Goin' Down the Road, Feelin Good (extended dance remix)

(Editors Note: This is a very long story. I had a personal breakthrough Friday night and I wanted to document it in its entirety. Thanks for indulging me. If you want the short version of this post, please click here.)

I'm not sure why, but I had a momentary lapse of reason. Friday night, as we were preparing to leave for a concert, I morphed into an idiot for a short spell and pulled some twisted logic out of my rear end.

"Trashbags. I'll just bring trashbags", I said.

"Why don't you grab your rain jacket?", Mrs. Undaground asked as she lifted her own off of its hanger.

"It has my company's name on it, and I'll be drinking beer, so, no."

"Well, what about this one?". She grabbed my waterproof, tailgating pullover from the college years.

"It's a little tight. I don't feel like carrying it. I have lots of pockets so I'll just bring some trashbags to sit on, in case it keeps raining." It was like an out-of-body experience. Why else would I so proudly declare that I have lots of pockets? I could always leave the jacket in the car. Is there anything remotely cool, fun or comfortable about wearing a trash bag instead of a jacket?
"It's going to stop raining anyway. We'll be fine", I continued. Suddenly, I was a meteorologist.

I grabbed three black trash bags from under the kitchen sink, folded them neatly, and put them in one of my many pockets. Cargo pants rule.

We were in the car a few minutes later, and heading to pick up my brother, Matt. Mrs. Undaground listened as I called him on his cell to let him know we were on the way.

"Yo (we grew up near Philly). We just left our house so we'll be there in about 25-minutes or so. You're where? What? Why are you golfing? It's not 5, it's 5:15. The concert starts at 7. Are you on the tee of the 16th hole or the green of the 16th hole? Well, I hope you beat us to your place. Later."

I looked at Mrs. Undaground, dumbfounded by this behavior. "He's golfing. We're going to a concert. Is it me? It's him, right? I talked to him 6 hours ago. There were no plans for golf. Did someone knock him out and drag him to a golf course? Crazy! Is it me?"

"Your brothers just do things differently then you", she reasoned. "At least it's not raining down there."

Twenty-five minutes into our drive, we had traveled four miles. Mrs. Undaground, as usual, was trying to make the best of the situation. I was battling road rage from the passenger seat. Even though the long line of cars disappeared into the horizon, I was incensed at each car that merged in front of us.

"Look at all those those lanes they've got closed! They look perfectly fine to me. And if they're not fine, why the hell isn't anybody working on them. I hate traffic.", I shouted. "We need to move to Alaska. No traffic there."

"Probably not a lot of concerts either", said my wife. She had a point. I'm glad I married her. Who else could balance my half-full glass with such legendary optimism?

After an hour and ten minutes, we finally arrived at JP and Matt's apartment. As we pulled into their complex, the rain started falling. I could swear the clouds were following us, just to piss us off.

My other brother, JP, was not planning to attend the show, but didn't have a valid excuse as to why not. The minute we entered the apartment, I started to break him down.

"What are you going to do, just sit here all night? It's Friday. Let's go. We're going to have a great time. You love the Grateful Dead. This is supposedly the best Dead cover band there is. Ten years from now, will you remember a concert with your brothers and your sister-in-law or will you remember sitting on the couch watching TV? You have a choice tonight, JP. You can be a zero, or you can be a hero."

After a few minutes, this tact was starting to work. I could see him breaking.

"It's raining", he said.

"It's going to stop raining. I've got trash bags for us to sit on. I've got lots of pockets, see." Why was I so proud of the pockets? What does he care about my pockets? I went back to the "hero or zero" strategy. Then, I tried to appeal to him with multi-colored, bearded revelry: "JP, you love deadheads. Deadheads are hilarious. We'll have a great time. I promise you."

Finally, he relented and went to his room to change his clothes. Now, we had to have a good time. I just beat my brother into submission by holding my opinion of him over his head. I hope it stops raining. Not a problem, though. I've got trash bags in my pockets. Matt and JP grabbed a few more trash bags as we left their apartment and got on the road.

It was 6:50. The concert was supposed to start in 10 minutes. Our drive would only be 20 minutes so we'd be fine.

JP's presence paid off instantly in the car. We were enjoying a spirited discussion about mix tapes. Apparently, JP prides himself in making great mix tapes. It's a skill he sharpened over the years after a traumatic childhood experience. As a kid, his school bus driver would play students' mix tapes on the way to school. JP's entry was booed on the bus and bumped from the tape deck, never to be played again. Since then, he's worked like a mad scientist to improve his mix-taping ability and claims to have achieved some Zen-like mix tape greatness.

Mrs. Undaground and I both take pride in our various songlists. We collaborated on our wedding favor CD, which was a huge hit. Since then, everyone who enters our home expects to be sent away with a fine, musical concoction. We're the mix-tape people. In fact, just a few weeks ago on Valentine's Day, I received an excellent mix-tape CD from my wife. Every song flowed into the next beautifully, and each had special meaning to both of us.

Matt, on the other hand, leaves the quality mixes for others. He proudly declared that he and his girlfriend both "suck at making mix tapes". In fact, he was playing his girlfriend's favorite mix in his car as we had this discussion. Suddenly, we were all waiting anxiously to hear the mix so Matt backed it up to Song 1. We didn't have time for each song in its entirety, so we just got a 20 to 30 second sampling of each song. It was great: Latin pop followed by the Dirty Dancing Theme, techno music to Cyndi Lauper, hard rock fading into Patrick Swayze's "She's Like the Wind". While it seemed like there was no rhyme or reason for the order or contents of the CD, I thought it was pure genius (kind of in the same way I find Napoleon Dynamite funny).

Somewhere along the way, we passed right by the road we were looking for. It was 7:30 now. We were a half-hour late and, somehow, no closer to seeing a concert. We turned the car around and headed back into the teeth of the rain. Yes, it was still raining. I was starting to feel bad for JP. He could have been on the couch. Instead, he was in for a long, wet night. I started to wonder if they'd cancel the concert.

"Where were you with the directions?" Matt shouted to me from the drivers' seat, trying to engage me in a playful, mock argument.

"I told you, take a left on Dixie Highway. That was the extent of my navigation. It's up to the driver to read the signs, process the letters that form words, confirm it's the correct street, then negotiate the turn. I can't see signs when I've driving, let alone from the backseat. Maybe if you weren't so busy playing Patrick Swayze music, you'd have seen the street sign." Well said, if I do say so myself. I believe this little discussion is over, since my statement was both grounded in reason and delicious with sarcasm.

Matt shot back. "Nope. It's the direction guy's job to find the street. You're wrong."

"Matt", I said, "I admire your willingness to be the underdog, and argue unwinnable points". Ah, there it was. Matt laughed and continued to look for Dixie Highway.

Finally, we could see the entrance to the Ampitheater. Of course, we drove by it once before turning around and entering. Just as we started down the drive, the rain picked up again. I touched my pocket to confirm the presence of Hefty bags. I was prepared. As we pulled in to a dirt parking lot and readied ourselves for the long, wet walk to the venue, JP was openly lamenting his decision to be a hero that night.

"I could have been dry right now", he said.

"Pipe down and put your trashbag on", I answered. "Don't kid yourself. This is fun."

We sloshed through puddles and other small bodies of water. Each of us was now soaked up to the ankles. All the while, I was fumbling with my trashbag. First, I tore two arm holes and got those through. Then, I started to rip a hole for my head. As I worked to tear the plastic just right, I laughed to myself about how soaked I was getting. The trashbag was going to hold as much water in as it was going to keep out. Finally, I got my head through, but something wasn't right. The bag was very tight, and barely came down to my waist, and my wife was laughing at me. I looked over at JP and he was happily frolicking down the street, wearing a trash bag that came down to his knees.

"Awww, crap. I'm such an idiot", I yelled.

"What happened this time?", laughed Mrs. Undaground.

"I'm wearing a frigging kitchen-sized garbage bag. Why do we have black kitchen-sized bags? Those should be white. JP, do you have another one of those?"

"I do but I'm going to sit on it. Looks like you'll have to wear the kitchen bag", he said. Everybody but me got a nice chuckle out of this one. I looked like a ghetto space man trash monster, while he was styling in his jet black custom poncho.

Eventually, he handed me the other bag and I made two new arm holes and a head hole. Matt stood in line and a smart person who was aborting the mission sold him his ticket for $10. Had I not pre-purchased the other tickets, we would have never left my brothers' apartment. We would have stayed and watched TV with JP.

Mrs. Undaground and I hadn't eaten. Somehow, I envisioned more of a picnic-like atmosphere. Instead, we sloshed into the concourse and went hunting for food. She settled in the Arepa line and I went to get a hot dog and a beer. Everything was out in the open, so it might have been the worst hot dog I've ever eaten in my life. The bun was soaked through by the time I squeezed the mustard packet on it. I felt like Kobayashi, the competitive eater in the Nathan's Hot Dog challenge, who dips his dogs in water to soften them up. While he eats for trophies, I was eating for survival that night, so I choked it down and tried to drink the beer before my cup filled with rainwater.

As we waited for Mrs. Undaground to get her arepa (a cornbread grilled cheese sandwich, popular at South Florida concerts), the rain picked up again. The arepa was seriously delayed because the guy's grill had lost power earlier. I looked at Matt. "Man, I can't believe we're finally gonna hear some live music. Forty-five minute drive home from work, an hour and ten minute nightmare traffic scenario to your place, convincing JP to come, getting lost, walking through a mudslide, wearing a kitchen bag, arepa delays. I've worked pretty hard to get to this point."

He agreed with me. Just two hours earlier, he was relaxing on the golf course. Now, we were all soaked and cold and ready for a reward in the form of live music.

When Mrs. Undaground finally got her undercooked sandwich, the four of us climbed the stairs into the ampitheater. We looked down at the stage and... nothing. A helpful Deadhead walking by told us that the stage was flooded. They hoped to dry everything out within the hour.

We headed back down the stairs onto the concourse where I bought another beer. That's when the rain really started. It was raining sideways. Unfortunately, the direction it was raining left us completely exposed to it. Under one stairway was the men's room. It reeked like a men's room. We headed over to the other stairway where a large group of shelter-seekers was assembling.

We huddled together, drinking our beers and getting pelted by unnatural sheets of rain. This was ridiculous. It never rains like this in February. The intensity of the rain was, in some twisted way, making the situation more humorous. I laughed at JP, considering I had dragged him there. "JP", I said, "I am having the worst time, ever. Thanks for dragging me here."

After about a half hour, the rain slowed from monsoon to downpour. Ten minutes later, it was just a heavy shower. Ten more minutes and it was just light rain.

My wife and both brothers were now working on me to get me out of there. "Let's just go get something to eat and call it a night."

"No. We're staying. Let's make this fun." And we were having fun. Normally, I'd be the one saying "Let's get out of here". Once I suggested we stay, my companions were all for it.

Remember when you were a kid and rain used to be fun? It just didn't matter if you got wet. We used to run out in the heaviest downpours on summer nights and come home with wrinkled hands. It probably wasn't the safest thing to do, but we didn't know any better. How about tailgating in college? You were in it til the end no matter what. Rain just added to the experience, and gave you a better story to tell.

What would be the point of walking back to the car in the rain? We were already wet. Isn't it better to be wet while drinking beer and surrounded by fun, happy people? If we gave up and headed home right then, there's no way the night could be anything other than a failure. If we dumped JP at his front door after this experience, I'd never be able to peer-pressure him to submission again. If we persevered, there was a chance that we would see a concert. All the crap we went through to get there would just make the prize that much sweeter.
Eventually, we walked up the stairs again and took our seats. Finally, the band took the stage. They thanked us for staying, and started their first song. As they played "Here Comes Sunshine", the rain stopped. The sky opened up and suddenly, it was clear. I looked behind me and most of the seats in the middle had filled up. Where did all those people come from? Were they sitting in their cars? Were they in the men's room? I wonder what they went through to get here tonight.

The band, Dark Star Orchestra, was great. I've been on a Grateful Dead kick lately and they sounded so much like them, it was scary. In total, I probably gave them about four or five of my "concert yells". For those who know me, you know that's a good concert. My "concert yell" is only used at live music events, and I'm pretty stingy with it, lest it be cheapened by overuse.

The night ended with a retro-trip to Denny's. It's been a long time since I went to Denny's after midnight, and I hope it's not that long before we do it again.

I learned a valuable lesson that night amidst all the Hefty bags, rain and beer. The concert was a milestone. I worked all day and into the night to get there. The road was rough, filled with countless annoyances and hurdles. At some point during the night, I decided to enjoy the ride. It was an extremely liberating experience; to make a decision to be happy. It reminded me that unhappiness is a decision, not a condition.

Life's milestones are many -- graduations, first dates, engagement rings, weddings, buying a house, having a baby, and so on. As precious as those milestones are, they take up so little time. Most of your time is spent getting there, working your way through the traffic, evading the potholes and clearing the hurdles. Sometimes, even if you have a lot of pockets, you might find yourself less prepared then you thought you were. Often, your family is there to help you through it.

I'm going to try to enjoy the ride more.

(Disclaimer: This new philosophy doesn't apply to airports. There, I'll remain a miserable bastard).