Cal Slayton (calslayton.blogspot.com) :
Not only did we get to see them in concert again when they went on the Licensed To Ill tour, we actually got to meet them. My friends Scott, Philip and I drove over from Forrest City, AR to Memphis early because (and I kid you not) we heard about this store that sold all this cool Adidas gear. But to our disappointment, the joint was closed because it was Sunday. So, picture if you will … three dejected teens driving down Elvis Presley boulevard, we glance over at the gates of Graceland and see a group of about ten people. The three in the middle are the Beastie Boys.
Never has a u-turn been executed so quickly with three guys yelling at the top of their lungs. We parked the car and ran over to Elvis' tacky former home. A photographer was taking shots of the Beasties posing in front of the gates. A handler asked us to stay back. One guy came up to us saying he was a reporter from Rolling Stone magazine, he asked us where we were from and even asked me my name because I was wearing a shirt I had gotten made (And again, I kid you not) that said "Most Illinest B-Boy".
Once the photo shoot of was over, Adam and Adam sprinted across traffic to the burger place on the other side, leaving Mike D laughing. We asked him to pose for a quick photo with us, he happily obliged. Once Ad Rock and MCA got back, we got photos when them too. They were really cool. It was just the kind of interaction you'd hope you'd have.
Back in the car and we calmed down, we all came to the conclusion that that guy was not a reporter, but just a handler that kept people away. But we didn't care, we were on cloud 11 heading to the show that night. There were a ton of people from our high school at the show and no one believed us when we told them what happen. But I couldn't blame them. We were jokesters and it was a pretty cool story. To top the day off, we got down to the front row against the stage. Then Ad Rock looked down at us at one point, we all pointed to my shirt and he pointed back with a smile and a look of recognition. You couldn't tell us nothing.
Weeks later I was at a friend's house when my mom called. I thought something bad had happened because she'd never called there before. She said, "What did you do to Rolling Stone magazine?". I was dumbfounded. The reporter was real. A fact checker called to confirm who I was and where I lived. And I got a blurb in Rolling freaking Stone.