I arrived at the venue, this tiny dinner club attached to a strip mall, early enough, but there were already a few phans milling around looking for tickets. It was tough going, but I was determined to find a ticket although no extras were circulating.

Finally a guy walked away from the will call window, and I approached him. He must have took pity on me, as I desperately told him my desire to attend this, my first Phish show. He sold me the ticket at face value and I rushed inside to join my two friends, who had tickets.

This venue, called the Coach House, is in San Juan Capistrano, which is a county south of Los Angeles, notorious for its conservative attitudes. They weren't tolerating anything inside the venue as I was to quickly discover. I missed the Ninja Custodians, who were opening, but got in moments before the first song started.

As the notes to Buried Alive played out, I quickly packed a bowl and lit it. After about two puffs, I feel a hand on my shoulder and some big guy starts dragging me out to the door. No warning, no confiscation only, just me being summarily tossed out the door of the venue. The beefy guard looked like he despised hippies and told me to get the fuck out or something to that nature.

I recall briefly pleading in vain with the guy, but I eventually realized it was futile. A few minutes later my friends emerged, wondering what had happened to me. I explained that I wasn't allowed back in, and they were just as bummed as I was. I headed back to their car with them, and they were going to have a quick drink and then go back into the venue.

All of sudden, we see headlights shining at us and a cop's flashlight peering us down. He approaches the three of us and goes right up to me and says, "Your eyes are bloodshot and you smell of marijuana." At this point things start falling apart. He asks for ID and finds that we're all under 21, with a car door open and half a case of Budweiser in the back seat. By the time he's done searching us, it's like an episode of Cops. There's some beer, the girl's fake ID, a bong, two bags of weed, some empty balloons and rolling papers all lined up on the hood of the car and we're just thinking, "we're fucked."

The cop says, "You know I could arrest you guys for being minors in possession of alcohol, which is a misdemeanor. I'd have to bring you downtown and book you. But I'm going to be nice and write you tickets for possession of marijuana, that's only a violation." I'm actually a bit grateful, but then I realize I don't have my wallet or any ID on me. My wallet and ID are up in my car, where I also have a few hits of acid tucked away. The thought of this guy finding the acid really gets me scared.

When he asks me for ID, I tell him that I left it in my car which is far away from here. Luckily, he doesn't push the matter and takes my information (In my fear, I gave him all the real info. In retrospect, I could have gotten off clean by giving him totally bogus information, which he had no way to confirm).

We got all our stuff confiscated and were sent on our way. I ended up having to pay a $280 fine for possession of two grams of dirty brown mexican weed. I didn't get a chance to see a full show until that fall, at the Capitol Theatre in Port Chester. But that's another story...

- Mike P.