Essays: What Phish Means to Me [I Suck At Blogs]

In the middle of Phish’s summer tour in 1999, I sat in a camping chair in the morning on the lot of Camp Oswego, which was a two-day Phish music festival. It was early, but I was already soaked from sweat because the oppressive heat and humidity that defined that weekend. I took another pill to alleviate the pain from the multiple injuries I’d sustained. I wondered what the hell I was doing there. I should have been at home in bed if not the hospital. For the first time in my dedicated Phish fan-dom, I doubted my commitment and effort to traveling to see this band. I mean, I love Phish, but this was ridiculous.

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