and a free meal at Denny's for anyone willing to give me a ride. Tim and Sam took me up on my offer and proceeded to get lost driving around New Jersey until we finally made our way over the bridge. Bet ya think I'm going to talk about Denny's now, right? Shows what you know, because they merely accepted gas money and went on their way. I hung out with the Beckley guys for a bit and then took full advantage of having a mattress for a change.
• Next morning I shared a cab with a guy to the airport, where I was meeting up with Lindee and renting a car for the trip to Vermont. And one of the first things we did was... wait for it... EAT AT DENNY'S. I had the veggie omelette to celebrate the veggie burritoness of the lot scene. The english muffin was for New England. Lindee's Philly melt for obvious reasons. And all of this I'm just making up right now. My hashbrowns were raw and the english muffin wasn't toasted. What the meal lacked in quality it at least made up for in quantity. They get bonus points for garnishing with parsley. As this was my first Denny's trip in almost two years, I was out of practice and forgot to get any photographs. We snagged one in the parking lot.
• See? And you thought I'd never get around to the Denny's part. Have faith in me, dear reader. I may tease, but I know where your g-spot is.
• WAY: No
• Free Stuff: Summer Deal Menu Insert

Denny's #6365 South Burlington, Vermont 16 August 2004 1:15pm EDT 730 Shelburne Road (802) 863-4000

• Attendees: P7A77, Lindee
• Wait-person(s): Laurie
• What we ate: P7A77: Bagel, Coke; Linee: Bagel, Fruit, Coffee
• As I live a spartan lifestyle with few expenses, I like to treat myself from time to time. I figured, hey, I'm going to the last Phish shows, I'll be driving through lovely countryside, and I'll likely be stuck in traffic on a mountain for twenty hours. I'm getting a goddamn convertible. Best. Decision. Ever.
• After a stop at Target for last-minute supplies, we spent a bright sunny day tearing through the back roads of New Jersey and New York. Nice twisty rolling two-lane country highways, wind in our hair, in a vehicle that performs mildly better than my old Geo Metro. No photos from this part of the trip because I was too busy challenging the sound barrier to think about that sort of thing. Made it to Vermont by nightfall, started seeing other folks with the same destination, and then hit The Line. We were thirty miles from the venue before midnight, and twenty-nine miles away after sunrise. But that's okay because we got to nap under the stars, with occasional interruptions like one guy humping our tailpipe because he was out of whisky. It made sense to him, so we didn't question it.
• We expected traffic, but at the rate things were going, we'd have made it to the festival about ten days after it was over. Obviously something was up. As the story goes, there was an unusually high level of rain the previous few days and it didn't mix so well with the fresh sod laid down for the campers. Torrential downpouor plus fields of loose dirt equals assloads of mud. Waist-deep. Entire vehicles went missing. We listened to the festival radio station for updates and instructions, and were eventually delivered the worst news possible: they were turning cars away. People who had been planning for months, had traveled for thousands of miles, aching for their last chance to see their favorite music were being told, too bad so sad bye bye now. A wave of shock fell over all of us, and a lot of people just upped and drove off in a huff. We had been queued up in one lane to allow non-festival traffic to pass, but now everyone was driving everywhere, nobody sure what to do. At one point we were behind a pickup with a young woman facing backwards in the truckbed wearing the saddest expression ever. It damn near broke my heart, and I'm a rather cantankerous son of a bitch. I had to switch lanes, it was so bad. I had my own sad face, but I still wasn't convinced that I wasn't going to see the damn show, so it's not really "sad" so much as a mixture of shock and denial and determination. I figured at the very least some people would congregate and we could chill out and listen to the shows over the radio and see how things looked the next day. Finally made it to a rest area where there was already a happenin' scene underway. Got myself some food that wasn't a Clif Bar and took a nap on the grass under a tree.
• I woke up a few hours later and everybody was gone. Cars were there, but no people. Not one soul. What the hell? What had I missed? I figured some had decided to hoof it, but everybody? It was seriously spooky. Oh well, whatever, I took the opportunity to clean up a bit and organize the car. Eventually a local woman drove up and informed us that people had parked up and down the freeway and fast-thinking farmers had been giving people rides. Hotcha! Lucky for us she had decided to do one more run around the rest areas, as most everyone had already been transported. We hurriedly packed up a couple of small bags and jumped in her van. Samantha, Blaze, Allen, and Tammy were their names, and the daughter was just loving the shit out of everything, getting to meet all sorts of new and interesting people. They were all incredibly friendly and supportive and pleased as punch to have us there. What a welcome! But it gets even better for me. The cops had been allowing the locals to drop people off about five miles from the front of the venue, but when we got there, they decided to let us drive past their checkpoint, to just a mile from the back gate. Let this be a lesson to all of you: patience is a virtue. I didn't get pissy and drive off, I didn't rashly decide to walk twenty miles, and I napped through the first waves of local shuttles. As a result I had probably the easiest time getting there of anyone attending. I'm sorry for the rest of you, but, hey, good deal for me.
• The walk was relatively mild, and it appears some people started partying a little early, as a few were fascinated by a tree. Or maybe that's just the angle I caught 'em at. Lots of nice Americana scenery, too. Before long we were relaxing and enjoying gyros at our campsite, which was in the ass-end of the venue, but it was high and dry and relatively easy to get to. By the next morning the mud had mostly dried into a paste, but that photo doesn't even begin to capture it. Imagine that sort of thing everywhere, but in the middle of the night on day three of never-ending rain.
• We set up for the last show and made nice with the folks around us. Tina from New Jersey was our immediate neighbor and there was apparently some sort of VT/NJ rivalry that I couldn't even begin to understand. The crowd filled in nicely for a resplendent afternoon and emotional evening. All I'll say about it for now is that I've been a Velvet Sea fan ever since it brought me back from a spooky Tweezer at Shoreline '00, and to all you Velvet haters out there... how the hell can you spew nastiness about it now that we have this version? I'm getting misty now just thinking about it.
• The next day the shuttle services were a bit more organized and we hopped a ride in the back of a truck to return to the rest stop. We went to Burlington to check out the origins, but my heart just wasn't in it, and we were running on little more than three days' worth of Red Bull by this time. We collapsed in the Denny's, where I remember staring off into space a whole lot and repeatedly walking all the way to the back to the restroom only to find that it was still occupied.
• WAY: No
• Free Stuff: Nothing

Denny's #1073 Essington, Pennsylvania 17 August 2004 8:30am EDT 47 Industrial Highway (610) 521-1077

• Attendees: P7A77, Lindee
• Wait-person(s): unknown
• What we ate: P7A77: Mini-Burgers, Water; Lindee: Lumberjack Slam, Coffee
• It was a dreary and exhausted drive back down to Philadelphia, where we stayed at the same Motel 6, which just happened to be on Rte. 420, dude. Fitting, considering the occasion. Lindee opted for the classic breakfast super-sized, better known as the Lumberjack Slam. I went with my own version of Lindee and P7 go to White Castle and after being assured I could get such things at eight in the morning, ordered up the "no sir, no trademark infringement here" Mini Burgers. This gives me hope that Denny's may some day offer chicken rings. I've touched on this topic before, but many people point to the chicken rings as a reason why White Castle is best avoided. I am not such a person; quite the opposite. Chicken products at any sort of similar establishment are over-processed garbage. White Castle is alone in standing up proud. They say, "look, we not going to lie, we know it's crap." It would be against the laws of nature for a chicken to grow in this shape. The rings get in your face with the sobering fact that you are considerably removed from the food's origin. To eat a chicken ring is to accept your place in the universe.
• I digress. When I ordered the Sliders... er, Mini Burgers, the waitress said they were good. Okay, yeah, Denny's food is usually edible in a comforting sort of way, but she was unnaturally into them, and even reiterated how much I was going to enjoy them when we were served. Obviously her dining experiences are limited if this is top on her list of cuisine worthy of gushing. But hey, I was exhausted after a week of camping, dancing, partying, and driving, and the platefulls of greasy food hit the spot. When I was ready to leave and briefly described this site while warming them up for swag, I was asked, "Why do you do this? Is this all that you do?" Like I wasn't already depressed about Phish breaking up. Way to cut to the bone there, Denny's staff.
• So what does one do after a show? Look over photos and reminisce about the experience, of course. Topmost of random joy for me was returning to the rest area and discovering we were parked behind the best Page shout-out of all, Cars Trucks Buses. Have I mentioned how much I love Page? Other random sightings include a controversial (and totally right-on) Hood sticker and a jug band with a kazoo. At one point the port-a-potties required a mounted police detail, which was amusing enough, but even better when the horse backed against one of the occupied stalls and a rather distressed woman, attempting to escape a tiny enclosed space piling over with the waste of thousands of stinky hippies on steady diets of grilled cheese and veggie burritos, unexpectedly found herself juxtaposed with a horse's ass pinning her in.
• My pal Siddhartha "Badass" Finch derives joy from ribbing me good-naturedly about shows, frequently saying things like "Thank you Trey" and posing inquiries on fairy wings. I thankfully didn't see any signs of the former, but I nearly wet myself with glee when I finally snagged a shot of the latter. And somewhere in New York you can purchase lesbians on sale for $2.99 (this week only). Yeah, you heard me. I'm not above the basest of cheap jokes.
• And that was it. Phish was over. If you'll allow me a moment of sentimentality, I'll attempt to capture the significance for me. They say music you listen to in your late teens is what will always strike that chord of nostalgia for you, and that's precisely when I was first encountered them. I was already a dorky white boy from the suburbs raised on classic rock, so it was practically inevitable. While the style of music isn't for everyone, anyone who gives the studio work a serious listen can't deny its complexity and creativity. This is what struck me first, when a friend played You Enjoy Myself in 1992. I have a musical background, and it affected me like nothing had previous. As is probably no surprise to anyone reading this site, I'm a bit of an obsessive personality, so I delved deep. Here was this fantastic music, largely instrumental, with the occasional borderline poetic but mostly goofy lyric. It was a mix of jazz, rock, bluegrass, and something else indescribable, not to mention a liberal touch of humor. It meshed with me perfectly. After a year of poring over their at the time limited catalog, someone slipped me a tape of a show, and a vastly deeper world opened up. There were a lot of the songs I knew, but they were so different! And wow, so many more equally great songs I had never heard before! They sometimes switched instruments! One of them played a vacuum cleaner and did bad covers of classic songs! They had a musical language for audience interaction and participation! They did an a cappella version of Freebird, for crying out loud! And they rocked. HARD.
• To be at a show was like nothing else. While there are structures to the songs, it was by and large improvisational. Even the composed sections varied from version to version. The setlists weren't mere collections of songs, they were entities to be taken as a whole. I was intimately familiar with the music, so I could follow along and anticipate changes, yet be surprised at the same time. I could hear hints and teases and pick up on traces of transitions that wouldn't come to fruition until sixty-four bars or more later. I felt them talking to each other musically, taking me along for the ride. And I was surrounded by thousands of people all there for the same reason, all experiencing the same thing, all of them the nicest people you ever could meet. The musicians were so in tune with each other, they moved as a unit, each of them leading and following, each constantly aware and respectful of what the others were doing. No two shows were the same, but they all built on each other. I heard songs grow and evolve over time. To be a part of that, feeling this music I loved being created before my eyes and ears, music that was simultaneously familiar and new, to be caught up in it was pure bliss, plain and simple.
• I'm idealizing a bit, as there were obvious problems that led to the break-up, but the good far outweighed the bad, and at its core, this is what it was to me. I can't listen to my recordings any more, it's affected me so deeply. And yeah, I know there are a lot of other bands out there, and I do enjoy them, but this is the one that became a part of me, and the one for which there will be no replacement. I'm sad it's over, and I'm regretful I wasn't able to attend more shows, but I'm incredibly thankful I was able to be a part of it when I was. The final show, with all the craziness, was magical. The parking lot on the freeway, the trekking for miles through farmland, the swamp of mud, the perseverance against all odds, the intense emotion from the band on that last day... all of this and much more contributed to a unique and wonderful experience, one I'm inadequately equipped to verbalize, but something I will cherish for as long as I have memory.
• And with that, I made the long journey home.
• WAY: No
• Free Stuff: Coffee Mug

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