Pittsburgh, PA: In a shocking press release put out from scientists at Pitt, it was revealed earlier today that the Big Black Furry Creature actually hails from Venus.  This news flies in the face of all previous research purporting that Big Black Furry Creature may have been from Mars.  While many in the scientific community are upset, there are those in music circles who share in their anger.  Jon Fishman, drummer for Phish, said “I can’t believe they didn’t get it right the first time.  I mean, we look to these scientists to give us factual information so we can make songs about it.  I’m speechless.” The team of scientists have reiterated that they will try to do better in the future.

Watkins Glen, NY

Reportedly, Fishman, Page, and bandleader Trey Anastasio were hanging out in the backstage tent area between sets. Mike Gordon had retired to his trailer in order to “meditate on the infinite space between holes in a slice of Swiss cheese.”

A security camera backstage picked up this first interaction between drummer and pianist.  Our fearless reporters have obtained a copy of the video and have transcribed it below.

Trey: “Oh, man. I’m a little beat. Think I’m gonna relax. Take it easy before next set.”

Page: “Wait, you don’t need to go yet, do you?”

Fishman: “Yeah, forget it. Let’s hang out a bit longer.”

Trey: “Nah guys, I need to rest.”

Page: “Do you have to?”

Trey: “See ya guys.” [Trey departs backstage area. The two others sit in silence for over two minutes.]

Page: “Hey, Jon.”

Fishman: “Hey, Page.”

Page: “Sooooo.”

[ Two more minutes of awkward silence ensues. Finally, Fishman jumps to his feet.]

Fishman:“Hey! Wanna do a keg stand?”

Page: “No.”

[Fishman sits down. He then jumps up again.]

Fishman: “Hey! Wanna streak through the Farmer’s Market?”

Page: “No.”

[Fishman sits down again.]

Fishman: “Wanna hear a dead baby joke?”

Page: “No.”

[Thirty seconds of silence.]

Page: “Wanna see some pictures from my son’s birthday party?”

Fishman:”…No.  Thanks.”

[Both band members stand and stretch. They mindlessly poke at different objects in the tent.]

Fishman: “Man, where’s Trey?”

Page: “Seriously, he’s been gone for, like, ever.”

Fishman and Page simultaneously: “Maybe we should go check up on him.”

At this point it was reported that the two band mates shared another awkward silence before storming Trey’s trailer, pounding on his door and awakening him from a deep nap, asking if he wanted to “throw a football around, or something.”

Watkins Glen, NY:

2:30 p.m. Friday

“On the way to the fest,” said girlfriend Rachel Graff, “Jerry was going on and on about how he wasn’t gonna use the Porto potties all weekend. I didn’t take him seriously at first, but apparently he’d been planning this for a while now. He said he’d ‘effectively evacuated’ himself before we left, whatever that means. He even brought a bottle of Imodium. And tons of carbs. I guess he was pretty serious about it.”

“Have you ever been in one of those things?” asked Jerry Riley as he swallowed two Imodium’s and devoured a potassium-rich banana. “Fuck that, man. Not this year…you aint getting me this year, Portos. I’m ready for you,” he challenged, with a gleam in his eye and a fist in the air, meanwhile working his way through a brick of cheddar cheese and nibbling from a loaf of Wonder Bread.

“You beat me at the Went,” he continued ruefully, staring across the campground at a row of blue, innocent-looking plastic shelters, “and claimed my favorite cargo shorts as your war trophy. You got me again at the Wheel. I walked out of there with one less sock and a flaming hemorrhoid. I managed pretty well at Oswego…but after an incident at Cypress: let’s just say, checkmate Portos. Score: 3-1…but your time’s up,” threatened Riley, as he shoved a large chunk of potato into his mouth and gagged before swallowing.

“Let’s go see some Phish!” he exclaimed.

UPDATED: 7:30 p.m. Saturday

Our sources caught up with Riley and Rachel as they were resting at their campsite between sets.

According to Rachel, Jerry’s been so far successful in his difficult endeavor. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “Sure, he’d walk over to the tree line to urinate, but as far as I know, he hasn’t been to the portos once in the last two days.”

We asked her if she has noticed any residual effects from her boyfriend’s dedicated boycott.

“I mean, he seems fine: a little, uh, pent-up, maybe. I looked over at him during Boogie On, and his face was sort of red and scrunched. But he may have just been really into the jam. Also, he was kinda grunting as we walked back to the tent during the first setbreak… and he’s been complaining a bunch about the rocks on the path and the dips in the uneven ground; but other than that…

“Oh yeah,” she continued, “well, he did have to sit down during Camel Walk, which is very strange for him. Camel Walk’s Jerry’s favorite song,” she said. “And he took off for somewhere at the first notes of Crosseyed last night! I have no clue why, he’s been dying to hear it. But other than that…he’s been doing great.”

We found Riley poised on the bumper of his Jeep, strategically shifting his hips and leveraging his body weight while alternately favoring one or another of his buckled knees.

“I’m doing OK,” said a squeamish looking Riley as he swept the sweat from his brow with wax paper from a slice of cheese. “Music’s been, uh, great. Cheese is really good,” he said, peeling the plastic wrapper off his third brick of cheddar. “Argghh. Oh boy. Yeah man, great, uh, festival so far.”

“Are you OK?” asked Rachel.

“Yeah, um, fine,” replied Jerry. “Just a little sick of cheddar, is all. Hand me a potato, will you? Thanks,” he said, biting into the half-cooked potato. “Ugh.”

“Jerry, take a chair,” offered his girlfriend.

“Those chairs are so goddamned uncomfortable!” he insisted through a mouth full of food, evoking stares from neighboring campers. “Sorry,” he said, “Just a little frustrated is all. Can you hand me the milk? Thanks.”

” Ugh,” he added.

“Jerry,” remarked Rachel.

“They aint gonna get me this time,” he vowed.

“We should go,” said Rachel, “second set’s starting soon.”

“You go. I’m just gonna sit here for a little bit,” he said. “I was thinking; we should leave after the third set, beat traffic.”

“Jerry, it’s only Saturday. We got a whole ‘nother day of music!”

“Ugh,” he added.

UPDATED: 1:45 p.m. Sunday

We received word from 26-year-old Phish fan and veggie burrito vendor Rainwater that his E-Z Up was visited early Sunday morning by a ‘visibly frustrated, uncomfortable looking dude,’ who our sources later confirmed was indeed Jerry Riley.

“He acted like he was buying drugs,” said Rainwater. “He stepped up all nervous like, looking both ways behind his shoulders before ordering a veggie burrito. When I asked him if he wanted cheese on it, he flipped, starting babbling under his breath about Cheddar, cargo shorts, and the Great Went. His fists were balled up and he was kind of slouched over, holding his belly. I don’t know what dude was on, but it was clear he needed some sustenance.”

“He asked me to leave the beans off the burrito,” said Rainwater. “More like demanded, actually. But I’ll tell you this; dude needed some fiber. When he was looking over his shoulder, I scooped three ladlefuls of beans onto the tortilla and rolled that sucker up. I figured it’d do him good. Besides, they were organic beans, straight from Oregon. Fresh, juicy, organic refried beans.”

“Can’t hurt, you know?” Rainwater speculated.

UPDATED: 6:30 p.m. Sunday

It has been reported by 24-year-old Mac Stiles that, as he headed into a stage-area porto potty to do a key-bump during Mound, he overheard distraught weeping coming from the porto potty next to him.

“It sounded bad, man,” said Mac. “Some guy was just crying in there. I wanted to do something, I even waited a few minutes to see if he’d come out, offer him some water or something, but he stayed in there, just wailing.”

“Whatever was going on in there, it sure sounded like some sort of existential crisis,” he said thoughtfully. “Those tears, man; they just sounded so…resigned.

“Call me crazy,” said Stiles, staring thoughtfully across the concert field, “but I heard something in those cries. It sounded like pure, unmitigated ecstasy, mixed with raw, self-punishing regret, like, all at once man. It was heavy.”

UPDATED: 10:52 p.m. Sunday

Unfortunately, by the time our sources made it back to Riley’s campground to check up on the couple, their campsite was packed up and their tent was gone.

All that remained was an empty 15×30-foot space, speckled with cheese wrappers rustling in the mild breeze as the band’s closing notes of the First Tube encore wafted from the faraway stage.

Between the mud-indented tire tracks from a Jeep that appeared to have left in a hurry, a tied-up potato sack sagged on the ground, one whose contents, though difficult to see, appeared to contain only a sole pair of crumpled up khaki cargo shorts.

Burlington, VT:

“Hey! What are you kids doing down there?” screamed 42-year old roadie Bruce Hodginson, who discovered the mischievous musicians as he was preparing the final checks on the busses brakes and engine.

“One more tire!” screamed lead guitar and  vocalist Bill Nershi. “Hurry!”

“Bail! Bail!” shouted keyboardist Kyle Hollingsworth

“Every man for himself!” screamed mandolin player Michael Kang, as they took off and hid behind one of Phish’s speakers to catch their breath before making a getaway.

“Get back here! Hey!” threatened Bruce, raising his fist at the scrambling bluegrass hooligans as they ran away from the scene. “Damn kids,” he muttered, panting.

“I didn’t run after them,” said Bruce in an interview. “I figured they were just crazy fans of the band. Apparently there are lots of those. It wasn’t until later, when I was describing their appearance to  [Red Light Management's Coran] Capshaw, that I learned of the competing jamband festival, put on by Swiss Cheese Instruments or whatever, in Michigan.”

Although the members were able to escape the scene without being caught, they left behind traces of evidence that police are confident they can trace back to the band.

“We found a pile of glitter,” said Burlington police chief Sandy Wasserman. “We also found a hula hoop, painted blood red, which we think they meant to leave, as sort of a hippie-mafia warning. We think the fact that both festivals, being held during the same weekend and competing for the attendance of like-minded fans, is enough to suspect some sort of foul play.

Although no formal charges have been made, in light of the investigations, String Cheese’s PR office has put forth this statement:

“We regret to hear that somebody has been tampering with our colleague’s bus. Phish are a great bunch of guys, and it would be a shame to hear that their festival, which was announced more than three months after our festival was announced– for the exact same weekend, mind you– would have to be cancelled just because their security wasn’t tight enough to catch a few troublemaking kids. We’d hate to even think what terrible tragedies could happen at such a large festival if this demonstrates the farthest reach of their security team. We offer our best to both the band and crew, and would just like to take this opportunity to say: did you know we’ll have a tripped out forest at our festival? With neon trees and shit? We’ll even buy you a root beer float if you show up! C’mon out!”

When Phish’s organization received word that String Cheese Incident was suspected in sabotaging their festival, they released what appeared to be a forgiving press release, which articulately stated:

“Who?”

Rothbury, MI

“I was going to say something,” said fellow camper Laura McKenzie, “but he was really into it, so I let it slide.”

According to another source, Guiles made an impassioned speech as fireworks erupted throughout the festival grounds. “This fucking country has produced so much greatness!” said Guiles, his Newcastle extended high. “Happy fucking birthday, America. Thanks for everything you’ve given me. Whoo-hoo!”

The unintended irony did not, however, stop there. After taking a long draw from the imported brew, Guiles gestured to his friend Steve, making a rising motion with his hands.

“Turn that shit up!” screamed Guiles, motioning for Steve to increase the volume on their boom box, currently blasting a guitar-driven live rendition of Eric Clapton’s Layla. “Layla” sang Guiles aloud, waving his beer through the air, “got me on my knees…Layla! Fuck yeah, America! USA! USA!”

Guiles’ celebration was not the only patriotic misstep of the night. Sources tell us that 24-year-old Rob Smith, on the other side of the festival grounds, celebrated his independence by consuming what he referred to as a ‘Betsy Ross Buffet,’ which included one white, 750mg Vicodin, one blue .5mg Xanax, and one unidentified red oval round pill, which he proceeded to crush into a fine powder and snort with a Taco Bell straw.

Some Forest, WA: Officials have noted that the annual meeting of free spirited individuals called The Rainbow Gathering might not be named as appropriately as previously thought.  While the event is going on this year in Washington state, an informal survey was done of the attendees.  It has been found that the so-called Rainbow of people who attend is actually 99% Caucasian.  There are no Rainbow Gathering representatives who could officially comment on this, though one festival-goer told this reporter, “A rainbow isn’t about color, it’s about loving your fellow man and being free.”  After pointing out that a rainbow actually is exactly about color, I was bombarded by organic broccoli and a splashed with almond milk in an attempt to get me flee the site.  This investigation is still ongoing.

Rothbury, MI

A second witness, who wished to remain anonymous, had this to say, “That chick was so spun out she didn’t even realize that she was dancing behind the pizza tent.  Every time the oven opened she would shout about how awesome the lights were.  And when the generator started to sputter for a minute got into some real funky break dancing moves.  She kept yelling out Bassnectar song requests, but he’s not even on until Saturday night. I need to find that chick and get whatever she was on.”

We caught up with the young dancer, who turned out to be Katie Bowen, a 19 year old student from Philadelphia who couldn’t stop talking about Bassnectars’ ‘Secret Set’.  “You guys heard about that secret set right?  It’s like no one else heard about it, I can’t believe I was there for it.  His grooves just kept going and were trancin’ me out so hard.  I just wish that idiot behind me didn’t keep yelling ‘pepperoni’ the whole time.  Oh well, I can’t wait to torrent that set.”

Watkins Glen, NY:

Said NYU MD Paul Rice, “Typically, a music and camping festival requires standard 2011 Guide to Emergency Field Medicine manuals. A more than competent text, it covers a broad range of festival ailments, from heat stroke to seizures to infections. However, based on the comments from the medical teams at past festivals, and our own research, we have made some major changes to the medical policies this year.  We have come to the conclusion that such unconventional ailments required, uh, how do I say it, unconventional medicinal treatments.”

When asked for examples of these ‘unconventional’ ailments, Rice was hesitant to answer us. “Well, uh, I mean, in my professional opinion. Well, I can tell you this: at Coventry, we treated a surprising number of trench foot victims, which hasn’t really been seen since World War I.”

After a little convincing, Rice opened up a bit more. ” And of course there was enough Giardia cases to raise our eyebrows…and infections, but not typical dirt-in-the-wound infections. These involved fecal matter, and significant amounts at that.”

“And scurvy!” he continued without pressing. “We found more than a few cases of scurvy. I mean, who the fuck gets scurvy anymore?  And how am I expected to treat that with a mist tent, a cot, three Q-Tips and a small pack of Advil? Can you tell me that?”

Listen,” continued Rice conspiratorially, “we found shit that hasn’t been spotted since the plague! The plague! And one person had somehow managed to come down with a disease that can only be contracted by mating with a Centaur! I ask you; what the hell are those kids doing in there?”

The biggest problem, spelled out explicitly in the med staff’s preparation document, is that “after a cursory study of incoming patients, we found that almost 95% had already ingested the requisite medications before presenting for treatment.”

“These kids have already taken the pharmaceuticals needed to treat them,” explained Rice, “but they ingested them long before contracting the ailments they are expected to heal. Which pretty much null and voids the impact of the drugs themselves. We really had to improvise with this one.”

“We really had to think on our feet,” said Darryl Morango, a PHD in comparative literature, archeology, and a well-known expert in esoteric texts and shamanistic healing rituals, who has been called in by Rice to assist in aggregating treatment information from a wide range of sources.

“I was brought in to apply my expertise towards finding texts that may help us treat these, uh, kids. So far, we’ve managed to conglomerate a treatment plan based on these texts: a World War I Army Field Manual; The Modern Encyclopedia of Zoology; Darwin’s The Origin of Species; seventeen obscure back-issues of National Geographic; The Odyssey by Homer; the complete works of Aldous Huxley; a volume of William Blake’s more esoteric poetry…”

“…and, we brought in a couple DVD’s of the film Old Yeller. Don’t even ask about that last one.”

“If all else fails,” remarked Morango, cautiously, ” we have alerted the CDC.  They’re on stand-by, awaiting our call.”

“If it comes to that.”

Gainesville, FL:

“I was really surprised,” said best friend Matt Segel. “He doesn’t seem to mind at all. Usually, around this time, he’d be pacing the room, ranting and raving about tortillas, propane, and Gold Bond. He’d have yellow highlighter all over his face from routing maps all day. But he’s surprisingly mellow.”

Added Segel: “He’s really grown up these past few years.”

“I mean, it’s totally cool,” said Jason as he slid on his new apron, a father’s day gift from his two children. “I’m barbequing with my wife and kids; we got some friends over. I just bought a new grill. I’ll always love Phish, but I guess my priorities are just different now. I’m really looking forward to spending the holiday being with my family.”

“Besides, we have this new grill,” he added. “Isn’t it great?” inquired Feder as his two children playfully chased their dog Spot across the yard. “Look at all these settings!”

“Throw another burger on, dear,” said his wife.

“Coming right up, honey!” Jason exclaimed, flipping the spatula confidently.  “Go deep, Tommy!” he exclaimed, reaching for the Nerf and throwing a perfect spiral to his son. “Nice catch, Tommy!”

“Who needs to be stuck in the glaring sun all day?” he wondered out loud. “Not me, that’s for sure. Waking up in a hot tent at seven a.m.? Eating soggy grilled cheese sandwiches? Battling hordes of people to get a decent view of the stage?” he reminisced, putting his arm around his wife. “No way. This is the only view I need these days.”

His wife beamed. “I’m really proud of him,” she said. “He never even brought up the fest. He accepted the fact that he’d rather spend the holiday with his wife and kids. He’s a family man now. He’s gotten his priorities straight.”

“The traffic? Forget it!” said Jason. “And don’t even get me started on the Porto Potty’s.”

“Jenny, let your dad show you how that’s done!” he yelled to his daughter as she attempted to twirl a hula-hoop around her waist. He walked over and demonstrated with aptitude as his children watched and laughed.

“I love you,” said his wife.

“Who needs that nervous feeling; waiting for the band to take the stage?” he said when he returned to the grill. “The butterflies in your stomach. Calling the opener with your friends as the low clouds roll over the vast concert fields,” said Feder, flipping a burger on the grill as his son squirted him dead in the eye with a Kool-Aid-filled Super Soaker. “Those were the days.”

“I love you dear,” said his wife.

“Seeing that Ferris wheel light up the country sky as the wandering notes of a sustained Reba waft over the crowd and mingle with the smoke emanating from the vendors’ stands,” he said, as his children chased a squirrel up a tree.

“Yeah, but you’re here now, right dear?” remarked his wife.

“Of course I am honey,” he said.

“Those sure were the days, all right. Pitching your tent with a beer in your hand. Throwing a Frisbee back and forth. Even those little mundane things, like screwing the propane tank onto your Coleman double burner, or breaking up bags of ice, just smashing them against the surface of some de-regulated airstrip.”

“Aren’t those flames a little high, dear?” asked his wife.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Slipping into a hoodie in the perfectly crisp air of 3 a.m. out in the country. Trying to find your way back to your tent after the third set, with a head full of God-knows-what fucking substances swimming around in your brain like some sort of self-administered chemical warfare.”

“Honey, watch your language! The kids can hear you,” said his wife.

“Sorry love,” he said, and continued flipping his burgers.

“Eh. That stuff’s for the youngins,” he said as his oldest son smashed his brand new Callaway driver against the bark of a tree in pursuit of a squirrel. “I’m glad I got those memories, but I’m just too old for that now. I got my wife, my kids, my dog…my grill,” and with that he absentmindedly patted his grill and winced as a shot of burning pain ran up his arm and through his synapses.

“You’re not old honey,” remarked his wife. “Just more mature. Lemme get you some ice for that.”

“Sitting around your tent, discussing the highlights of the show,” he continued, balancing a bag of frozen organic peas on the severe burn growing exponentially across his hand. “Hearing the sound of a bottle cap snap open and echo through the late-night laughter and chatter of the campground. Feeling so exhausted from walking around all day that your Styrofoam sleeping pad is as comfortable as a king-sized bed in a five-star hotel…”

“Dear? But what about the Porto Potties?” urged his wife. “Don’t forget what you said about those Porto Potties!”

“Ahh yeah,” he said with a faraway look in his eyes, as his daughter poked at a steaming turd his dog just seconds ago manufactured on the deck.  “That feeling, when you exit the sweltering Porto Potty after your morning piss, and the cool morning breeze hits your face. Smothering your hands in the refreshing coolness of Purell, ready for another day of music.”

“Daddy!” screamed his son Tommy, “Jenny just threw my GI Joe in the doo-doo!”

“I wonder what the weather is in New York right now?” wondered Feder aloud.

“Honey!” said his wife. “The burgers are burning!”

“Oh, oh yeah…the burgers,” muttered a deflating Feder.

“Daddy! Tommy just fished his GI Joe out of the doo-doo with your new golf club!” screamed his daughter Jenny.

“Dear! The burgers are burning! Flip them!”

“Daddy! I think the squirrel’s still alive!” screamed Tommy.

Feder sighed as he picked up the spatula and limply flipped a burger. “Hey, have I shown you my new grill?”