Nonsensical Phiction

As some of you know, I was in Alabama for Christmas---Montgomery, (a/k/a “The Gump”), to be exact. You also prolly know that the heart of the South is also a hockey hotbed. Anyway, turns out my Dad used to play hockey back in the day when he lived up in New Jersey. College, club teams, the whole nine.



Little did I know that during his Jersey days, my Dad was playing side-by-side with Ernest Anastasio Jr., who is of course, Phish guitarist Trey's Dad. My Pops often told tales about how he used to throw back beers after sweaty, fight-filled games on the ice with this Ernie guy, who likewise had a redheaded son. Turns out they both were never quite sure if Ernest III (Trey), and me were in fact their children because we both had red hair, unlike anyone else in our families. But I digress, this is really neither here nor there for the purposes of this story.



As most of you know, Montgomery is host to the nation's largest Holiday hockey tournament. In fact, it's more like a homecoming for those who know the joy of simultaneously skating and knocking the shit out of people. The place is overrun with Canadians and other pale-skinned folk who think fifty-five degrees in late December is balmy. Obviously, at this gathering everyone is looking for ice time, which is somewhat scarce even though Montgomery has dozens of rinks. To skate in this situation, you must either be a really good player, be extremely well-connected, or be relatively famous. This partially explains how I very literally "ran into" the redheaded fuckface, (Trey's nickname of affection), himself on Christmas!

So anyway, the day prior to the start of the "Great American Skate-out", as the gathering is affectionately known, I was listening to a TAB show from Asheville in '99. "Will it go 'round in circles" was playing, and this of course made my Dad think about the compulsory figures portion of a figure skating competition. Pops causally looked at the CD case while going off about Scott Hamilton's perfect execution of the figure 8 at the '88 Calgary Olympics. He asked if "TAB" stood for "The Allman Brothers", (he doesn't know from jam bands), and I said no, it stood for the Trey Anastasio Band". 
Needless to say, my Dad immediately recognized the name and recalled his buddy Ernie telling him that he had a ne'er-do-well son who somehow found fame and fortune playing hippie music. "I'll be damned!", he exclaimed, "this must be the same guy, because this music sucks!" I was startled, yet excited. Kind of like when I caught two dogs fucking in the back yard when I was nine years old. 
"Wait a minute", I stammered, "this Ernie guy you always talk about has a kid named Trey and he has a band?" I couldn't believe it! I absent-mindedly grabbed a fruit cup from the fridge as the possibilities of this discovery raced in my mind.

Fast-forward to the hockey weekend's opening banquet, held at the Civic Center, which also happens to be the site of the "final" game of the tournament. I of course was the emcee, and I was happy to do about thirty minutes of stand-up to get the festivities started. I gotta admit, I was a little nervous at the beginning because I'd never played to a crowd of several thousand, but as the yuks kept coming I got more and more comfortable. But enough about me.



The night's function went off without a hitch and I must say that we all re-defined the meaning of "fanfare". I was sort of surprised that I was cheered so intensely and I certainly didn't expect to be literally carried off the floor on the shoulders of the Board of Directors. All I was thinking at the time was that I hoped Trey was somewhere in the crowd witnessing this form of hero worship. I figured if he was, when we finally met, he might see me as a peer as opposed to just another obsessive fan who posts on Phish message boards or something. But enough about me.



The evening closed with me absorbed in the sweet scent of Cristal and some fine Canadian poon, as my act apparently translates well to ladies from the Great White North. (Someone said the girl I ended up banging that night was dating NHL star Chris Chelios, but this went unconfirmed.) In any event, it was a notable conquest, although it felt oddly empty for me because I knew I that one Trey Anastasio was somewhere in my midst and I had yet to meet him. He was in the same town! Hell, for all I knew, he might've been in the next suite over!

Unfortunately, Montgomery doesn't have the best cell coverage, and my Dad was unable to reach Ernie Jr. on his phone so that we might meet up that night. Alas, I would have to wait to come in contact with Trey until the following day at the tournament team selection meeting, because his Dad and mine were both on the committee. Needless to say, I didn't sleep well that night, but enough about me.

So the next day comes, obviously not a moment too soon, and my Paw and me get to the selection room of the tournament a little early. After signing a few, (OK about twenty), autographs, I made it over to where Pops was chatting with a guy I hoped was Enrie Anastasio. As luck would have it, that turned out to be the case! Dad made the introduction and the senior Anastasio immediately started going on and on about my act. I was mindlessly answering questions I've fielded a thousand times about the origin of bits, etc., all the while casting glances about, wondering how I could tactfully just ask this guy where the fuck his son was. It was funny how it eventually happened, really, because right after the photographers from the newspapers got the shots they needed, they moved to leave. Right behind them, (he almost tripped one of them by accident), there he stood, Trey Anastasio himself! I wasn't sure it was him at first, what with the spots you get from excessive camera flashes and all, but there was no denying it. Especially when he sniffled and moved the back of his hand across his nose...

I think I mouthed the word "Fluffhead" at first, just out of habit. Trey spoke first, however, and I'll never forget what he said: "PlusSizeModel, you're a tool!" I gave him a blank look because I couldn't believe he'd asked around enough to know that I was the infamous PSM from Phantasy Tour. (editor’s note: “Phantasy Tour is home to an internet message board for fans of the band Phish. The board is affectionately known as “PT” for short.) We then both burst into laughter and started talking PT. He immediately mentioned that he was distraught that his PT alias never made it onto the A-list. (He posts there frequently, but he made me swear to never tell anyone who he is). Right after that he shook his head ruefully and intimated that PT will never be the same for him now that Phishywishy is permanently banned. "Sometimes it seems like it's all negative douchebags like dagroove420. You know, people who have never had a creative notion in their entire lives. I mean, just look at the '420' in the username..." His words tailed off and I knew it would be a good idea to change the subject. "Have you ever met Chris Chelios' girlfriend?" I asked, knowing that Trey had befriended many an NHL star...

"No, I've never even met Chris Chelios", Trey answered, "Why do you ask?" "Because I banged her last night", I replied, in a bored tone. Trey then started in about he doesn't miss "strange" at all, and that he really loves his wife and kids. At this point his words became like those coming from the adults in "Peanuts". There's nothing more tedious than a rock star talking about love and devotion to his wife. I chuckled to myself about the irony of meeting an all-time idol and then subsequently becoming bored by his babbling. Anyway, we finally talked about how George Thorogood was definitely the best guitarist ever, not to mention the top songwriter. Trey said he always wanted to cover "Bad to the Bone", but was too worried he'd be unable to do it justice. No kidding, I thought. You're great, but not that great! That turned out to be the end of the music talk---from there it was all hockey and PT.
So anyway, back to the hockey tournament.

Anxious to lace up the skates were a couple hundred people in the draw to play in the tournament. Like I said, if you have some "juice", you can get one of the precious spots. Trey said it was interesting that no one around here knew who he was, yet refreshing. It was a good thing he was able to buy off the selection committee, because his celebrity was faint currency in these parts. Luckily for me, my emcee performance from the night before got me in the draw---obviously I play Right Wing. (As an aside, I couldn't pay for anything the rest of the weekend---no one would let me. Hell, the guy at the bowling alley even drilled my balls for free!)



Now, there are sixteen teams in the A-list draw, (funny, I know), and you guessed it: the redheaded fuckface and I ended up on the same team! Predictably enough, Trey likes to play Left Wing, so we shared a line, so to speak! Now Trey isn't a very big guy. Hell, I'll just say it: he looks pretty much like a girl on skates, so he was in the market for a personal "goon", which means someone to protect him from getting his ass kicked on the ice. This tournament may have been for "fun", but let's face it: hard checks happen, and sometimes teeth fly.



Now I'm 6'6", but I'm not too beefy. No one would mistake me for an "enforcer", if only because my deft maneuverability has me putting too many "biscuits in the basket" to be left doing grunt work. Trey looked at me though and would have none of it. "PlusSize", he began with a serious look, "I want you to be my goon." I tried to stay cool. I mean it's Trey-fucking-Anastasio asking me to be his, well, anything! I'm pretty greedy with the puck, so it took a lot for me to agree. "Dude, I'll do it, but only if you play Fluffhead at the awards banquet." "Done", my hero replied. Then we got baked. It was funny how the ashes got in his hair. He just laughed. I nearly spit up into my fruit cup.

So game time rolls around, and we're wearing our personal uniforms. I'm sporting my throwback Guy LaFleur jersey, (luckily the other team had to wear the vests.) Trey cracked me up when he showed up in a sweater with the likeness of Wook #17 in the place of the old Indian dude in the Blackhawks logo. His uni number was 62294, I'm not kidding.

Anyway, we start skating and I put two in the net in short order because no one is molesting Trey and I can concentrate on scoring. We soon go ahead by five goals and things turn ugly. (Most of the players on the opposing team were from Philly, so needless to say they were assholes and poor sports.) I fed Trey for a breakaway that was thisclose to being off-sides, and he bears in for the kill. The goalie comes out to lessen his angles and just keeps coming. Holy shit! He came all the way out and just chops Trey at the knees with his stick! Now both benches empty and there's a full-scale melee---gloves flying. I go make sure Trey is OK and he mutters something through bloodied lips about the goalie not being "very heady". Thanks Trey, master of the obvious!

I'm trying to help Trey up, but he's got something seriously wrong with a knee. I'll never forget what he said before he lost consciousness from the pain: "Stay gold, PlusSizeModel, stay gold!" I might've started weeping, but I got sucker-punched just below my right ear. I'm not lying, I was seeing stars after that one. And people say hockey is a non-contact sport! Wait, that's basketball. Anyway, order was restored eventually, but not before I knocked more than a few heads together to avenge my fallen hero.

It soon occurred to me that it would really suck if we were all headed for Miami again for the New Years shows, and Trey had to cancel. After all, if I hadn't had two goals and an assist on Trey's stick when he got chopped, maybe the other team wouldn't have resorted to violence to get even in a blowout. That would've been tough to live with!
 As things stood, I was merely spending my Christmas bedside with Trey in a VIP hospital room, (I told them he was with me), gravy-training off his painkillers. It was then that the real discussion of what he really thought of PTers began in earnest, (no pun intended). It turns out that the morphine drip became something of a truth serum for Trey, and he didn't hold back...

He started off with a smile on his face, saying how much he appreciated Paul Glace helping to spread the word of his band. I was touched when he broke it down into monetary terms: "PGlace has prolly been responsible for at least the Maybach, and possibly the Cigarette Top Gun as well, he beamed. "I remember when I didn't care about material things", he wistfully continued, "but I'll tell ya, once you get a taste of the good life..." His words tailed off, and his faced looked like he'd just had the best "happy ending" from the hottest Asian massage therapist on earth. I was a bit surprised at his attitude, but it's not like I hadn't seen this outlook from many others. After all, that's what us evil Republicans do for fun---speak highly of our conspicuous consumption!

After discussing our Country Club memberships, I filled Trey in about Residensea. It was then that Trey started talking about getting the band back together. I don't remember what he said about it, but I know that I cut him short because I didn't really care if Phish reunited or not, I wanted to talk about PT.

He started off on a positive note, listing the usual favorites like Big Hungry Joe, ("Can't figure out what he sees in moe. though!"), and Swimmy, ("I don't agree with her politics, but she's a real pistol.") He also recalled passing on a chance to nail Tabooty, but I think he recognized that I have an unrequited love for her, so he quickly moved on. "That PhishJeff knows his shit, but we all thought 12.30.03 was the worst show of the run...guess he can't win 'em all!" he offered.

Needless to say, I was really digging this dish. If only an asswipe like Pickles could see me now! Here I was high on liquid morphine with the reason for my favorite message board himself! Who did I blow to deserve this? But I digress. Trey continued with his thoughts on the PT crew, and it's safe to say his mood darkened considerably...

"I hate Kungserve!" he nearly yelled, "I mean, the guy is an idiot." I nodded my head in agreement as he continued: "I think it's funny how you call him 'DUNGserve', PlusSize. But then again, if I listed all the brilliant shit you put up on that board, we'd be here all day!" I then pointed out that seeing that we're looped on a potent painkiller, and he's hospitalized, we wern't exactly going anywhere anyway! Goddamn did we laugh! I mean, we laughed to the point where we're wetting our pants and massaging our cheeks because they're in pain. Kind of like when we read Treyphan420 tries to sound intelligent on a PT thread.
We laughed for what seemed like an eternity. Or at least until the twin nurses who looked liked the Olsen's came into the room...

Yes, Trey may be faithful to his wife and all, but he isn't blind. Stunningly beautiful women have a way of making you forget about whatever was happening moments earlier, and that was certainly the case right then. We "sobered up" in short order and beheld the beauty in our midst. These girls were toit! Mid-twenties at the oldest and like I said, dead-ringers for the Olsen twins. They had straight blond hair up in buns, nurse-style. Now, I'm no expert on standard-issue nurse attire, but something tells me these girls had some "alterations" made to their uniforms. Let's just say the skirts ran a little higher and the necklines on their blouses ran a bit lower. I never knew nurses wore pumps either, but apparently they do this deep in the bible belt. Praise the Lord!


Billie and Bunnie were there names, and helping people mend were their games. More specifically, Bunnie took Trey's vital signs and administered the rectal thermometer, (Trey is a true redhead), and Billie prepared the sponge bath. She was so cute when I nudged her, forcing her to spill some water over her ample bosom. "Oh, you boys!" she chuckled, baby blues glistening, "that happens to me all the time!"



Right about then one of the "get well soon" balloons lost it's juice and dropped down to the floor, sort of bouncing in the process. Bunnie started laughing as she peeled off her latex gloves. "Look!" she exclaimed through full, pouty lips, "That balloon is done bouncin' around the room!" Billie started laughing hysterically and bent over in the process, affording me a clear view the bottom of her butt cheeks. The woman was a dream I had indeed! I swear to God, the left bun had a tattoo saying said "roll", and the other said "tide". My, do they take their football seriously down here!



But back to the point: I couldn't believe my ears right about now---these knockouts were Phish phans! Trey and I looked at each other, and he was able to form liquid morphine-fueled words first: "I wrote that song!" he slurred, "It's closer to my heart than The Curtain With!" Billie muttered something about "The Curtain Whaaat?", but Bunnie just got this stunned look on her face: "You're Trey from Phish?" After a few beats she was able to continue: "Well, Lord have mercy!

With Trey being the family man he is, was clearly rusty. When a guy is granted some dizzy Alabaman nurses who are star-struck, well, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do! I made a quick assessment of my surroundings and realized that there was a second bed, complete with one of those big curtains that wraps all the way around for optimum privacy. I chuckled a little, thinking about the Seinfeld episode when George saw the silhouettes of a sponge bath being administered.



Now I'm as loyal to friends as the next guy, and I really wanted to keep an intoxicated Trey in on the festivities, but in this case his role would have to be as a spectator. The extent of kicks would have to be via sounds and silhouettes. There was no doubt about it, these girls were “goers”, and clearly Trey was too looped for them to "star fuck" at this point. I, however, was a different story.

Luckily I had a video copy of the previous night's banquet performance in my luxury Prada travel bag.

Now I'll say it right now: I'm no Brad Pitt, but a certain hottie making a hasty exit from Phish's final Hampton show will attest that I'm not chopped liver. I figured if I were to get this triumphant document of the previous night's comedy set, I'd be in like Flynn...Into the video player, that is. Yes, there was an entertainment center in this hospital suite. Plasma TV, high-end audio, the whole nine. Hell, there was even a hot tub, adorned with drink holders cut into imported Italian marble. But never mind the plush surroundings, there was high-end poon in pumps to be dealt with!


Now, I'm not going to sit here and pretend I'm a stud with major league connections and extreme physical prowess or anything. The morphine had made a mere mortal of me by this point. Luckily, (don't ask me why), the hospital pharmacy on site carried all manner of erection-enhancing medication. Obviously I didn't need a 72-hour hard-on at this point---Viagra would do just fine, thanks. Seeing that I didn't exactly have a Dr. Nick on hand, the next best solution to obtain the pill would have to do: good old-fashioned bribery!



I pulled Bunnie, (or was it Billie? I have no idea, nor does it matter), aside and duly greased her palm with a C-note. "Can you send an orderly downstairs to fetch a good time?" She seemed a bit startled at my inquiry. Apparently the gun-toting, dip-spitting boys around these parts didn't need erectile assistance. I tried to explain that they weren't exactly wallowing in liquid morphine either, so hook a brotha up! But I digress. Another Benjamin made Bunnie see things my way. She whispered something to Billie, who was then pulling the rectal thermometer out of Trey before skipping out of the room. Next thing I knew, Billie, (or was it Bunnie??), was at my side, asking me to tell stories about famous comics I may have met...

I said: "Bunnie, even though you are slammin', I'm really not going to sit here and drop names, that's not how I roll." After she loosened yet another button on her uniform, I reconsidered. "I've met Steve Martin, Brian Regan, Dave Attel, Chris Rock, Richard Pryor, George Carlin, Sam Kinnison, Bill Hicks… Um, is that good enough?" "I've never heard of any of them." Bunny confessed.

Seeing that we were indeed in Alabama, I decided to take a different tack..."I got drunk with Carrot Top once, and I once got Pauly Shore high!", I offered. Bingo! "You've met Pauly Shore?!?" Bunnie squealed, breasts nearly bursting out of her top while she jumped up and down. "Darn tootin'!" I said, "and not only that, Lenny Kravitz once boned my step sister." Now I was speaking this girl's language, and let's just say she showed her ample appreciation.

I quickly swabbed off on the pull-around curtain and peeked over at Trey. He had that look on his face. The one when he's deep into a jam, gazing at a dancing figure in a faraway portal. You know, that expression that makes Dikembe Mutombo's face look like Denzel Washington's by comparison. I couldn't figure out what he could be so into on the TV at the moment, but seeing as I had just gotten my pipes cleaned, I had an excuse for being temporarily forgetful.

Turns out he was watching the DVD of my comedy act from the night before, in a daze. I knew right then that I needed to leave, because if he was immune to my comedy, he must've been straight-up zonked! It turns out this would be the one and only time I met my hero, much to my chagrin. I tried calling his representation a few times, but apparently the hockey injury trauma wiped out his entire memory of our meeting. That's OK though---because Bunnie remembers me vividly. Or was it Bobbie?