This story goes back to my first ever Phish show, in October ’96. I was driving down to Lake Placid, NY from Canada with my friend Dave, when we reached the U.S. border crossing at St. Lawrence, NY. The U.S. Customs officer took one look at our tie-dyed shirts, and as soon as we uttered the word “Phish,” he ordered us to pull over and go inside the Customs building.

As we got out of my car, a DEA agent accompanied by a group of Army soldiers in green combat fatigues approached with a drug sniffing dog. As part of some special drug enforcement operation, the soldiers had been seconded to the border. They started poking through every corner of my car, searching for contraband.

We were told to go inside the Customs building. Inside, the walls were decorated with missing children posters and a huge portrait of (then) President Clinton. The Customs people asked for ID and subjected us to all sorts of silly trick questions… (Shaking his head like it’s no big deal) “You’re not carrying just a little grass are you?”… “What concert did you say you’re going to?”

But most of all, they just made us wait. And wait… and wait! All sorts of thoughts start going through your head, “Why is it taking so long?” “Why does the Customs guy at the counter keep looking at me funny?”

The only interesting thing to break the boredom was this other Deadhead who had also been pulled over. We started chatting with him and asked him where he was from. “I live in a suburb of Rochester, NY,” he volunteered. “A town called Pittsford!” 

Suddenly one of the Customs officers perks up his head from behind the counter and looks at our new Deadhead friend… They exchange smiles and in unison exclaim, “Pittsford Bitches!” They both start laughing, and I prod them for an explanation. Apparently Pittsford is a wealthy suburb and the women who reside there have a acquired a snobby reputation among guys who don’t measure up.

With the tension broken by an off-color comment, the Customs officer quickly sent us all on our way.

- Jonathan Herland