Word: phishing
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: all
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...last sounds of Trey Anastasio’s guitar faded and the stage was emptied, a mass of 70,000 who had been followers of Phish stopped and wondered what they would do with the rest of their lives. It had been Phish’s last show at their final festival, and even the schlumpy presence of Danny DeVito in the audience wasn’t enough to console the Heads. Among them was one Michael Vankoski, a young man from Burlington, Vermont’s upper-west side. He had deserted his place at Hampshire College to pursue...
...newfound need to get jobs. Selling veggie burritos in the concert venue parking lot just wouldn’t work anymore, given that there were to be no more concerts, and therefore no more venues, and thus no more parking lots in which to sell their wares. Still other Phish fans were musing sadly over the need to take showers for the first time. Without a crowd of Phishheads around them, their aromas had become conspicuous...
...least we still have String Cheese Incident, and moe., and the Big Wu,” one fan said. Michael nodded, but without any real conviction. Those bands were all pretty much synonymous. Phish, in Michael’s opinion, was the Mozart of the 20th century. Michael’s great-great-grandfather had followed Mozart’s tour-horse-and-carriage all over Europe when the young genius gigged as a child. For the past 15 years, Michael had followed in his great-great-grandfather’s footsteps by following Phish’s tour...
Michael and his friends continued to reminisce for hours. They spoke of better days. That night when the band arrived via a giant hot dog. The secret language of Phish in which they communicated with the audience via particular instrumental licks, relating information to the crowd such as the announcement “there’s an asshole in the front row.” The Halloween performances of other bands’ entire classic albums, a precedent which bands ranging musically all the way from Guster to Dashboard Confessional, had now picked up on. The glow-stick wars...
MONTREAL—After two years in their midst, I thought I’d finally lost them. I had driven 18 hours into the deserted hinterland that is rural New England, passed below stormy skies and crawled alongside a sea of Phish and finally made my way across the border in the wee morning hours—and, I naively assumed, safely outside their pestering reach...