[FunkyCFunkyDo reminds you that in spite of the facts that his ensuing opinions are irrefutably accurate representations of the show, inarguably precise analysis of the show, and among the funniest things you’ve ever read (related and unrelated to the show), they do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the all-volunteer staff at phish.net or The Mockingbird Foundation. This is because even though you/they all suck at Phish, no one sucks at Phish more than Funky.]

For your convenience and reference: phish.net’s song histories | setlists | jam charts.

The following is a comprehensive list of all the places I have slept after a Phish show: on the grass under my old 2007 Honda Civic, on the grass next to my old Honda Civic, inside my old Honda Civic, in a camping chair, in a tent with more rips than seams, under a tarp I made into a “tent” somehow/kind of/not really, in a real tent, in a fully-enclosed 10x10 EZ-Up “bedroom” I made with tapestries, bungee cords, duct tape, an air mattress, and reflective fabric to keep the sun out (#protour), on the floor of a very suspicious Las Vegas Motel 6, in an actual bed in a dingy Las Vegas hotel, in an actual bed in a mediocre Las Vegas hotel, in an actual bed in a pretty nice Las Vegas hotel, in various New York hotel rooms that were smaller than your phone, in assorted banal hotels/motels/Air BnBs, in a highly-suspect Air BnB that was most likely run by criminals, in a perfectly-beige Air BnB that was most likely run by Mormons, in a swanky-as-fuck Air BnB that was most likely run by swingers, on a friend’s floor, on a friend’s couch, at my aunt and uncle’s house, at my cousin’s condo, at my brother’s house, at the literal former McDonald’s CEO’s mansion on Lake Geneva (thanks Cactus Crew, #premiumprotour), at the airport (kind of), and, of course, like all good Phish fans, there have been quite a few nights where I have not slept at all (#eliteprotour.) Oh, and there was that one time after my very first Phish show (2.14.03) when I was 16 years old and my oldest brother (RIP Ryan) bought me a golfball-sized gooball from the nice gooball man in the parking lot, who clearly and deliberately instructed us to split it amongst friends, and my brother immediately overrode the nice gooball man and told me to eat it all – which I did – and details are fuzzy on where I slept that night. That’s where it all began, mom and dad. Sorry not sorry.

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