2000
FIRST AND LAST EXPERIENCE AT A "DEAD-HEAD" CONCERT
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A few years ago some friends of mine decided to take me to a dead-head concert.
I had never been to one and knew little about the Grateful Dead.  They bought
a ticket for me so how could I refuse?  I asked them what songs the Dead wrote
that made it to top-40, but the ones they mentioned were unfamiliar to me.  I
drove my car to Park West, Utah were I met the others.

After arriving we all walked up to the outdoor concert area.  It was a long
walk, but it was a beautiful day.  Along the way I began to notice people
dressed in strange tie-die shirts wearing beads and sandals and I was reminded
of old Dragnet episodes from the 1960s.  I remarked to my friend how odd they
looked and asked him what kind of concert this way going to be.  He turned to
me and said,

"You're going to meet some of the most fun loving, good-natured people around."

"Oh, marvelous." I thought sarcastically.  But, I tried to forget this and
concentrate on having a good time.  I was, after all, basically a conservative
professional-type and my friends were trying to do me a favor by getting me out
of the house and I appreciated their generosity.

Further along the walk we came across a dilapidated yellow-school bus and
several oxidized VW-vans with pandemonium painted on the sides.  In front of
these were people, who can only be described as freaks, selling buttons,
bumper-stickers, a miscellaneous assortment of dead-head memorabilia which
primary constituent was junk, and tuna-fish sandwiches that were slowly
corroding in the hot sun.  My friend revealed to me that these poor,
unfortunate souls that I termed "bus-people" made money to support their
meager, destitute existence by travelling from concert to concert selling these
items.  A girl wearing a stained, multi-color dress that jingled when she
walked asked me if I wanted a sandwich.

"Boy, they're making my stomach growl just looking at them," I said with a
smile, "but I think I'll grab something later on."

We entered the concert area and found a spot to sit.  It was a perfect, cool
but sunny day and I thought it might be enjoyable after all.  As we were
waiting for the concert to begin the crowd keep pouring in.  We were
frequently trampled on by people trying to get above us; clothed in the
familiar cacophonous colored garb and having extremely long, greasy, unkempt
hair, filthy hands that felt gritty and left hand-prints as they used your
shoulder for balance, and feet so dirty they were the color of ebony.  Many of
them carried the dismal tuna-fish sandwiches and most had the 1,000-yard stare
of vacant contentment one would see at religious revival gatherings.  The odor
of marijuana permeated the area and joints were often passed down long lines of
people.

The music finally began after what seemed to be hours of waiting.  The songs
were somewhat repetitious and long, but at first not unpleasant.  During one
tune, a man wearing soiled, bright-purple leotards, a flame-red cape, black-
boots, a lone-ranger mask and a tattered shirt began dancing around us.  He was
one of the bus-people obviously loaded on a hallucinogenic and his person, long
overdue for a bath, exuded a putrid miasma.  After the completion of several
convoluted dance routines he stuck out his upraised palm in an attempt to
panhandle money.  A few flipped quarters but I would have given $50 if I could
have bought a bar a soap to toss to him.

I noted a small collection of men wearing what appeared to be women's night
gowns dancing and eating saltine crackers out of a box as fast as they could
manage to stuff them into their mouths.  One of them said something to me
through a crumpled bolus of crackers and saliva but it was unintelligible.
I nodded at him with a smile, which he returned displaying teeth that had
seriously neglected flossing, let alone brushing, for the better whole of his
lamentable life.  These people seemed content, but this was probably due to
being maintained on drugs since no sensible person would remain happy living in
such squalor without depersonalizing themself through the aid of a chemical.

As the songs progressed I began to get tired of the seemingly endless length
of them.  Themes were reiterated again and again to the point of fatigue.
It was becomming difficult to distinguish one song from another and I
frequently found myself longing for the short blessings of relief that came
inbetween.  Soon I was concentrating on everything but the music; the time,
the sky, my back-ache, the bus-people, and the wonderful idea to exit early -
but I remained so as not to insult my friends because they had so much wanted
me to have a good time (a decision I would come to utterly regret later).

Then a very frightening thing happened.  One of the group of us had a cup of
punch and offered me a drink and I drank some.  Half an hour later I began
to feel strange and a slight euphoria was present.  I then realized that the
punch probably contained LSD-25 and I was instantly filled with rage to think
someone would be so crude as to "dose" someone else without their knowledge.
A small argument ensued and I was accused of being naive about punch at
dead-head concerts.  I asked how long I could expect this to last and was told
12-hours.  I had never taken a hallucinogenic but I knew enough to know that
a person having a bad time would have A REALLY BAD time if they imbibed it.
This only compounded this unendurable situation.  I never have and never will
forgive the person who so irresponsibly gave me the drug.

The remainder of the concert was strange and at times scary.  I spent a lot of
time looking at clouds and what seemed to be hours examining the grain and
texture of a grass blade.  The bus-people's idiosyncracies that disgusted me
before now seemed to be magnified several-fold and nearly horrified me.  Their
multi-colored atire now seemed to smear about during their gyrations and my
stomach was infected with sickness that intensified when I looked at them.  I
wanted to leave.  Now!  Immediately!  I couldn't stand it any longer.  I would
have given anything if a helicopter would have landed and armed guards would
have escorted me out of that deplorable place.

Finally the concert finished and I rose, clapped and cheered because of the
warm feeling I had that it was over.  I said rapid goodbyes and hurried to my
car.  I was not unable to drive as I must have had only a low dose.
Unfortunately, the line of traffic was enormous and I was stuck near the end of
a row so my car sat idling for a long time.  While I waited, a group of dirt-
bags were sitting on a truck and looking at my car.  I could hear them
ridiculing me for some reason.  Finally, a girl came up to my car window,
looked me straight in the eyes with a glare of anger and said with sarcasm,

"What kind of man would bring a Porsche to a dead-head concert?"

I spoke to her with a smile and tried to calm her down, but it was to no avail.
She began to utter obscenities and I rolled up the window.  This antagonized
her and the clique of idiots she was with.  Several sat on the front of my car
and a few hopped on the rear bumper.  They rocked the car back and forth while
spewing out a stream of insults.  One imbecile standing on the side of my car
threw a large cup of coke which burst down the window and side of the car.  I
sat inside helpless and sickened by this pinnnacle event to a thoroughly rotton
day.

An opening occurred in the line and I drove off.  Had the opening been longer
or wider I would have opened up the 911 and tossed the miserable excuses for
human beings to the asphault.  I was so upset by the event and everything else
that I drove over 110 mph down the canyon to get home.  I washed the car, took
a shower and considered sanitizing my clothing with fire.

As of this day, the words "Dead-Head" bring back visions of those angry,
moronic pieces of human dung jumping on my car, glaring at me with hollow eyes
while screaming filth as 
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dirty as their own offensive, disgusting bodies.
The majority of scum I came in contact that day were an insult to the image
of decent, hard-working people everywhere.  Quite the opposite reaction to the
visions of loving, fun people we hear who attend these concerts.
 
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