At the time, I was a Freshman at Western Illinois University in Macomb, IL. A high school class mate of mine, and a couple of his girlfriends, were making what my forecoming days on the road with the boys would teach me is a relatively short 3.5 hr. drive SW to St. Louis to see one of their shows. While the three of them already had tickets, and I personally was broke as a joke, since the car seated 4, and my brief Phish experiences had so thoroughly entranced me, I decided to go along for the ride. 

With the last 5 bucks I had to my name in my front pocket, I departed with the crew. As I shrugged off the inquiries of my friends asking me what I planned to do when I got there, I kept telling myself that I needed a little break from the stresses of college life, and even if I just hung out in the parking lot for the night I would surely meet lots of new and kind people and have a good time like I had had before at Phish shows. 

We got there, and man was it cold! I quickly realized that perhaps I had underestimated the brisk November weather. But man was the scene hot that night. Kids running up and down the streets as far as the eye could see. I remember being fascinated by what has now become the familiar abstract sculptures that result from Guiness, Harp, and Sammy Stout bottles stacked on every available open space on corner posts and curb-side utility boxes. 

And even though they were allowing the kids what seemed to me like a quite comfortable cushion to do whatever the hell they damn well pleased in the downtown of their city, I was captivated by what seemed like and probably still is the lowest row of police squad cars I have ever seen lining the street in front of the main parking lot at the arena -- The Keile Center. 

As I mentioned, it was bitterly cold that night, and my friends, especially the females (who dare I say weren't as "in" to Phish as either my buddy or I), were disenchanted by the numbing and biting cold. This being said, they basically whined and moaned until it became clear to me that they would be going in soon. I knew that the parking lot was my very survival at this point, and if I wanted to do anything but freeze my butt of tonight, I was going to have to get out there and go to work. So with a confidence I assured my friends that they should get in out of the cold, and I would shortly find a ticket and be in to join them. 

Being a self-described Phish newbie, I really was at a loss as to what to do from here. I had heard of stories of these mythical "hippies" that were always getting miracled into shows, and being snuck in by security, and of all other sorts of fantastic events that occurred to these people at shows, but I didn't know how to go about making this happen for me. In a way, maybe, I was putting myself through a sort of "rite of passage" to initiate into the Phish community I suppose. In the 60 or 70 shows I have seen since, I have overcome more of my fair share of getting to lots of sold out shows w/ no tickets and getting in all the time, but back then I didn't know WTF to do! I had no kids, and even if I did, I didn't know the strings to pull to get what I needed... a TICKET! 

After much pacing and nail biting, it was becoming clear to me that pretty much all the people who were going in to the show were in already, and that left pretty much... NOBODY left in the lot. My dumb mistake, this was not the summer lots of Deer Creek where there were as many if not more people left in the lot as went in the show. This was the freezing lot in the middle of winter at an indoor arena, and the few and far between that WERE still left in the lot were the tour rats huddled in their buses trying to keep warm. Needless to say, things were not the pretty picture I had envisioned them to be when I first decided to go. 

So with remorse and a lump in my throat, I hesitantly spent my 5 dollars on two hits of blotter paper which I purchased from some scurvy looking kid, and not really expecting them to be real, consumed them. And then it happened, the entire arena began to rumbled, and my hopes were dashed, as I realized the concert inside had started. 

Well, in a stroke of serendipity, about 20 minutes later I realized the blotter I had purchased was in fact real, and I set off into the cold November night air. An optimist by nature, I decided I was going to make the most of my trip, make it an adventure if you will. Determined to meet some story-making type people and find a way into the show if all possible, my adventure began. 

First, I scoped the arena itself. I walked around the entire perimeter of the arena and its attached parking garages on all floors, looking for any semblance of a crack or security lapse that would allow me to gain entry into the building. A loading dock door left open by caterers or something of that nature. After 2 or 3 laps of reconnaissance, a side door that opened into the buildings concourse was discovered to be slightly ajar. The problem was the wide open and well lit concourse was filled with arena and event staff, and any attempt to breech the premises at that point in time would have led to a prompt escort off the property or worse. Hopeful and determined, I decided that if I waited until intermission when the concourse was filled with thousands of phans already lathered by a full set of ripping tunes, I would surely be able to slip undetected into the side door amidst all the hustle and bustle. 

With this plan in mind, my adventure took me next into the heart of the city. I walked amongst the skycrapers and businesses, gawking at and admiring how strange the architecture of this neat little city looked to my tripping self. But being close to the arena was my security blanket on this trip, so after awhile I returned to the venue. To my surprise, a few heads had managed to poke their heads out of their vans and buses. 

The first kid I met really didn't have much to say except "You want a Neil Diamond record dude?" The stranger asked with that wry grin of a seasoned tripper who most likely recognized me for the goofy, tripping kid who was totally out of his element. Why he would even had a Neil Diamond record God himself probably wonders... probably was handed down to him when he himself was wandering aimlessly tripping faced in some long since forgotten lot. 

Neil Diamond record in hand, I then make myself to an inviting group of people huddled around a grill fire, cooking burritos. As soon as we make eye contact, they immediately invite me to share a burrito with them, and desperately seeking warm and companionship I happily accept. They present me with quite the phatty of phatty burritos, and I proceed to chow down. As I enjoy my infant sized burrito bomb, these people then commence to lecturing me on the love and salvation of Jesus Christ, the only person who can truly fulfill the void in my life that I try to fill by taking drugs and following rock bands around. 

No pun intended... but OH LORD! This kind of thing is always creepy and odd and uncomfortable when you are sober, let alone when you are peaking on LSD!!! Nevertheless, I continue to chaw on my burrito, while every so often obliging my new found friends with head nods and smiles in an attempt to be respectful. After all, they do seem like genuinely nice people, and despite them possibly being a tad bit over ideological, I know that they really do have the best of intentions. I finish my burrito, and as politely as possible I excuse myself. 

Shortly thereafter, I see the concourse fill with a plethora of patchwork clothed kids, signally the intermission break, and I start heading my way to the portal by which I intend to gain entry. Much to my disheartening chagrin, while it becomes apparent that my plan would have gone off with a hitch, a member of the arena security has now taken up post at the very entry flaw by which I was planning to make my entrance. 

At this point, the stark reality of my situation and the night's artic air came over me. I came all this way to see Phish, and all I was gonna get was a sermon from some burrito toting fundamentalists, a Neil Diamond record, and a cold! Poor me. 

However, as I said, I am a die-hard optimist and committed to always trying to find the best in things, so I did just that. I decided that I was going to try to find the place where I could hear the music of the second set as best as I could, and try to enjoy the second half of the concert. For acoustical reasons I cannot explain, this place was at the top of one of the stair wells of the previously mentioned attached parking garage. So I found a seat by myself in the cold with my Neil Diamond record and tried to enjoy my experience. 

And here is where my adventure transcends itself and becomes a tale of epic proportions. About a song and a half into the second set, the elevator in the stair well dings, and to my surprise out comes a well dressed, attractive young lady in her early 20s. It becomes immediately apparent to me that this lass has been partaking quite indulgently in libations this evening, and she is making no attempts to conceal this fact. 

She seems equally surprised to find me sitting there, and after taking a moment to concentrate and focus her vision on me, she asks, "Do you need anything?" "Well.. I could use a cigarette, I haven't had a cigarette in a couple hours," I respond (I told you I was broke, I didn't even have any smokes!!!). "Shit!" she exclaims, "I normally park up here on the 6th floor, but I forgot I parked on the ground floor tonight. If you want to walk me down to the ground floor, I have a pack of cigarettes in my car, I'll give you one." Great, I thought to myself, and then we started down the steps. From the brief chit chat that was exchanged, I got the impression that this was not a Phish Phan, but rather a child of privilege who had come to the concert with her boyfriend. He was pretending to like Phish because hemp necklaces were in style at his prep school... they got drunk and subsequently had a fight, and now she was fed up and leaving to go home. 

When we reached the ground floor, the young lady made a bee line straight for a brand new black Lexus SUV with gold trim and leather interior. My suspicions were becoming grounded in fact. She unlocked her vehicle, grabbed a pack of smokes (typical chick cigarettes - Marlboro Lights) out of the door, and took one out for each of us. Just being happy to have finely met a nice person, and to have a cigarette of any type, our conversation continued. "So was there anything else you needed?" she asked once more. Mostly jokingly I replied "Yeah, a ticket! If I had a ticket I wouldn't be out here in the cold scrounging for cigarettes," I said with a smile. 

Rather than responding with a sympathetic chuckle, she actually opened her purse and began rummaging around inside. After a few moments, she casually withdraw two unusually shaped tickets from her purses, presented them to me, and said, "There you go, there's one for you and one for one of your friends out there." 

My eyes shot wide fucking open, and I actually looked around once she handed me the tickets and said, "Am I on candid camera or something?" She just smiled and continued, "Go up to the 4th floor, take a left, walk down to the 6th door on the right, knock, ask for Vino and tell him Patty sent you. He will also have several floor tickets on him if you and your friends wanna go down on the floor for the encore." 

Now I've been to many concerts in many different venues, and I've never seen a seating chart that would require me to follow such strange direction to find my seat. I look down at my un-ordinary tickets and just as she is confirming what I am seeing, I notice these are not seat tickets, these are SKYBOX TICKETS!! 

At this point in time I start jumping around like a hallucinating idiot filled with nervous excitement and bliss and anticipation. What did I do to deserve such a generous gift? Was it God smiling on me for humoring the Jesus people, or my good karma for always trying to look at the bright side of things? "You don't know this, but tonight you met your guardian angel," she calmly says, "I'm Ms. Keile herself." I had just been miracled by Patty Keile, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Keile who built and owned the very venue the band was playing in! And they weren't just any tickets, they were tickets to her family's personal skybox!!!! "Well, what are you waiting for?" she interjected, "Go! You're missing the concert!" I gave my mysterious angel a big old hug, and then with a quick and sincere joyous smile, I turned and ran up the steps without even looking back. 

And oh man was this skybox something. It was the penthouse of skyboxes. Among its amenities were a fully stocked bar, not the little hotel wet bar type with the tiny bottles, but fully stocked with bigass bottles of every top shelf liquor you can think of, a butler brandishing an extensive menu of all types of food, my own phone, and even a bathroom right there all for me! I quickly poured myself a Tanqueray and Tonic, ordered a cheeseburger, and rang up my buds back home to tell them this unbelievable thing that was happening to me. 

I shared the skybox with about a dozen other people. Approximately 10 of them were all very very young high school kids who were obviously more concerned with getting drunk and acting foolishly than paying attention to whatever band was playing down below them, and two other people. Two salt and pepper haired individuals who were sitting there very stoically and un-emotionally, watching the concert, seeming more as though they were there on business and not to listen to this band that they apparently were annoyed by, Mr. and Mrs. Keile themselves. 

WOW, WHAT A FUCKING TRIP! It was the first time I was ever miracled, and probably the most outrageous miracle story I've ever heard to this day. Needless to say, I got fucking hammered, and danced up a storm in that skybox. I'm sure that all the other people in that skybox were as perplexed to see this drunken, tripping, oscillating, dancing machine hippie kid in their skybox as I was to be there. I was so excited and shocked to be there, I knew I had no chance in hell of finding my friends inside the concert, so I just ran up without miracling my second skybox ticket like I probably should have. But, if I didn't have that untorn skybox ticket to go along with my torn one, my friends probably would have never believed what happened to me. Peace, Love, and Harmony Pholks.. hope to see you on the road again some day soon. *8)

- GW Douglas