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Getting It: A Love in Phish Story

A story about my first time seeing Phish (Wrigley Field, 6/24/2016).
TLDR; See Phish, crap pants, laugh, cry, faint, fall in love, disappoint parents, repeat.
- - - - -
In the summer of 2016, my then girlfriend and I saw the band, Phish, for the first time. As for firsts and where this inaugural event ranks, what I don’t remember I cannot assert, but from what I can recall, quite vividly in manic, cross-cut sections of Wrigley Field blossoming into a technicolor wave pool, is a first without rival. A first that compelled her and I to see the band twenty more times in the next three years, each show delivering an unparalleled experience, but nothing quite like the first. I wish someone would’ve told me before the show began that years from now, this show, top to bottom, will still rank as my favorite Phish setlist. Of course, my response then would’ve been something like, “Hootie beggar blowfish?”
My only conclusion is this: thank god and goddammit I didn’t find them earlier.
I might never have if it wasn’t for her.
We met on a Sunday in June at a music festival in Nashville. Standing in the middle of a crowd watching Bob Weir, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Do you have any weed?”
I said the first thing that came to mind:
“Back at my place?”
She laughed, like a grown-up would at a stammering toddler. Of the thousands gathered on that knobby, dirt patch, I was probably the only other person who wasn’t holding. Out of desperation and hollow nobility, I vowed to help her find some. She needed no help attaining fest weed, a freely circulating public good as available in that space as reflections on the Dead’s greatest year. But she didn’t seem to mind the idea of company, and so with a nod of her head, I became her company.
At a time in my life where I was only beginning to understand how little I knew about myself, about who I was, and thus a period of marked insecurity and self-deception, she seemed to know exactly who she was and where she was going. Los Angeles-born and bred with no plans to return. College years spent in Wisconsin, which she wore like a merit badge, an honorary Midwesterner. Dad, a former heart surgeon, Mom, a former model. To make matters worse, she didn’t care to talk about herself; she wanted to know my story. I’d made it habit at that point to reveal as little about myself as possible to maintain an air of mystery, but her ability to engage encouraged reciprocation; she was intense, intimate, attentive.
She loved Janis, preferred the blues, disliked indie, wanted her rock to rock her. Her tastes were freewheeling and straight from the heart. “The Rolling Stones are the greatest band of all time,” is not an original or outrageous claim nor is it correct, and I told her so, but she defended her point, anyway, and without a hint of self-righteousness, without regurgitating esoteric liner notes or referencing the band’s forebears. Her mission was pure: she simply wanted to convert each and every non-believer encountered.
She was a gunner, type-A, but without the arrogance. Smart, but not self-serious. Soft, kind, flirtatious but not forward. Focused, but reflexively free-spirited, which seemed her strongest innate quality, one of the original ingredients that, though shuffled in and diluted with the inevitable responsibility age brings, nevertheless persisted and always would. She didn’t meddle. She had a career in politics. I’d vote for her. I told her so.
She was leaving in ten days, heading to Chicago for the next chapter of her life. Three years in the same small city, many nights surely spent in the same corner of the bar, and here we were, meeting at call time. Bob Dylan, the poet laureate of bittersweet moments and inevitable ends, was the night’s final act and provided a beautiful, if not melancholic send-off. The lights came on. We said goodbye, and that could’ve been it.
But it wasn’t. We saw each other two years later.
Six months after that, I quit my job, packed my shit, drove up to Chicago, and moved in. Almost three years after first meeting, our first night together as roommates happened to be our thirty-fifth night together in total. To say we didn’t know what we were doing is both true and mostly true. Through years of text and phone conversations, we knew plenty of intimate details about one another: favorite movies, foods, political affiliations, fragrances, dreams, fears. On the other hand, if distance makes the heart grow fonder, closeness allows the brain, your neglected ally, to remind you that the leading cause of death is the heart.
Luckily, on trying days when our differences felt insurmountable, we had music. It's where we started. We chased concerts, bars, and dance clubs five nights a week in the relentless pursuit of making up for lost time. It was the period of “yes,” to excess and otherwise, no matter the night or idea.
And yet, following a friend’s recommendation to see Phish play Wrigley, I was an unequivocal “no.” Why? Because it was Phish. This position of ignorance is a popular one and exactly the type of prejudice the band has perennially inspired. Of course I’d never seen Phish, but what I knew about them had been gleaned from a former roommate, an obsessive who listened to entire tour runs from his room. When I tried to talk Phish with him, he struggled, admittedly, to find the right words to describe their sound, and importantly, the experience of their shows. “They’re like the Dead, right?” I offered, thinking a reference point provided an inroad to unraveling the topic. The question had the exact opposite effect, and my response was to leave Phish in the manila folder marked ‘IDK’ in the back of my musical index. She was receptive to the idea because, why not? On Thursday night, we checked StubHub and tickets were reasonably priced. Who was I to say no?
Spurred by the warm weather and lack of adventurous ‘trips’ taken together, we each ingested almost a full eighth between drinks in our kitchen, which doubled as our dinner, and left the apartment with heads full of spirits and mouths full of shards. In an effort to soothe any creeping mushroom reflux, we decided to walk a few blocks before ordering an Uber. It was 6:30, thirty minutes to doors, hour to show time, and we had plans to meet our friend in Shakedown prior to entering the stadium.
Only after escaping the heat and settling into the car's backseat did I sense the first, very strong signal that the mushrooms were on the move. Though I wasn’t overly warm, I was sweating intensely from abnormal areas. Not my palms, but the backs of my hands were covered in sweat. A line of sweat beads ran from the temples down either side of my head, pooling under my chin. Both knee pits were sopping. I felt like a can of cream soup that had been pin punctured at random.
Even under cover of aviators, there was no mistaking Lilly's expression, eyebrows hovering over the top of the lenses, for anything other than “we’re fucked.” I grabbed her hand and squeezed, a gesture of reassurance that we were OK, but considering the forced half-smile it was attached to, likely succeeded only in reinforcing her belief. She laughed loudly before abruptly suffocating it like a sneeze she hadn’t felt coming. I kept mouthing, “OK”, to her over and over, nodding my head up and down like a defeated football coach absorbing the reality of a massive halftime deficit. She, however, appeared almost excited. Her rosy red cheeks and shit-eating grin produced this cartoonish expression like she was in on the joke, whether this was all in good fun or the way it all ended. On cue, “Werewolves of London” issued forth from the radio, each “Aaaooooo!” louder and more hair-raising than the last as we rolled toward Wrigley.
The driver pulled over at the southeast corner of Racine and Addison. We whispered, “thank you” as we exited the vehicle, and he yelled, “Good luck!” from the open passenger window as he pulled a “U” and drove off. We laughed like hyenas before taking a couple deep breaths, wiping the tears from our eyes. The open air was like a splash of cool water as the mushroom limbo balance tipped from fear to fun.
Wrigleyville was overrun, its blue hat population replaced by a frenzied community of unknown origin whose presence, by sheer numbers, established a new law and order, free of law and simple in order. People sold, bought and traded items on the street, smoked, drank, and huffed on the sidewalk, shook hands, slapped fives, hugged, danced. The police presence was minimal, most officers posted at the zone’s periphery, serving as guardrails, preventative agents to keep the outside from the inside crowds and vice versa. I watched as a guy trying, but ultimately failing, to catch himself from stumble falling was wrapped up in a bear hug by an officer, who brought him back to his feet and sent him on his way.
We zig-zagged through the lot, arms strung around each other in supportive, clumsy embrace, communicating strictly in awestruck toddler-level finger pointing, and quickly found ourselves at the Clark-Addison entrance gate.
Located down the first base line, just past the visitor’s dugout in the shallow right field stands, our seats offered an almost direct view of the center field stage. They also offered zero protection from the in-no-rush-to-be-setting sun. With no breeze, the air was stifling, our metal seats scalding hot, and the stadium was nearly empty and unnervingly quiet.
“We’re a little early, I guess,” I said.
“What time is it?”
“Five after seven.”
“Why are we here?” she asked, slumped down in her seat.
“I don’t know."
Acknowledged in the Uber, then completely forgotten during our lot walk, what had felt like stomach jitters now urgently required a bathroom trip.
“Oh no…”
“Why, oh no?” Lilly said.
“I gotta go.”
“Oh no,” she whispered through gritted teeth.
Inside the tunnels, everyone moved at incredible speeds and in unpredictable patterns. I walked in circles for a few minutes before finding a men’s restroom, located almost directly in front of the ramp I entered the tunnel from.
As soon as I sat down in the stall, the urge to shit vanished. Thinking it was a trick, I decided to wait for its return. I pulled out my phone and padded the pulsing, wobbling numbers on the screen, watching them bob up and down like lily pads in stream. My trance was interrupted by a gigantic fart in the stall next door, which prompted a chorus of thunderous laughter on the other side of the stall door. The fart. It wasn’t me, but that didn’t matter. The idea of being assigned blame for the fart by a mob of strangers rattled me. Sweating like a beast, I took a deep breath, pushed open the door and sprinted out of the bathroom, the assumed to be fleeing farter.
“Oh my god! What has been happening?” she asked with a crazed grin. I wanted to tell her about the fart, but based on her expression assumed she had somehow already heard.
“So much” is all I could offer.
Expanding in scale, the stadium now resembled something closer to a coliseum, the half-ring of upper deck towering above us, our section sunken to arena-level. The sun hovered next to the left field upper deck, and cast warm, gold-flecked shades of purple, orange and red across the grounds. Streams of people filled every aisle way, fed from every entrance. The upper deck looked overrun with ants, thousands spreading across its sections. The general attendance crowd flooded across the white tile surface laid over the field, some angling toward the pit in front of the stage, others twirling in back near the stand-to-field entrances.
Lilly grabbed my arm.
“Let’s go down there!”
I laughed.
“But we don’t have tickets.”
“But it’s right there!”
We WOW-ed to each other every 30 seconds or so, fixed in our seats like we were in the front row at the movie theater, turning to describe some unbelievable sight just seen or emotion deeply felt, only to blurt out, “WOW…did you…I just…WOW.”
Never had we experienced such a palpable sense of build to a show. Pre-show excitement is of course one of the best parts of any concert-going experience; the chatter of setlist debates, downing of drinks, racing to grab one more before show start, rows of heads nodding to the beat of whatever song plays as the techs complete instrument check. No, this was something above and far out beyond the normal behavior of fans waiting for a band’s walk-on. It looked like a preparation for departure. Most people were sitting, slowly sipping at beers, checking placement of keys, wallets, hugging, holding hands. Normal enough, but not when juxtaposed with everything packed into the “before.” In context, it now felt like we were in the low-pressure wake moments before natural disaster. It was like everyone was preparing to lose themselves completely to the happening that was moments away.
The four members of Phish strolled onto the stage. The crowd went apeshit, a jarring reminder for Lilly and I that we were here for a purpose beyond shape shifting through the ether. A silence settled over the crowd, every set of lungs expanding as Trey adjusted his strap, tapped his pedalboard, Mike bum-bum-bum-bumped a few notes from his bass, Fish ta-ting-ting-ting before RaWrRwrrRArrr, Trey’s first strum, the long-awaited signal that it was finally time to go.
The crowd leapt into full Harry Carey “Cubs Win!” celebration mode, and I’ve never seen or been part of something more joyous in my life. For the entirety of the first song, if not the first set, all Lilly or I could do was observe in awestruck wonder as the spectacle before us redefined our understanding of what constitutes a good or memorable or worthy live music experience, communicating by way of pointing, gesturing, and screaming like the fucking Beatles had taken the stage. The opening song provided a perfect entry to not only the band, but this night in particular because it sounded familiar, like a rock song you’ve heard before, one with a natural, building progression and catchy pop hook that brought you up and back down without completely untucking your shirt.
The second song took care of that. On the heels of the first song came a raunchy, hard-charging guitar lead, converged on by a glissando and rapid-fire drum beat that cranked the stadium’s heart rate into a downhill sprint. There’s no doubt in my mind that the structural integrity of Wrigley was challenged over the next three to four minutes as the suddenly larger than life titans of rock whipped thousands into a lunatic dance frenzy. This was the shit overbearing parents warned their kids about “rock and roll,” but now, surrounded by those same parents, I knew why: they wanted it all for themselves.
The second song offered a first glance of, and participation in, the Phish dance, a style and form all its own. Have you ever danced like no one is watching? At home in your room, door closed with a favorite guilty pleasure track playing on repeat? Now imagine doing that with 40,000 people, each feeding off of the high energy, free form dance of the person in front of them as if it’s some sort of competition, but it’s not, there’s no judgment committee, no yes-no, right-wrong, and so what you have is a huge group of receptive individuals free of the notion of preening, free of self-consciousness, being fed this hyper-contagious strain of cathartic dance created for you, specifically for you, by a rock n’ roll band of world class musicians who have mastered the art of live performance, who embody music’s deeply-rooted connection to humanity, joy, release and are as serious about the music as they aren’t about themselves.
Before our feet reached the ground, an animatronic voice from above objected:
“You have been selected as the first astronaut to explore the planet Mars. The countdown is progressing, and your spaceship is about to blast off on its voyage of discovery.”
To Mars we went on a ship fueled by extraterrestrial funk and the collective energy of 40,000 space junkies. Based on experience, I’d come to believe that all concerts follow the same general arc: the band comes out with a lot of energy and gives you something hard and fast, like a new single, right out of the block. A few songs later, the band slows it down, providing a needed breather, release of tension. The build then begins again, there’s maybe one more dip, and the finale packs all the fuck to your face they can muster. We were only three songs in, but exactly none of those rules were being followed here. If anything, we started low and then went up. Phish only went up. There we were, shell shocked, nearly in tears, hands on top of our shaking heads, expressions of disbelief on our sweaty faces as the band punched home the last note of the finale. For the next few seconds, we stood in silent awe, slowly acclimating to the sensory overload of the last seventy-some minutes as patrons dispersed for set break.
Wrapping her arms around my neck, Lilly smiled, leaned back, and slowly rocked back and forth. This is her, I realized. Beaming like a nuclear disco ball, bursting at the seams with childlike serenity, this is who Lilly is. She’s intelligent, ambitious, driven, and will accomplish everything she sets her mind to in her professional life, but her definition of success, her fulfillment is simple: to love and be loved and do things we love.
When the epiphany settled, I realized how badly I needed to piss. Within the stadium tunnels, the mood was light, energetic, celebratory, but more focused than pre-show. Everyone needed to drain and replenish with bathrooms and provisions, food, beer, and water, simple enough tasks but on a deadline, which added a collective sense of urgency. We walked against the flow of traffic, heading out near the gate we’d entered for a quick breather. Instead of heading back toward home plate direction, we walked underneath the right of home plate upper deck section and wound up at a porta-potty encampment that felt like the Eden of toilet banks. Short lines, friendly, blissed-out faces abound, a Purell station, and a row of vendor carts nearby.
After the head, I grabbed two beers and walked over to Lilly who was hammer thumbing her phone.
“Here you go,” I said, handing her a beer.
“We’re going on the infield!” she screamed, and before I had a chance to question it, she grabbed the beer and started power walking in the direction of right field. As it turns out, this portable oasis we’d stumbled upon was near the tunnel that led to the general admission field entry. The friend we meant to meet up with prior to the show had a GA pass, represented by a silver wristband applied at stadium entrance that permitted free passage through the pearly field access gates. Unbeknownst to us, it was well-known that security at Wrigley was notoriously lax when it came to checking wristband wearers.
“We’re just going to wait until there’s a big rush of people,” Lilly explained. Peeking out from behind a vertical column twenty yards from the gate, we watched people presenting their wrists and walking through the 10-foot wide entry, flanked by four security guards in bright yellow ‘SECURITY’ shirts.
“And then we’re going to wiggle our way into the middle of the group, hold our right hands in the air just like everyone else, and stare straight ahead until we’re in,” she said. I simply nodded, fully confident in the plan and the fateful trajectory of our night.
As bodies started to clog the bottleneck, we made our move. With two guards on the left edge, one on the right, and one situated in the center of the stream of people, the squeeze created the momentary chaos necessary for sneaking in. I looked up as Lilly, perfectly timed, slipped right by the center guard who had just turned his head in my direction. As his scan swung back to the right, with one long stride, I slid through the gap between two people in front of me, past the center guard, and Jesus, take the wheel, I’m a free -
Caught. Looking up, I could see only the tips of my fingers flailing above an Andre the Giant-sized hand where my wrist had been.
“Nope,” the guard yelled over the bodies passing under his outstretched arm. I scanned the open area past the gates. She’d seen the whole thing. Hands cupped over her mouth, softly shaking her head “no,” Lilly watched as I was led out of the stream of passing bodies by the mighty hand of the law.
“Where’s your wrist band?” he asked.
“My wife has it, she just walked in.”
In my mind, “wife” conveyed legitimacy, much more so than “girlfriend” as I was the aloof husband, not the high as shit boyfriend. The guard responded by laughing in an unfriendly way, in a very cop way, before sharply nodding in the opposite direction.
“Get outta here.”
Confused and embarrassed, I started walking up the ramp like a kicked dog. I pulled out my phone and turned to see if I could find Lilly again. Before I did, she called.
“What happened?” she asked. I saw her now, pacing back and forth, hand on her forehand.
“I got caught, baby,” I said, laughing. “Listen, stay on the field. I’ll just go back to our seats. It’s totally fine. They’re probably going to start again soon.”
“No fuckin way,” she screamed. “I’m getting you in here!” And with that, she hung up.
I headed back to the porta-park. The adrenaline injection tied to the security run-in had momentarily dampened my high. For the first time in hours, I felt capable of coherent speech.
“How about that first set, huh?” I said to the guy next to me in the porta line.
He shot me an incredulous “are you kidding me?” look.
“Duuuude, Torture, Monster, Sand, with a Wedge thrown in, capped with a Free to Blaze close, all in the first? Fuckin heat, man. Hot hot heat. Heaaaaaaater right outta the block!”
I nodded enthusiastically, without the slightest clue what any of that meant. Nevermind, I thought. I remain capable of nothing. Inside my blue plastic pod, I started laughing at the thought of trying to get back to our seats. While accepting the evening’s twist of fate and a second set spent wandering aimlessly, trying to figure out what the fuck that guy just said, though not in the least distressed by this notion, I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket.
“Come back to the field entrance!” Lilly screamed.
“Come back to where you just were!”
“There’s no way I’m getting past that guy now. He’s got a line on me.”
“We have a wristband for you!”
Lilly had found our friends on the infield. Our friend, Jen, was going to meet me on my side of the gate with an extra wristband. I waited behind the same vertical column, carefully watching the gate and my assailant, who I knew was anticipating my return. I saw Jen approaching the gate field-side. Walking up the ramp, she handed me a wristband that I slipped on and a ticket that I put in my pocket, and we U-turned to head back to the gate.
I kept my focus on the field. Passed the guard in the center of the walkway. Felt the same splash of the sweet open air of the infield on my face.
Caught. Same place. Same vice-like grip.
“You again?!”
His confident, almost amused expression belied his incredulous tone.
“I’ve got my wristband,” I said, pointing up at it like a seven-year old.
“Let me see your ticket.”
I pulled the ticket out of my pocket and handed it to him. Disappointed, he looked it over before pulling a hole puncher out of his back pocket and emphatically piercing my ticket.
“All tickets need to be punched!” he yelled to no one in particular as he handed me back my ticket.
I put the ticket back in my pocket, took a few steps forward and raised my hands over my head like Rocky. Fifty yards ahead, Lilly, standing with a group of our friends, shot her hands in the air and burst out laughing.
“See!” she said, holding my face in her hands before spreading her arms wide and twirling in a circle. “We have to be down here.”
She was right. Having already experienced something truly outstanding with set one, we could’ve left the stadium right then, scarfed an order of greasy Chinese food, and gone to bed knowing live music would never be the same again. Our definition of what is and isn’t a valuable live show, and why, had been blown to smithereens. But walking toward the stage on the infield, sensing the exotic energy of the pit, the thought of being “in it” like never before, what we’d just witnessed already felt behind us, fading in the background of the rearview mirror.
By the time we found a clearing, stage right, twenty rows back, to post up for the second set, night had fallen, and the stage, framed by the stark black surroundings, pulsed in swirling red-yellow orbits. When the band reappeared, they walked on in the same unassuming manner of the first set, like four guys walking to the beer line. The roar of the crowd shook my bones and drowned out the wary, doubting voice in my head. Comfortably acclimated, Lilly appeared ready to be led into war as she yelled into the night with what I can only describe as a metal show intensity. The crowd quieted as the members assembled themselves on stage.
I could barely hear the sounds being played over the speakers when the crowd went berserk. It first sounded like swirling wind or the hissing squeal of gas escaping a high-pressure chamber. Then, it turned darker, swampier before BAWMP-BAWMP. I turned to the guy on my right.
“What is this?” I screamed into his ear.
“DOWN WITH THE DISEASE,” he yelled back, as Trey fired three electric missiles directly into the receptive, joyous faces of an army of possessed souls. The second set picked up right where the first left off except now we were in the trenches, which unsurprisingly enhanced the everything-ness of the show and sounds by an IMAX magnitude. From twenty rows back, the wall of sound was like a Bob Marley-coined, doesn’t-hurt-when-it-hits tidal wave. For the first thirty seconds of the second set opener, I didn’t move; just stood paralyzed as my brain tried to figure out what the fuck was going on.
A solo piano rhythm slowed things down at the start of the second song, but not for long. As the other instruments joined, the song achieved this big, theatrical, rock opera-y sound before cutting out completely at the first verse, leaving Trey and Mike to quietly sing the lyrics and the crowd to lean in a little closer, get a little tighter. At the last few words, a drum lead fired up the start of another ladder climb crescendo, restarting the frenzy the soft-spoken lyrics momentarily calmed. Then, at the end of the second verse, the lyrics trailed off, creating the quietest moment of the night before –
At the first “OOOOH!”, thousands of glow sticks were launched into the air from every corner of the stadium, then picked up and sent sailing again. Smiling like an idiot, I turned in a circle and watched glow stick spouts erupt sporadically across the stands and upper deck, and thought, “how have I spent so much time missing this?”
I thought about all the shows I’d been to, and how, in retrospect, regardless of venue size, nothing compared to this. Memories from my favorite shows now seemed in need of revision.
The guy on my right turned to me and screamed, “TWIST!”, as the next song started. I appreciated that he knew I must be new to the band and continued to keep me informed. He proceeded to dance like “Twist” was his favorite song. His style was a form of barely controlled chaos; his moves looked like a gang of hornets had been released in his pants and shirt and his only hope was to dance them out. Of course, when I looked at his face, it looked like maybe these particular hornets were armed with ticklers instead of stingers.
For us, the second set was a victory lap. Lilly wiggled and writhed like a happily possessed flower child and I slowly regained the ability to speak in words. My friend continued to educate, shouting the titles as new songs started.
“Twenty Years Later!”
“What?” I yelled back. I couldn’t tell if whatever he’d just shouted was gibberish because he was so excited that the words ran together or because it wasn’t English. But as I listened on, something totally unexpected happened.
“Holy shit, I think I know this one!” I screamed at Lilly. It was a cover of the entrance song of none other than the greatest professional wrestler of all time, Ric Flair; also the opening theme song from Stanley Kubrick’s 2001. Of course, what Phish did with the song was funky and absurd, glorious and downright dirty, long periods of jazzy deep-space improv separated by massive peaks, each peak starting with a bat-signal-like sky shot from Trey’s guitar before turning into full, stadium-rattling orchestral finales. With each one, Lilly and I flung our arms in the air like the aliens in Toy Story hoping to be picked up and taken away by the claw.
In riding out the lofty, rollercoaster high of the Ric Flair theme song cranked on moon-rock cocaine, it took me a minute to realize Lilly was no longer bouncing in and out of my immediate periphery. She was standing still, holding the inside of her right hip.
“Hey, you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just my tummy.”
I narrowed my eyes. She leaned in and put her arm around me.
“Really, I’m OK.”
I put my hand around her and we swayed back and forth in time with the next song, a rhythmic, light, much needed break from the previous onslaught. Her hand dropped from my side, again grabbing the right side of her stomach.
“Lil, what’s the matter?”
She inhaled deeply through her nose, bending over slightly between each breath. She looked up.
“I need some air.”
She nodded in the direction of the boundary fencing to our right. I grabbed her hand and put my right arm out in front to direct our passage, shouting “excuse me” to part the bodies ahead. When I reached the fence, I turned and pulled her toward me. She stumbled, causing her to fall into the fence. I grabbed her by the waist as she pulled herself up, but as soon as she stood, her legs buckled and she fell forward, knocking both of us to the ground. The crowd opened in a circle around us. She slipped off onto the ground, face up, eyes closed. I knelt over her, both hands on her face, trying to wake her.
Her body was rigid, jaw clenched. I searched the surrounding faces, screaming, pleading for someone to call for security.
She opened her eyes wide, blinking several times.
“Lilly! Are you OK? Can you stand?”
She nodded. I helped her to a seated position.
“Did you just have a seizure?” I asked, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
“I don’t know.”
“Can you stand?”
“Not yet.”
Someone shouted “hey!” from above. A guy crouched down, smiling, bottle of water in hand.
“Everyone OK?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Lilly responded.
He nodded toward the water. “Here, see,” he pointed toward the cap’s intact seal. “Unopened.” His manner was deliberate; his motions smooth, calming.
“Thank you,” we both said. Lilly grabbed the water, twisted the cap off and took a drink.
It was quiet. Our backs to the stage, the band sounded faint, far away. We looked up at the half circle of concerned faces focused on us. At least a dozen people extended bottles of water, each showing us the sealed cap.
“Wanna try to stand up?” the guy asked.
Lilly nodded. We helped her to her feet.
“There we go. All good?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Lilly said. “I’m so sorry about -
Before she could finish, he grabbed her left hand, my right hand and hoisted our arms in the air.
“WE’RE ALL GOOD!” he screamed to the crowd. Everyone around us, as far back as we could see, threw their hands up in celebration, screaming, patting us on the back, sending us thumbs up and holding until the signal was reciprocated. In that moment, I believe their energy could’ve raised the dead. We had disrupted their show with what could’ve been easily perceived as an overdose or at the very least, inexperienced users overdoing it, and instead of dismissing or jeering, they responded with an outpouring of love and community that I still can’t get over to this day.
That was it. I got it.
Phish had “something” no other band had and no other show offered, but the “something” wasn’t one thing; it was everything. As much as it was the band, the music, the production, it was just as much the other side. I’d never been to a show that involved the fans taking such an active participatory role, an almost equal role, in contributing to a show’s creation. It’s of course law that musicians and bands thank their fans throughout a show. With Phish, the act wasn’t even necessary. This was a symbiotic partnership hell-bent on reaching for something higher than just a good showing. Both sides had a job, and the only way to reach peak concert performance was if both sides executed to the best of their abilities. The only way everyone left the stadium satisfied that night was if performance and gratitude levels matched start to finish. A gathering of friends, not one of them willing to let down the other.
Lilly and I were grabbed by security guards and assisted out of the fray. Once we reached an open area, the guard holding my arm stopped and directed me to face him.
“What happened?” he asked sternly. We were eye level and uncomfortably close. I assumed he had already made his own conclusions as to what happened, and this wouldn’t be a friendly conversation. Until then, I hadn’t realized how hard my hands were trembling. I shook them a few times, took a breath, and started stammering through my story.
“And then once she got to the fence, her legs gave out, she fell on top of me, and I think she had a seizure.”
“What did you give her?”
“Nothing, promise. We haven’t taken anything.” I could see Lilly talking to two guards.
“Hey, tell me what you gave her.”
“I didn’t give her anything.”
“Sit down,” he instructed, then walked over to Lilly and his two colleagues. Their positions semi-obstructed my view of Lilly, so I couldn’t get a read on the tone of their conversation and the likelihood of my arrest. Fortunately, the three guards walked away a few seconds later, leaving Lilly, diminished but smiling through it all. She walked over and sat down next to me.
“That’s happened to me before,” she said.
“What? The seizure?”
“No, I’ve fainted before. I could feel it coming.”
We held each other, silent except for the intermittent, “I love you” and “are you OK?”
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, getting to my feet.
I bent down and placed my hands under hers, and gently pulled her up. We walked slowly, matching our steps. It was only after we walked through the GA field entrance area that I heard the opening piano of “Loving Cup,” one of Lilly’s favorite songs from her favorite band, being played by her new favorite band. On a night that felt bottomless until we crashed, only to be saved and raised by a swarm of pie-eyed angels, Trey and the gang gave us a fitting send-off, a song for the wary and beat, but not beaten souls.
When we got home, Lilly walked into the first-floor bathroom. I heard water running from the faucet as I ran downstairs to change clothes. When I walked in, she was lying naked in the tub with arms folded over her stomach, legs bent at the knee and feet on the floor. She’d been crying.
I knelt down, resting my knees on the tile.
“Feeling better?”
“I think something’s wrong with me,” she said.
“Why do you think that? Are you in pain?”
She shook her head.
“That was fucking scary, but we're OK now,” I said.
“I don’t think I can pee.”
“I need you to tell me if I’m peeing,” she said. “It feels like I am, but I don’t know if I am.”
I shifted to my left and tilted my head down close to the tub’s edge where I could see under her left knee. A yellow stream appeared.
“You’re peeing!” I screamed. “We’re OK!”
“Does it look right?”
“Yes, it looks like right as pee could be.”
“I don’t feel right. I’ve fainted before, but this is different. Something’s wrong with my head.”
“Listen, we took big doses on empty stomachs, barely drank any water and danced off like ten thousand calories in the process. I don’t think it’s that crazy that you fainted.”
“You said I had a seizure.”
“It looked like a seizure, but maybe it wasn’t.”
“What if I have a brain tumor? I think we should go to the hospital.”
“You don’t have a brain tumor.”
“But I had a seizure. I’ve never had a seizure.”
“I mean, I think it was a seizure.”
“What do you mean, you think?!”
“I don’t know! It looked like a seizure, but I don’t know if it was a seizure!”
We called one of our friends, a doctor, and explained what happened.
“I mean, if you had a seizure, you should probably go to the hospital.”
So, it was settled. Before leaving, I ran our puppy out. I took a longer route around the neighborhood. I needed it. The night had been one, long extended episode of blunt force wonderful trauma. Except, I was still completely shell-shocked, I couldn’t really even begin to process the night, so I just kind of stumbled around giggling while my pup sniffed around.
I opened our apartment door to find Lilly sitting on the couch in her robe, eyes still heavy with tears, on the phone with someone. She pulled the phone from her ear and hit the speaker button.
“Wait, he just walked in. Evan, tell my Dad what happened.”
Lilly’s Dad, who I hadn’t met in person, who went to Yale when he was 15, where along with acing his coursework, swam on the school’s swim team and nearly qualified as an alternative on the ’64 Olympic team. Lilly’s Dad, the certified genius and human calculator, who chose Stanford for medical school before becoming a heart surgeon and later, an author. Lilly wanted me…to explain…to him…what happened.
Blitzkrieg alarm bells rang in my head, my brain firing signals to my legs to jump through the window, but it was too late. I could only watch in wide-eyed horror as Lilly extended the phone toward me, the phone carrying the voice of the man whose daughter I was supposed to support and protect and not, specifically not, allow drug-induced seizures to happen to.
“Uhh, hi, hello, Joe –“
“Yeah, hi, Evan,” he said, politely, if not unimpressed.
“Hi, so we were at the concert, and Lilly’s stomach hurt, and we tried to exit the crowd, but then she passed out, and we fell down, and her jaw locked up, and her body turned stiff, and so it looked like a seizure, and that’s what happened.”
“How long was she out for?”
“Not long. Maybe five seconds.”
“Lilly,” he said flatly.
“Yeah?” Lilly responded.
“Did you break out in sweat right away?”
“And you felt fine right after, right?”
“You had a vasovagal response.”
I said nothing, praying he wouldn’t test my understanding of vasovagal responses.
“Yeah. You’ve had those before.”
“Yeah, I know,” Lilly said, receding into the couch.
“Lilly, what are you doing taking mushrooms? Your sister’s the druggie, you’re not the druggie! You have a puppy.”
There were a million things I wanted to say, mostly pleas to forget this interaction, to resist the temptation to write me off forever, to forgive me for strangling his daughter once we got off the phone. Lilly ended the call quickly, thanking him for calming her down as I did the same in the background. We stared at each other in silence. She apologized. I was too exhausted to be upset, thinking an aneurysm in my sleep would be easier. We went downstairs, climbed in bed, and drifted off to sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, Lilly was already up and on her phone.
“Good morning.”
“Hey,” she said, smiling sheepishly.
I yawned and stretched before sitting up on my elbow.
“What are you doin?” I nodded toward her phone. “Jen ever ask what happened to us last night?
“I’m looking for tickets for tonight.”
“You're kidding.”
She turned her screen so I could see.
“Look, floors!”
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This Week At Bungie 4/30/2020

Source: https://www.bungie.net/en/News/Article/48993
This week at Bungie, Titan domination continues.
Guardian Games continues into its second week and, after a good showing by Hunters on Day 1, it’s been all Titans all day every day. The book readers haven’t scored a win yet, but are optimistic they can rally.
After Day 1, we saw a lot of players asking about score weighting since the results seemed to play out like the population of classes predicted. Since Titans have been relentlessly destroying the other classes, we have seen players asking if there may be some other issue going on. As a Hunter, I too am in disbelief as I watch our flag try to bury itself into the ground. We’ve been double checking behind the scenes and digging into the data to get a better picture of what’s going on. Here is Senior Designer Peter Sarrett to share some of our findings.
Peter Sarrett: When we first started planning Guardian Games, we knew there were more Hunters than other classes in the population and we’d have to do something to account for that so that the competition would be fair. “Fair” can mean different things. Our goal was that each class should have an equal chance to win regardless of its size, and that participating in the event should never hurt your team.
That last part is important, because it ruled out the simplest approach of basing results on the average contribution per class. While this would effectively normalize the classes based on how many people participate, it would also create a situation where participating at anything but a maximal level could actually HARM your team by bringing its average down. Dipping your toe into the event by depositing a single bronze medal per day would be worse for your team than just staying home.
So instead of normalizing based on participating players, we decided to normalize based on the pool of potential players. For each class, we counted every character who played at least one activity over the 30 days prior to the event and then divided that result by the total across all three classes. The result is the scaling factor that we apply to each medal deposited. This method means that medals from Warlocks and Titans count more, counteracting Hunters’ population advantage, and ensures that even a minimal level of participation helps your team. The more members of your class that show up to play, the better your class will do. It also means we don’t have to worry about players creating tons of dummy alt accounts once the event begins to try to tank a team’s chances.
On Day 1 of the event, Hunters won not simply because there are more of them, but because a greater percentage of them showed up and contributed. On Day 2 Titans arrived and began outperforming the Hunters. Warlocks are, no doubt, considering all the angles and planning for the right moment to strike.
This graph shows how many of each class actually participated, relative to how many characters each class had active during the prior 30 days of the event beginning. You can see the tight correlation between more bodies in the game and the outcome of the competition:
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But that’s not the whole story. Titans haven’t just been overwhelming the competition with a flood of muscle mass. They’ve also been out-depositing the other classes on an individual basis. On average, each Titan has contributed more medals to their cause than each Hunter or Warlock. This was even true on Day 1 but, on that day, there were enough Hunters participating that they made up in bodies what they lacked in output.
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So we can see that Titans are outperforming on two fronts: a higher percentage of their ranks are showing up to participate, and when they do, each of them is depositing more medals than their competitors. If Hunters or Warlocks up their game and get more of their compatriots to pitch in, there’s still time to steal the momentum.
We’ve seen the reports of shenanigans with players finding glitches to turn in more medals, or even be dedicated enough to delete characters to be able to put in extra medals for their team. We dug into the data to see if this was something to be concerned about and found neither case was having any impact on the results.
It’s also worth mentioning how the flags in the Tower work. At the start of the day, all the teams are even and so the flags begin at the midpoint of their poles. This represents equilibrium, where all teams have an even 33.33 percent of all accumulated points for the day. As medals get deposited and teams move away from equilibrium, the flags adjust. We expected that teams would stay fairly close to each other, and that all the action would occur in a narrow band around the equilibrium point. If a team ever pulls 5 percent ahead (with a total of 38.33 percent or more of all points), their flag will hit the top of their pole. Likewise, a team dropping 5 percent behind (at 28.33 percent or less) will hit the bottom of their pole. If a team goes beyond these values, their flag will just stay pegged at the top or bottom until the values come back into that +/- 5 percent window.
We don’t plan on making any changes that will affect the results in any way. Our goal has always been to create a competition that is decided by how much each class engages with the event, and not which class has the largest roster. Titans are currently engaging the most, but we will see if they keep it up.

Evolving Seasons

Last week, we touched on upcoming Trials of Osiris changes and how we are tackling cheating issues in Destiny 2. This week we want to talk about our Seasonal model and some improvements we are working on to make it better. Here is one of our Creative Directors Evan Nikolich to share details on what to expect.
Evan Nikolich: Hey everyone,
We’ve collected lots of great feedback over the last several months about our Seasonal model. Luke outlined some of our thinking back in February, and today we want to look at how that vision is guiding action in Destiny 2, Year 4.

The Story Continues

We have been making progress carrying the overarching narrative Season over Season in Destiny 2. Saint-14 and Osiris led to the Warmind which leads to… [REDACTED]
It’s not perfect yet. The bridges between Seasons can definitely be improved, and we could do a better job of recognizing prior Seasons’ narrative threads in the active Season.
In Year 4, we are going to build a better interconnected narrative and, more importantly, let players be a part of that narrative no matter when they enter the current year. This means if you start playing in March 2021, you could go back and experience the Season 12 and Season 13 narrative content. We want our stories to feel more cohesive, flow with meaningful momentum Season over Season, and lead to an exciting climax each year.
That said, for a narrative to have weight, there needs to not only be meaningful change but also a meaningful way to experience the history of the world.
We haven’t preserved enough history for a player who comes in mid-year to have any concept of what came in that year’s prior Seasons. As a result, players can feel left behind later in the year and unable to experience the stories or to acquire prior Seasons’ weapons and gear. The Forsaken Season Pass allowed its content to build up over the course of the year, and that’s where we’re heading in Year 4.

Activities will last the entire year

Beginning in Season 12, the core parts of the activity experience will live on after the Season has ended. For late players joining in future Seasons, we want to give you the opportunity jump straight into the heart of the older activity experiences without all of the previous Season-specific requirements. We want to remove any competing and distracting elements with the new active Season, which has its own ritual progression, but the actual activity experience stays.
Let me give an example of how this might work in the future using Season of Dawn to illustrate. With our new approach, when Season of Dawn concluded we would have left behind the “Saving Saint-14” quest, the Exotic quests to acquire Devil’s Ruin and Bastion, and the Sundial activity. We would sunset the Obelisks experience to reduce clutter in the quest log and to keep bounty quantity from inflating across the game, and deprecate the Fractaline currency so it could be safely removed from the player’s inventory. The Obelisks were time intensive and we do not want to overload a player’s choices in engaging in the current Seasonal ritual versus the past Seasonal ritual. This is our current plan for Year 4 but, like everything else, these plans and exactly how content persists will change and evolve as we work.
Destiny 2 will still have moments woven into the overall universe narrative where we remove old content and allow for new content and stories to grow in its place. As we’ve said in the past, we cannot continue to grow the Destiny universe infinitely. There’s lots of reasons for this – technical, resourcing, as well as from an overarching universe design standpoint. Finding the balance of creating and maintaining content in our ongoing narrative is a necessary part of continuing to build on Destiny 2.

Rewards Remain

With the Seasonal activities persisting, a player will need a good reason to go play them. The reason is in the rewards and we are planning on carrying a Season’s rewards forward throughout the year. In today’s Destiny 2, history is expressed by the things you have collected. We want players to be part of that chase no matter when they enter the year and to reduce the pressure to collect everything during a single Season. In the short term to acknowledge this step forward we are taking, we are adding some selected weapons from Seasons 8, 9, and 10 to an engram that will drop during Season 11.
Long term, we want to make sure that the rewards we release each Season are available to players throughout the year. Continuing with our Season of Dawn example, the rewards that came out of Sundial would continue to drop from Sundial. How the drops will occur will change (as, narratively, Osiris has left and we have removed the Obelisks), but weapons and gear would still be present. This is the obvious solution, but it suffers from a design perspective in creating a narrow pursuit focus. Having the rewards in just one location oversimplifies the pursuit game and has the same effect of limiting the ways you can play Destiny.
Our focus is to broaden and provide multiple ways for you to earn past Seasons’ rewards. In addition to the rewards coming from the Seasonal activity, we are thinking of having the Seasonal rewards be available to earn in the core modes of play as well (Strikes, Crucible, and Gambit). If you’re getting tired of playing Sundial, you’ll have the opportunity to jump into Crucible or Strikes and pick up a couple of the Season of Dawn weapons we’ve handpicked. As the Seasons roll on, the rewards will continue to get added to these core activities and, as a player, you can tackle the pursuits at your own pace in your preferred mode of play and feel the world growing in terms of rewards.
To summarize, we’re going to move toward Seasons that can be experienced all year. The Destiny experience should grow each year after an expansion, have a meaningful evolving world, and a bunch of reasons to play. And then each year, we should take a step forward into a new expansion.
We’ve done this better in the past and we’re going to mine from that going forward to make our future Seasons that much more compelling. There will be much, much more Year-4 talk in the coming months.

Bounty Hunters

Last week, we also told you we would address the growing concerns with the role bounties play in the game and what our plans are to make changes. Here is Design Lead Tyson Green to tell you more.
Tyson Green: Bounties have come to be a central mechanic for any repeatable activity content in Destiny, so much so that we've seen them move towards being mandatory chores rather than opportunities to optimize. We have some changes coming to help bring things back into balance.

Shifting Away From Weekly FOMO

XP and Season Rank gains are currently balanced around large contributions from Weekly Bounties. The intent here was to provide a large amount of progress for a small amount of focused play every week, but Weeklies fall down here because you lose out on big chunks of progress if you miss a week, and they are strained between too little progress for single-character players and too much repetitive work for triple-character players.
While the specifics are still under development, as early as Season 12 we want to make this better by replacing Weekly Bounties with a mechanism that provides players with a set of non-expiring and account-scoped objectives each week that grant lots of Season Rank progress (more than the Weeklies they replace). That way the return on effort is better, more consistent between players.

Optional XP Optimization, Not Critical Path

Bounties have found their way into the critical path of some Seasonal pursuits, becoming primary sources for Seasonal progress. Starting in Season 12, we plan to steer away from this model in general. Bounties should focus on being an optional way to optimize for more or faster core progressions, like XP or Powerful gear by way of Challenges.
When it comes to optimization, we recognize that there is a very blurry line between "optional" and "mandatory", and there's no perfect balance that works for everyone. But we think the balance is tilted too far towards feeling like you need to do bounties to unlock Seasonal content, so we're going to take this step to tilting back.

Event Bounties

Our Seasonal free events are also currently heavily utilizing bounties in their design. We have seen the feedback around Guardian Games being the most recent source of frustration, with too much emphasis on completing bounties to participate in the event. We don’t plan on making any changes to the current event as it’s ending in a few weeks, but are already looking at plans to adjust the role bounties will play in future events.

QOL Improvements

We don't like that every play session starts with 10-15 minutes of loading up on bounties. We want to make it easier to grab bounties when you want to do them. To that end, we are looking at mechanisms like allowing bounties to be accessed directly from the Destination Map. These are a bit further out (think Season 13), but are on our roadmap.
We also don't like it when a bounty you’ve nearly completed in the middle of the previous day's play session expires right in the middle of today's session. While we still see expiration as a necessary mechanism to keep half-completed bounties from hanging around forever, we're going to relax some of the expiration times in Season 11 to give more time to close out yesterday's “19 out of 20 grenade kills.”
Speaking of grenade kills, in general we're dialing in the time to complete bounty objectives to be more consistent. Unexpectedly time consuming objectives sneak in from time to time, and we generally want objectives in upcoming Seasons to be a bit less restrictive in terms of how you play.

Guardians to The Rescue

The Bungie Foundation is our way of making the world a better place. We feel very fortunate to be making games that bring people together. It’s also rewarding to share some of our good fortune with people who need it. Right now, the world needs all the goodwill it can muster, so our community has been invited to share in that mission.

Guardian’s Heart

We’re still raising money to benefit frontline healthcare workers who are putting their personal safety on the line to confront COVID-19. Just a few weeks into this month-long initiative, we’re knocking on the door of our goal. We are so grateful for your support. Thanks to our partners at Direct Relief, these donations will find their way into the hands of heroes all around the world. The parade of Bungie Bounties will continue to raise awareness for how this community is doing more than staying home and waiting for this whole thing to blow over. Here is who you can expect to hunt in the coming week:

Kilts for Kids

It’s time to don our tartans and raise money to bring families back together in their time of need. Bungie Foundation Manager Christine Edwards has the details on how you can help:
Christine Edwards: Social distancing won’t keep us from upholding our annual tradition of supporting Seattle Ronald McDonald House! This year, we present Kilts for Kids: Stay at Home Edition. We bring you our usual suspects – Mark, Forrest, and Yours Truly – as we highlight how we are passing time and keeping sane at home these days.
While we all do our part to keep each other and ourselves safe, children and their families continue to battle with illness. Now more than ever, RMHC families need our help as they are even more isolated and face greater economic hardships. Help us achieve our $77k goal and cast your vote for Team Bungie by donating $10 or more. Every $30 donated will pay for a family to stay at the House for one night. Head to the RMHC Donation Page to cast your votes by Friday, May 15 at 5 p.m. PDT!
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Need a sweeter incentive? Check out these backer rewards* for donating to Kilts for Kids!
  • $50 and over – Receive one Plaid Pride Destiny 2 Emblem per valid e-mail address.
    • Donations over $50 are welcome but will not grant more emblems
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  • $100 – The prize above, plus receive a postcard, signed by our K4K team and mailed to you.
  • $250 – All prizes above, plus receive a digital print of exclusive art made by Mark Flieg.
  • $500 – All prizes above, plus receive a physical print of Mark’s exclusive art.
  • $1000 – All prizes above, plus participate in a virtual “Date with Destiny”**
    • Spend time with Bungie employees via virtual call to chat about all things Destiny, followed by a Destiny play session with you and your fireteam.
*Rewards will not be automatically redeemed, as we must receive donor data from RMHC before reward distribution. An email will be sent to donors at each prize tour at the end of the event, no later than Friday, May 22, with instructions on redeeming each prize.
**No secrets will be revealed. Bungie employees may not be able to answer every question you have.


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The DPS team is hard at work staffing our help forums and making sure known issues are known.
This is their report.


When Season of the Worthy ends at the weekly reset on June 9, 2020, there will be a number of items, activities, and triumphs that will no longer be available to players. A full list of items being removed at the Season’s end can be found here.
Please note that this list is subject to change as more items are added towards the end of the Season.


Destiny Player Support is continuing to investigate increases in connection-based error codes such as ANTEATER, BEAVER, and RABBIT.
The team has prioritized investigations into WATERCRESS and NEWT errors. As we are still trying to understand the root cause of this issue, a more detailed updated will be given in next week’s Player Support Report after more investigations have occurred.


Below is a list of issues that have been resolved with Hotfix on April 29:
  • The Level 32 PDS upgrade can now be used to clear the Bunker by any character.
  • Rasputin’s Daily Seraph Weapon can now be claimed on any character.
  • The Grasp of the Warmind mod no longer allows for infinite ability energy.


While we continue investigating various known issues, here is a list of the latest issues that were reported to us in our #Help Forum:
  • Players are having difficulty completing the Hunter Chain Reaction Guardian Games daily bounty. Nightstalker Hunters using the Way of the Pathfinder must defeat groups of at least five tethered enemies twice. This count will reset when the Shadowshot Super is activated, so if a player is wearing Moebius Quiver it will reset their count every time they fire Shadowshot.
  • Players who are unable to pick up the Show Your Laurels Exotic Ghost quest from Eva Levante can still gain progress towards quest – once progress is complete, Eva will offer the player the Exotic Ghost of their choice.
  • Localization changes regarding the Hard Light Exotic Auto Rifle adjustments will not be available until a later date. Rounds fired from this weapon have reduced damage falloff instead of no damage falloff.
For a full list of emergent issues in Destiny 2, players can review our Known Issues article. Players who observe other issues should report them to our #Help forum.

Epic Chase Scene

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Now let’s dim the lights and fire up the reels. It’s movie time.
Every week we pick our favorite community-created videos and share them here for the community to gaze upon. The creators also get to take home a special emblem for their effort. Here are this week’s winners.
Movie of the Week: Community Speculation
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Honorable Mention: Odyssey 3
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If you see yourself in one of these videos, please make sure you have your bungie.net profile linked somewhere in the description so we can send out your emblem.
We hope we were able to give you a better understanding of Guardian Games and our plans for improving Seasons and bounties in the future. Next week, we plan to talk about Eververse feedback and some changes we’ll be making to the store in future Seasons.
<3 Cozmo
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