Updated July 22, 2016

I Have A Religious Experience And Become Born Again At A Grateful Dead Concert
Location: Providence Civic Center, Providence, RI

Date: 4/27/84
Songs:
Alabama Getaway
Promised Land
Dire Wolf
New Minglewood Blues
Row Jimmy
Me and My Uncle
Big River
Althea
My Brother Esau
Big Railroad Blues
Music Never Stopped

Playin' in the Band
China Doll
High Time
Man Smart/Woman Smarter
drums
The Wheel
Wharf Rat
Around and Around
Johnny B. Goode

Touch of Grey

Prologue

So, most of what could be considered your "religious" beliefs, have their ideological roots in an acid trip that you took at a Grateful Dead concert back in the 80's?

I went through the heaviest soul searching period of my life. I am still spiritual to this day, having slowly formulated an opinion that it wasn't just the acid and the hallucinations; maybe there is a God.

I suppose I have to discount the reality of what happened, the aftermath of which sent me off upon the journey that has led me to this typewriter.

Yeah, I was walking around in the following months and years; convinced that whatever was around the next corner could be to of my making; rather than a random thing; something that I would have to accept and be subject to; not necessarily to my liking...

A short time after that concert, at a distance of somewhere around 18 miles from my parent's house, I was stranded and had embarked upon walking that distance back to where I still lived, 22 years old; a sign of the times.

My car had been impounded by the law for an expired sticker.

I embarked upon what would take me over 3 hours, not worrying at all and not even expecting to even have to walk the whole way.

I was less than a mile into my walk when I rounded a bend in the road, and saw up ahead of me a grey Corvette. It had a flat tire and sat on the right shoulder of the road.

I thought it baffling that the tires of 1985 could have blow-outs with all their steel belts, etc.
I heard the approach of a car.

I stood next to the Corvette and put my thumb out. I felt like I could "own" the 'vette for a few minutes.

A Volkswagon Rabbit hopped to a stop in front of me. Its passenger window opened to reveal a thin, wiry, rapid gum chewing guy in this 30's behind the wheel. He was wearing a button-up golf type shirt, and had a short, neat haircut.

"Flat tire, eh?" he asked, in between chews.

"Yeah," I said. The Corvette on the side of the road does have a flat tire, if that's what you're referring to

 "Well, where are you going?"

"You would think that, in this day and age of steel belted radial tires, flats would be a thing of the past," I said to him from the passenger seat of his Rabbit as we headed for my parents house, where he dropped me off in the driveway.

He was a car dealer himself; sold Volkswagons, as a matter of fact. He had handed me a business card.

He had been on his way to a country club to play golf and to schmooze. Schmoozing is upper class skeezing, by the way.

It was the Corvette, which I had appropriated; commandeered perhaps; and in that way made "mine," for a few minutes; by standing there next to it with my thumb out, that I believe led the guy to think that it might behoove him to give me a ride and make my acquaintance.

It was the Corvette being there in the first place, and the fact that "something" just told me to put my thumb out; and the fact that the guy in the Rabbit was the perfect guy to want to give a Corvette owner a ride; and the fact that the guy was transparent to me; he was the caricature of "the social climber guy," and sure enough, dropped me off right at my doorstep.

It was of his ilk that the concertgoers in the very outer rows were of.

They were the first group that I kind of snubbed; but, first let's go to the concert...
 


Have I ever  been saved? People have asked me that a lot.
They often are ready to save me themselves. Especially if I tell them that yes, I was saved while tripping at a Grateful Dead concert in the 80's.

"You hallucinated it, Spud Man,"- Bruce Fried

There had been times when I was desperately asking God to reveal himself to me. What usually happened was that some new person, some earth human, would come into my life. And maybe each one was stretching me a little more; maybe each one had a little more capacity to love and was teaching me...
Then, there was the ultimate acceptance that no one other person can, by himself, steer you toward God, because you're not him. You will get as many different and conflicting religions as the number of people that you ask: "I'm really seeking God, what should I do?"
And then there are the vipers who will sense weakness in a man who seeks to humble himself.
And then there is Bruce Fried, my first Jewish friend, the first one that I knew was Jewish at least; who said: "I believe this life is all there is; there's nothing else; and when it's done, you're just dead..."
In order the tell the story, I should back up and introduce Mr. Fried; as I wound up telling him off in the parking lot in front of the arena the night before I had the religious experience.

I was at Sylvania Technical School when I met Bruce.
The school was a no nonsense institution that's purpose was to teach people how to be electronics technicians as quickly as possible. No extraneous math or science. No History, no poetry, no penmanship. In 5 months, and at an expense of 5 thousand dollars, an electronics technician would be turned out; ready to start at over $20K at any of the high tech firms dotting Route 128 around Boston.

I was there because I had gotten the idea that I could advance my musical career by getting a good job and acquiring all kinds of fancy equipment ready to be hauled around to gigs and used to make studio recordings. My father was more than willing to give me a life-line to reality so that when I discovered that the life of a musician wasn't as glamorous as I'd hoped; I would be able to settle in to my cubicle and begin putting some of the $20 K away for retirement.

Bruce Fried was about the oldest student at Sylvania, at 26 years of age; he was about the age of our instructor. He was there because he had coldly calculated that such a certificate in computer hardware repair would serve his interests and advance his cause. He was older and more worldly. I was too naive at that time to notice.

Bruce Fried recruited me into the fold of deadheads, or followers of the Grateful Dead.

I made no secret of the fact that I was only seeking a certificate in computer hardware repair so that I would be able to afford musical equipment, and that music is what I preferred to do.

Bruce, whom I would later call a "user," as in: of people; approached me one morning before class had started. I had some kind of sheet music that I was poring over and he commented upon it; asked me if I had ever heard Jerry Garcia play; to which I think I answered; "Yeah, 'Truckin'" and 'Casey Jones.'"

Well, there was an inroad.


The only things which that meant to me was that; when you walked into his house, there were framed pictures, hanging on the walls -one of him, and one of whom I assume is his older brother both sporting yarmulkes in the photos.
The house was located in a high priced neighborhood, near the ocean, but that was lost upon me.
"The object was there all along, Spud man, you hallucinated that it wasnt' there and then hallucinated again that it was"

I came to believe in magic.
I was motivated to do so
I was highly motivated.
I needed to escape my own flesh.
as the man being led to the gallows finds a well of peace inside of himself...in the present moment.




Introduction

People have often asked me if I have ever been "saved," or been "born
again," or if I have "accepted Jesus."
"You hallucinated it, Spud Man."
-B. Fried They are the very types of people who would tell me that my
salvation was not valid because I hadn't been immersed in a tub of water. There are
other spirits out there, demons, and they will use illusion to
lead your soul astray.
There are cults out there; in fact every "religion" other than theirs qualifies as one.
 A sensory experience
I had a religious experience at a Grateful Dead concert while tripping on acid.
A good hallucination is, by definition; inscrutable from reality. If, after you
come down off the hallucinogen; something that you had been "conjured
the imagination" still exists; then that introduces a new element; kind
of. "The object was there all along, Spud man, you hallucinated that it
wasn't there and then hallucinated again that it /was"/ I came to
believe in magic. I was motivated to do so I was highly motivated. I
needed to escape my own flesh. as the man being led to the gallows finds
a well of peace inside of himself...in the present moment. Introduction
It is April 26th, 1984, the night before the religious experience.
concert. That experience would change me in ways that are still
manifest to this day.  I would start to tell people that I had become
"born again," my old personality destroyed,  my infirmities healed
instantly like sugar melting in warm water;  and the sense of liberation
It is April 26th, 1984, the night before the religious experience. concert.
I'm walking around a big parking lot across from the Worcester Centrum. The parking lot is full of deadhead types, many of whom have on display art and crafts...a picture of Jerry Garcia rendered in macaroni comes to mind....
The experience would change me in ways that are still manifest to this day. 
I would start to tell people that I had become "born again," my old personality destroyed,  my infirmities healed instantly like sugar melting in warm water;  and the sense of liberation ...

and the ability to sense a tiny voice and follow its guidance, no matter how out of step with "the world" my actions would seem, upon analysis. 
I would have the blessing of being able to stop thinking; during meditation and at other times when it was prudent.
Would also come the sudden (and surprising, at the instant) realization that this "life," this "normal waking consciousness," which I had always accepted as being "reality", is no more substantial than a dream; and like in dreams; things can change in a heartbeat and anything is possible.
The next night, all of the above would take place.
The noteworthy events of this "night before," however, would be the distancing of myself from (the blowing off of)  Bruce Fried, also known as "Doc," after calling him a "user," and my encounter with the girl with the red roses who was telling everyone about Jesus. I guess every good story needs to have some "foreshadowing."
But, to shed a bit of light and provide some background information, let me go back to my birth...

Man VS. Eczema
I have had intolerance of certain foods since birth.
I still have to monitor my intake of them to this day, lest I begin to look and feel sickly. This condition started to manifest itself at an early age, through what the doctors would call "chronic" symptoms.
With dairy products and hydrogenated soybean oil being the main "culprits," and being ubiquitous to menus everywhere, I was in the position of having to build up tolerances to the offending items, because, like most of my contemporaries, I was being inundated with them as soon as I drew my first breath.
"Baby formula," which was on my menu, due to having been adopted as an infant, by two very nice, though non-lactating parents, is typically composed of soybean oil (hydrogenated), cows milk, and sugar; the three things that I am most allergic to to this day.
It could be argued by the spiritually minded person that I became, that my body and soul were rejecting the substitutes for my biological mother's milk, or worse, that I didn't want to be on this planet at all!
As I became more spiritual-minded,
I remember getting out of bed when I was about 7 years old and limping down the stairs to complain about a pain in my right leg, which was deemed to be a "cramp" and attributed to "growing pains."
I developed what the doctors termed "eczema," and more specifically, "hand eczema,"  which caused my fingers to itch such that I would interlock them and grind them together as hard as I could, trying vainly to satisfy the itch, until, ultimately the skin broke, releasing blood and lymph. I remember sitting upon my hands when I was in the third grade and grinding my fingers against the courderoy seat of my pants, which produced a perverse pleasure, mingled with consternation over why I itched like that. The skin of my fingers became thick and rubbery, and I thought of it as "elephant skin," in my 7 year old mind.
The dermatologist diagnosed me with (the very unimaginative in my opinion) "hand eczema." I remember thinking that, for what he was being paid, he could have at least come up with "metacarpal dermatitis" or something that at least made him sound like he went to college.
I didn't know then, as I suspect I do today, that I was having problems breaking down the fats in the milk, and the partially hydrogenated soybean oil, both of which I was getting "plenty" of  -both at home and in the school cafeteria.
The Dermatologist, beside giving me that new term: "hand eczema," gave me hydro-cortisone creams to be applied to the effected areas, sometimes a cortisone shot, to counter the histamine which the body was producing (as a natural reaction and probably for some good reason).
During my every visit to him, he would reiterate the advice for me to not take showers that were hot, only lukewarm, and to pat myself dry, not to rub myself dry. Ninety bucks an hour, for that?!?, I again remember thinking. Respect down another notch....
After the cortisone was in my bloodstream, neutralizing the histamine or whatever it was doing, I would continue to eat the same foods, only, I would have a chill running through me as I did.
There was very bad dandruff around my 13th year when, I could remember shaking my head and watching as it fell like snow, especially during the winter months when we New Englanders were indoors and in dried out air most of the time.
The eczema got worse, and by the time I was a freshman in high school, my Dermatologist had me taking a pill called Atarax, which was supposed to stop me from itching, but which, I was warned, would make me "drowsy." Whether or not the pills made me "drowsy," I will leave to you, dear reader, but I will proffer the information that my nickname, at the Catholic school, which I attended was: "spaceman."
Spaceman's eczema worsened.
It reached the point where any part of my body might start to itch, but the itch wasn't on the surface, it felt like it was in my veins, or deep in the muscle tissue. It might start in my neck and then move to my face.
The face itching was a terrible thing for a high school kid. Other clear skinned kids could glean that there was something "wrong" with me. When you spend two hours every night, raking at the skin of your face, trying to satiate an itch which is more than skin deep, and which you just can't seem to get at, and trying not to use your fingernails, because your Dermatologist said "Rub, don't scratch," It shows on your face, so to speak.
My face went from raw, freshly scratched red, to pasty (I just ate an allergen and my body is reacting but I'm not itching yet; that will start in 6 to 8 hours) white, to "peeling," the worst, and most repulsive to teen aged girls, of all. Vaseline was only effective for a duration, and only masked the dry skin. It was the skin tone or color which signalled an unhealthiness which was just enough to keep the opposite sex at bay.
I remember one night, standing in front of the bathroom mirror. I had just had a bad attack of eczema, and had scratched my face viciously. Exacerbating that condition was the fact that I was also the victim of acne, and had pimples, some of which I hadn't scratched open, others which hadn't been so lucky.
I got really close to the mirror and envisioned myself at the doorstep of a young lady, being there as her "blind date." I pictured her opening the door and coming face to face with the reflection that I looking at.
I smiled and said "Hi, I'm your date," and, as I smiled a pimple on my cheek popped and oozed white puss.
At that point, I decided to remove myself from contention for the hand of any young lady, anywhere. I felt that I had nothing to offer any young lady, and that none of them should even be put in the awkward position of having to politely (it was a Catholic school) reject me. It seemed a shame to me, because I was a huge admirer of many of the girls at school. I just couldn't ask them to try to overlook such bad skin and accept me.
My conflict in life had been simplified to Man VS. Eczema.
I started to involve myself in activities intending to substitute for a lack of natural beauty, by making myself "valuable in other ways. I subsequently tried to gain approval and acceptance through activities like becoming a bookie, being a comedian and cracking jokes all the time, running track, participating in school shows, getting a job so I would have money; and; I took up playing the guitar.
The guitar was going to help me someday elevate myself to a stage, far enough from the audience so that they wouldn't be able to see my peeling skin, and make me famous enough so that a beautiful girl might overlook my peeling skin, or rich enough so that a beautiful girl might overlook my peeling skin, or powerful enough that a beautiful girl might overlook my peeling skin, or I might be able to make such beautiful music that a beautiful girl might not even notice my sickly-looking peeling skin. That was a big part of the reason that I began playing the guitar. There was also one girl in my class in particular who played the guitar herself, whom I adored, and whom I determined I could attract in no other way than by becoming a great guitarist.
It was natural for me to stay home at night and practice, because I wasn't invited to any of the parties which other kids threw. Most of the time I didn't hear about them until the next morning, when I would hear all kinds of "inside" humor being bandied about and would learn that I would have had to have been there (at the party) in order to get the joke.
I played until my fingers bled, something which was made easier to do by the eczema, which weakened my skin.
Breakout Breakthrough
Then, during my Sophomore year, I could add to the nightly scratching, the experiencing of sudden and random "attacks" of nausea, at most inopportune times, and in inopportune places.
I would be sitting in class, for example, and would have to excuse myself and run to the boys room as I felt ready to vomit. Upon entering the boys room, the nausea would subside, and I would return to class, not feeling nauseous at all. I didn't know when and where "the next one" of these baffling episodes would occur.
The attacks started to escalate, coming closer together like contractions to a woman in labor, to the point that I lived in fear of them, the way an epileptic lives in "fear," I imagined.
My Doctor gave me some pills, which he described as "stomach relaxers." I took the first "stomach relaxer" and felt nauseous instantly.
Then, one fine day, I was in the cafeteria. I had gotten my tray. I had walked over to the table that I usually sat at, with the friends that I usually ate with. I picked up my milk carton with a missing child pictured on one side. I was opening the carton when I was seized with the worst attack of nausea to that date. It felt like I had no chance of even making it to the boys room before I would hurl onto the tile floor, which the school janitors had polished just that morning. But, I made it to the boys room; and then felt fine, not sick at all.
I went back to the table and my friends and my tray of food, and tried to pick up where I had left off. Reaching for my milk carton, I felt a sickness, originating in the hand holding the milk carton and making its way, like an involuntary tightening of the muscles, up my forearm, making it feel nauseous, and further up my arm. The feeling was making a turn at one the shoulder, and heading for, I believed, my stomach, when I placed the milk carton down and released my hold upon it. The sick feeling retreated, back the way it had come, and I felt fine. I didn't drink my milk that day (and my bones didn't snap in half as I walked home from the bus stop either).
My mother saw a correlation before I even did.
"Maybe you're allergic to milk. Maybe your body is trying to tell you something"
I cut cow's milk out of my diet. Within two days, a rash which had plagued me, and which seemed to have decided that it would take up permanent residence on the inside of my right wrist, where it would reveal itself as a circle of inflamed skin which would itch sometimes, and be there to disgust people all times.
The effect upon me of this glorious discovery was like being told that I had been mis-diagnosed after originally being told that I had a terminal illness. The eczema felt like a terminal illness
My Dermatologist, when informed of this discovery, shook his head and said "Nonsense, son. You drink all the milk that you want."
Eliminating milk from my diet was not a panacea, for, from that point on, my tolerance for milk became less and less, and an attack of eczema could be provoked by lesser and lesser amounts of the allergen. I would have a bad fit of itching, after eating an apparently "safe" meal, only to determine later that a small pad of butter had been mashed into the potatoes. I began to read the labels on all food products, looking for the word "milk" of "cream" or "dairy," or "butter."
Then, it seemed that I was becoming sensitive to more diverse foods. I didn't know at that time that partially hydrogenated soybean oil was as suspect as milk, and as widely used in food products, which caused some vexation "why can I eat Fruity Pebbles, which is a rice cereal, but not Rice Chex, which is a rice cereal (in soybean oil)"
It also put a strain upon my mom, as she tried to prepare the evening meal, and frustrated my father "What, now you can't eat pancakes?!?"
Through this process of elimination, I arrived at a period in my life when I ate "nothing but oatmeal," for almost a year, and started to feel comfortable in my own body.
I also noticed that, during the three nights that our class was putting on a production in the auditorium, and in which I appeared and sang a comedy song which I had compiled, in my never ending quest to gain acceptance; the disease sort of retreated beneath the threshold of my awareness, and was replaced by the butterflies in the stomach and the adrenaline attendant to performing in public.
My pursuit of acceptance and attention culminated in my being expelled from the Catholic school, after I publishing an underground newspaper, which was a spoof on the school paper, and which incurred the wrath of the principal and even the bishop. It was another in the series of things I did to try to overcome having pasty, sickly skin.
The paper was originally kept "underground," and distributed anonymously, but, the more determined the administration became to root it out (The principal called a special assembly of the student body to address the problem and to demand an end to it), the more popular the paper became. My ego got the better of me. I wanted to take credit for it. I did. It made me more of a "celebrity," and I actually found a girl willing to "go out" with me, notorious publisher that I was.
So, I was At Fitchburg High School, the public school.
I Meet My Guru
Then, I met Dr. Delisle
I was at Fitchburg High School, the public school.
There was a be a guy speaking in the auditorium about nutrition. He was a chiropractor, and a nutritionist, and he bashed the American diet left and right. He had students crying as he portended almost sure death by disease for those who continue to have a can of Coke, little chocolate doughnuts, and a bag of Cheetos for breakfast. (and then eat lunch at the school cafeteria...)
He ended his talk by saying "You'd be better off eating nothing but oatmeal!"
I sat there stunned.
The auditorium emptied out pretty fast there was a lot of head shaking and the work "quack" being throw around and reverberated off the gymnasium walls.
I walked up to Dr. Delisle, Chiropractor, who was alone with his whacky theories and gathering up the last of his notes,  and said. "Hi, I eat nothing but oatmeal."
"Oh, you're the one," he said.
He had come to speak to 300 kids about nutrition. He was a practicioner of some esoteric religion which had gurus and yogis. He had apparently had some kind of vision beforehand, and knew that he was going to meet a kid, whom he would recognise by the fact that the kid eats nothing but oatmeal.
He meditated a lot.
I made an appointment to see him at his office. Instead of asking "Why are you here," when I showed up, he said: "Come on in, let's find out why you are here."
He told me that he once fell out of a tree and just floated to the ground. His wife witnessed it.
He interviewed me, I think to determine how far along I was in my spiritual evolution.
I guess I had a lot of karma still to be worked out.
He gave me instructions to drink an amount of lemon juice in the morning, which would actually make my stomach less acidic (by a holistic process), and to mix lemon juice and olive oil, to be applied to the face, instead of the lotion prescribed by my Dermatologist, and to avoid fried foods. There were a few other instructions, I think I was to drink linseed oil in certain amounts each day, but he ended by telling me "We need to get you off these medications," referring to the Atarax, which I still took, despite the progress that I had made by eating nothing but oatmeal for almost a year. I was afraid that if I stopped taking the Atarax, I might have the mother of all eczema attacks. I guess I had been brainwashed into believing everything a doctor says.
I wasn't ready to stop taking my medication. I was still afraid of my skin being ravaged by eczema.
I remained a spaceman for the much of the two years that passed before I would again see Dr. Delisle. By that time, I had had a religious experience and become born again at a Grateful Dead concert, and I was ready to stop taking medications
There was then a stint in the military.
I was still taking my atarax, a fact that my drill seargeant, who was trained as a medic commented upon as being "interesting." Apparently, another indication for atarax is in the treatment of some psychological impairments.
I found that I could eat just about everything, because of the heightened adrenaline and the high level of physical excersize, but the eczema was always below the surface and my skin was a reddish color, unless pressed with a finger, wherupon it would turn a more white shade where the finger had pressed, before gradually fading back to red.
I had learned to use meditation, along with excersize to help combat the condition. I also continued to study "Religions Of The World"
In 1981, in San Antonio, Texas, 1,300 miles away from my Catholic parents, I went to a "Protestant," mass.
I entered the church, nervous about what I would do if I found myself trapped in a ritual about which I knew nothing. What if they began to perform some kind of ritual, participation in which would go around in a circle, eventually falling upon me to supply the next line of some archaic chant, which I wouldn't know, exposing me as an infiltrator or spy, or non-believer.
Their service was very similar to the Roman Catholic mass, with the most noticeable difference being the jazzy, bluesy style of music which the pianist was rendering, as opposed to the droning organ arrangements over which the Catholics would typically "monotone" out the "song."
This established in my mind that, perhaps the Lord was leading to him using music as an "instrument."
I continued to search for God.

B. Fried (pronounced Be freed)
I met Bruce at Sylvania Technical School, about a year before calling him a user, where we were both studying computer hardware and repair thereof. Bruce had other adgendas, one of which was the recruitment of people to become followers of the Grateful Dead.
Bruce was Jewish, but "deadhead," was about as close as he seemed to come to embracing any religion. "I believe that when you die, that's it; there's nothing after that," he would eventually confide to me, and "Jerry (Garcia) is sort of like a priest, you know," he said another time.
He seemed to intuit that I was an aspiring musician. Unlike the people who approach others and ask them if they have ever been "saved," Bruce approached me and asked me if I had ever heard Jerry Garcia play the guitar. I had only heard the couple of songs which were played on mainstream radio, I told him.
 "Are you able to listen to a song and pick out the chord changes?," he asked me.
I prided myself upon posessing that skill. "Sure!"
"Could you do me a favor and figure out the chords to the first song on this tape?," he asked,  as he handed me a Maxell 90 minute cassette which had its label colored psychedelically, and the location and date of the concert noted inked thereupon.
I took this upon myself as a challenge.
I brought the tape home and played it. It sounded to me, at first, like about 12 musicians. The music was different with each verse, but the basic chords were constant. I was finally able to focus in enough to be able to notate the chords, one of which was a major 9th chord, one of the more "complex" ones.
Little did I know at the time that Bruce had a Grateful Dead Anthology of sheet music at his house. He would take my transcriptions and compare them to the published chords, whereby he ascertained that I was doing my "homework."
In the following days, he continued to give me additional tapes, asking me to "figure out" certain songs. He would include a small bud of some very potent weed along with each cassette, as payment.
I began to look forward to smoking up each evening and picking out the notes of Grateful Dead songs, while I was slowly becoming a "deadhead."
The Grateful Dead became my favorite band, and I was thankful to Bruce for turning me on to the band, and wasn't at all resentful of the artful scheme which he had employed to accomplish this purpose.
This was at least a year before I would call him a "user" in a parking lot before a Grateful Dead show, and walk away, after leaving him with a prophesy, to which he would reply "Whatever, Spudman."

"No man remains quite what he was when he recognizes himself"

Bruce gave me the nickname "Spudman."
The french fries at the school cafeteria were probably not fried in soybean oil. They were "safe" for me to eat, and so I ate them to the exclusion of the rest of the menu, keeping my allergy somewhat in check, and acquiring the nickname "Spudman" from Bruce.
Bruce Fried, (pronounced "Freed") had nicknames for all of his friends; friends like "Seaworm," "Mem," "Stilly," "Tennessee Jed," and, of course his own of "Doc." He was so dubbed, I would later learn, because of his ability to acquire and "prescribe" all kinds of drugs, and for the talent he had of being able to talk people "down" from bad LSD trips.
He called the Plymouth Volare, which had been our family car, and which was given to me so that I could get to and from school, "The Spudnick 1."
There was a guy in our class named Mark, whom everyone thought was the weed dealer. He almost always had available, excellent, potent and sticky buds of pot for sale at a premium price. Little did anyone know that the bud was coming from Bruce, or "Doc," who would sit at his desk, seemingly absorbed in his schoolwork, seemingly oblivious to the profit he was turning as Mark sold bud after bud to the "stoners" of our class (about half of us.)  Nobody knew that Bruce even smoked weed. He was shrewd.
He seemed to turn a profit with everything he did in life.
When I started to accumulate a collection of Grateful Dead recordings, I would drive to his house in Marblehead which, I didn't realise at the time, was one of the most affluent communities in Massachusetts, where we would sit in his room which was totally decorated in Grateful Dead, and listen to the shows while he was putting them on tape for me. While we did so, people would arrive regularly and transact some kind of deal with Bruce, and then leave abruptly.
He told me early on "If you want, Spudman, you can just give me the ($1.79) for each tape and I'll just copy onto the tapes that I've got here. I've got Maxell high bias, they're good tapes...that way you won't have to keep running out and buying tapes." I appreciated the fact that he was saving me trips to Radio Shack for cassettes. He always framed his propositions in ways which extolled the benefit to the person whom he was making a profit off of. I later learned that he ordered his in lots of 600, directly from Maxell,  at a cost to him of about 79 cents each.
I remember just thinking at the time that he was shrewd, and a good businessman. I wouldn't call him a user for almost a year after I'd met him.
The Deadheads
Bruce was a "taper," which is the type of deadhead who calls himself a folk historian and who's aim in life is to create and preserve recordings of live Grateful Dead concerts, spreading the gospel of Jerry Garcia and providing for the edification of future generations.
His bootleg collection was famous. He would follow the band through its entire East coast tour, recording them onto Maxell metal tapes in Dolby stereo, and then trade with people who had done the same at the west, central and mountain tours, thereby allowing him to acquire recordings of each and every show that the dead played that year.
His scope of his collection went "beyond The Dead," too. He traded with other people for all kinds of music, like Bob Dylan, Pink Floyd, Neil Young, and even those artists who had strict policies against the recording their music, and who would prosecute the perpetrators, artists like Bruce Springsteen. Bruce followed a suggestion that I made, after I pondered the challenge of recording such artists.
He created a tape deck out of a wheelchair. In each armrest was a microphone, and the "first aid box" underneath the seat, which had a dummy layer of medical type stuff, contained his Sony D-5 tape deck. One of his friends who had a nickname would wheel him into the arena, where they would be directed by one of the ushers to a special "handicapped" section, a reserved section, without seats, which sat on a balcony almost overlooking the stage. From there, he would make his excellent, high quality and valuable recording, while Bruce Springstein or Billy Joel sang away; none the wiser. These tapes would fetch him quite a profit in the marketplace.
When the Boston Celtics of the mid 80's practiced and Atlantic College, near Boston, Kevin McHale, Danny Ainge and Bill Walton asserted their seniority by insuring that their favorite music was being pumped through the PA. The music which the team tuned up for their championship seasons to, was live recordings of the Grateful Dead, on metal cassette, from Bruce's collection.
Bruce could get you Celtics tickets, by the way.  For a price.
The Death Of The Volare
The first dead show that I attended was in Saratoga Springs, New York. Bruce had gotten me a ticket, which he sold to me for the price marked on it.
I later found out that Bruce purchased tickets for the entire tour as part of a package deal, for considerably less per ticket than face value.
There came to be an arrangement by which Bruce and his friends with nicknames would arrive at my parents house after having driven their own vehicles half way across Massachusetts over level and smooth terrain, whereupon we would all pile into the '76 Plymouth Volare, which my dad had given to me, and in which we were going to make the treacherous pass over the Berkshire Mountains, to the concert, and then back.
I remember only feeling flattered to have been chosen to bear the grand and all important job of transporting  them (and their recording equipment) to the show.
I was proud of our middle class abode in a quiet neighborhood with a fence around the back yard which gave many the impression that there was a swimming pool back there. I looked forward to showing off to Bruce and company my station in life, of being from a nice home.
"We can all meet at your house, Spudman, I want to see where you live..."
In my naivety, I hadn't attached any significance to their arriving in a BMW, and a Mercedes Benz. Just as with Bruce's parents house by the sea, the material aspect was lost upon me.
And it didn't occur to me what abuse the BMW and the Mercedes were going to be spared while sitting idle in front of my parent's house in our quiet, middle class neighborhood. That didn't cross my mind, not even when the Volare, loaded down with the extra weight of Bruce and his friends with nicknames, and their tape decks and microphones and other recording paraphernalia, was careening down a mountainside, through mile after mile of steep grade, while I frantically shifted into the "low2" gear, and pushed on the brake pedal, which eventually started to vibrate as the brake discs heated up and began to warp as I fought to keep the Volare under 70 mph.
We made it back to my middle class neighborhood.
As I turned onto my street, about a quarter mile from my parents house, there was a metallic snapping sound which emanated from under the Volare's hood, which was followed by thumping sounds, as the car limped its way to my parents driveway, with what the mechanics would later diagnose as "a broken rod."
"You're gonna have to have that looked at, Spudman, that didn't sound too good," said Bruce, as he and his friends piled out of the '76 Volare. They were already walking towards the BMW and the Mercedes Benz, both of which were in the same repair as they had been when parked there 12 hours earlier, with their tape decks, microphones and other recording paraphernalia in tow.
"Do you guy's want anything to drink or to munch on?"
"No, Spudman. We need to get going. That was a wild trip, Spudman. I'll see you at school," from Bruce, and "See 'ya, Spudman" from the rest, and they were on their way with their stereo Dolby recordings of the show.
I still wasn't ready to call Bruce a "user," though.
That would happen on the 26th of April, the night before I would have a religious experience and become born again, my spirit become rejuvenated, and my infirmities healed.
In the meantime, I had graduated school and gotten a job as a computer technician, working for a computer manufacturer. Bruce had done likewise.
We had stayed in contact with each other. I still drove to visit him at his parents house, where he would live until he had accumulated enough cash to make a substantial down payment on a house.
I would make copies of tapes out of his collection, (with a dollar of my money for each cassette, going into his "house fund"), buy weed from him, and eventually LSD.
I had known Bruce almost a year before he trusted me enough to tell me that he could get acid.
The Great Tape Fraud

Bruce had a comprehensive list of every show with the date of it, a couple songs listed as highlights, and a grade from A+ and down to D-, for tapes which sounded like they were recorded from the restroom at the venue.
He had, unbeknownst to myself, made an alternate list which falsely inflated the grades of certain shows, in a way which would guarantee that serious deadheads would salivate.
"Spudman, if you want, I'll give you a copy of my list and you can mail it oto people who are looking to trade. Just tell me what they want and I'll make you copies. It would be a good way to build up your collection." He always presented his propositions in ways which emphasised the benefit to you.
I then sent off Bruce's list, which was received by deadheads, like one guy in Ann Arbor Michigan, for example, who looked at it, salivated over "The West Germany show from '78 in A+ 'soundboard' quality!" and quickly scanned Bruce's "list," which was being played off as my list, for shows which Bruce didn't already have. He then made copies of his three most excellent "soundboard" recordings which Bruce didn't have and mailed them to me, along with his request for "Man, I've been trying to get a hold of that Egypt, '78 show for years; I didn't even know soundboard tapes existed of that show!! Pleeese, send that one; along with West Germany and one other. I've sent you three.
That was how the trading between deadheads worked, on a kind of honor system. You would check over the list which was mailed to you after you had put an add in the back of a deadhead magazine, decide which (usually three) shows you would like out of that list, then, you would see which shows were in your collection which he was lacking, and send off your three highest quality recordings, which fill gaps in his collection.
That is how the honor system is supposed to work.
But, the way it worked this time was. I got the three excellent soundboard recordings from the Ann Arbor concert along with a couple others, and went to Bruce's with them.
I had called him ahead, as he had asked me to do, and told him which three shows the guy in Ann Arbor wanted. When I got to his house, he had them ready for me. Then, he was eager to make high speed dubbs of the Michigan shows. "Good Job, Spudman, these sound awesome"
On my way home, I popped the West Germany recording in my car's deck. It sounded like it was recorded from the restroom at the arena.
I called him, when I got home.
"Those grades are relative, Spudman. If a show is really rare and you have one of the best recordings of it, then you can list it as A+. Every deadhead knows that!"
"It didn't really sound like a soundboard recording though, because the cymbals sounded out of phase."
"Whatever, Spudman."
I sent the tapes off the the guy in Ann Arbor and others around the country, hoping they would understand the ratings in light of the rarity of the shows.
My name became "mud" within tape trading circles, none of them ever wrote back to me. "My" list couldn't be trusted.
Bruce's collection was bolstered by some excellent soundboard recordings, which he was able to add to his real list, the one with West Germany '78 rated as "D-"
This moved me to within about 3 months of when I called him a "user" in the parking lot across the street from the Providence Civic Center, and then walked off after leaving him with a prophesy.
There had to be a "final straw."
The Final Straw
THe final straw
April 26, 1984

There was going to be a Grateful Dead concert at the Providence Civic Center that night, and another the next.
The parking lot across from the venue was teeming with deadheads in their tie-dyed clothing. Some of them were following the band from city to city, and had spread out on blankets, items of jewelry, artwork and clothing which they had hand crafted and which they sold to finance their road trip and buy tickets for the shows.
There were others like myself, who lived and worked in the community, and who were taking a brief time off for the shows, before returning to their work a day lives. We were the ones who supported the serious, "hardcore" deadheads, who roamed the country like a big hippie commune, or like the early disciples of Jesus Christ, depending upon ones viewpoint.I parked my brand new red sports car, bought a tie-dyed shirt with a kaleidoscopic pattern on the front of it
I met with Bruce, and his friends with nicknames, in the parking lot across the street from the Providence Civic Center. We were going to go into the concert together.
We had graduated school, and were both gainfully employed at high tech firms.
I had just bought a Fostex X-10 4 track tape deck, and was ready to pursue my dream of making 4 track recordings of my music, layering instruments and voices, like The Beatles once did. The deck was pretty much hard wired for that purpose, but could still function as a standard cassette recorder.
I proudly showed the
I separated myself from Bruce Fried, after calling him a "user," leaving him to his tape deck, microphones, and other recording paraphernalia, and to his friends with their tape decks and microphones and other recording paraphernalia.
[What are you gonna do with that, Spudman?"
"I'm going to record my own stuff, and try to write and arrange music.
This elicited a shaking of his head and, looking at me as if I had just struck out to lose the World Series for my team, said "How much did you pay for that?"
"You should have gotten a Sony D-5 and some decent mics for that.
Of, course, I thought Fuck YOUR music and the horse that it rode in on, you blew it, Spudman! Immortalising the Grateful Dead by taping their shows is SO much more important and valuable than anything you could ever create in your french fry eating world, Spudman, don't you GET it???" "Spudman's buying a tape deck, what's in it for me?, is that it, 'Doc?'"
"Whatever, Spudman."
It was at this point that I called Bruce a "user" and walked off.
To the aforementioned Bruce Fried once again rejoined, "Whatever Spudman."

I hurled one last thing at him, intending it to be a barb. I said, "Oh, by the way, they're gonna open up with Shakedown Street!"

This evoked a few titters and knowing glances were exchanged amongst Bruce and his party.

He was no stranger to the "magical thinking," practiced by many a deadhead.
He didn't believe in magic. "I beleive that when you die, that's it, Spudman. You just cease to exist.."
He was there with as a self-proclaimed folk historian with the sole intent to record the concert onto high bias metal cassette in Dolby stereo. He wasnt' there to sing or dance or make love, he wasn't expecting anything magical to occurr. "Do you think so, Spudman, Shakedown Street?"

"Yup," I said and then walked off on a collision course with the girl with the red roses.
"I'll write it on my set list right now," one of them said, which produced more derisive giggling.
I had merely pulled a song "out of my ass" totally at random, but as I walked off, alone and planning upon enjoying the concert alone, it occured to me that the dead hadn't done Shakedown Street in a while, even though it had been played a few times that year, on other tours. I didn't think that I did too badly with that prophesy.
I had wanted to hit him on some higher level than the material one which he apparently inhabited, and to show him that I might have been neive in one capacity, and that may have allowed him to use me in the past, but, I'm a fast learner and I had something going on, which he could never comprehend. It also occured to me, as I distanced myself from them, on my collision course with the girl with the red roses, that I had unwittingly left them with a prophesy fraught with hidden meaning.
Shakedown Street, on the surface is a song about copping drugs. It deals with the fact that, by the early 80's, when it was written, a large portion of the deadheads had learned how to blend in with the mainstream and not advertise themselves the way the hippies of the 60's did; painting big pot leaves all over your VW bus, for example.
"Shakedown" refers to the process of being searched by police.
The deadheads became better at looking "normal" so that, to the casual observer, there was nothing going on. "Nothing's shaking on Shakedown Street; it used to be the heart of town. Don't tell me this town ain't got no heart; you just gotta poke around."
Nobody would be standing out passing around an obvious joint, but, if you look closely at that "cigarette" one of them is smoking, it turns out it is a brass "one hit" pipe, painted on the outside to look like a cigarette. Nobody is yelling out that they are scalping tickets, but, if you talk to people and convince them you're not a cop, then the tickets materialise as if by magic. "There's no magic, Spudman; the guy just bought a bunch of tickets and was selling them..."
This is the material level which Bruce seemed to function on and understand. The deeper meaning of the song is that unconditional love could still be found within the community, but had also gone underground, due to treachery in the world at large. Like Christians holding masses in catacombs.
This is the level that Bruce did not believe in, even though he thought Jerry to be "sort of like a priest."
It was a good prophesy on more than one level.
I just needed the band to co-operate.
The Girl With The Red Roses
Then, I went for a walk and, standing on the sidewalk on one side of the civic center, across the street from a fountain, which shot water into the air, stood a beautiful young girl, who was holding a bunch of red roses and telling every passerby that she was incredibly happy, because she had Jesus in her heart and she knew that she was going to go to heaven.
I hadn't had a religious experience at a dead show at that point in life, and so, I couldn't help pause to hear her speach, letting my eyes took in her beauty, as I "listened" to her. She wore shiny boots which came half way up her calves, a skirt, a shirt with a low neckline and a pretty, latina looking face.
I remember feeling a little embarrassed for her and thinking:
How can she put herself on display like that? Doesn't she know that, while she is telling everyone about Jesus, men are walking by having very unholy thoughts? (men like myself...) How can she put herself out here like that?
That was my encounter with the girl holding the red roses and telling everyone about Jesus, and brings one of the shorter chapters of this tale to a close. We will see her again, in a manner of speaking.
The April 26th Show
I soon went inside the civic center for the show, freed from Bruce Fried, and planning to roam around, doing as I willed, and not to join him and his "hand me that mic cable, Spudman, make yourself useful!") friends.
When the lights dimmed at the start of the show, I was at the front edge of one of the mid level balconies, and from that vantage point, I had a clear view of Bruce's face, which became awash with light, causing it to suddenly glow, as the stage lights came to life, and simultaneously, the first chord of Shakedown Street blared from the sound system.
The expression on that face seemed to convey "Whatever, Spudman."  
That was about it from that show. I didn't think again about the girl holding the red roses. I certainly didn't think that her appearance forshadowed my having a religious experience the next night.
The Next Night
We got rid of B. Fried, now to take care of Bill Lenfest.
They were to play the songs listed above, as a matter of fact.
It would be the night that I would have the "religious experience" which Deadheads have been known to have at Dead shows.
Looking back at it, it seems like what occurred was the breaking down and tearing away of belief systems which I had; and discarding the personality which I had spent my life creating.
LSD can be a catalyst in this process, especially at those times when the "sky was yellow, and the sun was blue."
Not lost upon me was the fact that I was born in a Providence Hospital, in Holyoke, Massachusetts; and felt like I was "reborn" in Providence, Rhode Island, during that period.
There had been a show the night before when I saw the girl with the roses.
This bears mentioning because this story is nested within another tale: "The Rose Pedals," out of which this is an excerpt which I may put into perspective on another "Flashback Friday," maybe.
I had a pretty good job, working in technology.
I had a car. It was a pretty nice car.
I was gradually putting myself in jeopardy of losing both.
I was starting to show up at work wearing tie-dyed shirts and steering the water-cooler discussions away from topics like "our cars;" to things like "the liberation of our souls through the cycles of death and re-birth;" -not good "career moves."
I was feeling a calling towards something greater than troubleshooting printed circuit boards to the component level, or at least I was questioning my belief that I was on "the right path."
I walked by her wondering how many young men had lingered to hear her talk about Jesus while their eyes drank in the wonders of her nubile flesh; like I had done.
I hadn't had a religious experience at a Dead show, at that point, after all. I was still "dead" in my sin.
Isn't she at all self conscious dressed like that?
Bill Lenfest
The next night, I went to the show with my friend, Bill Lenfest.
Bill was a military brat who went to my high school, and who played the role of a military brat well. He was quiet, shy and kept himself isolated from the mainstream. He was "on the outside, looking in" at all the cliques of popular kids. He had few friends. He was a very good observer, having had to have pick up upon the dialects and mannerisms of each community that he had been shuffled around to quickly, in order to have had any hope at all of fitting in.
I can still picture him in a photo from the yearbook. He is sitting all the way in the back corner to the right as you face the class. It seems as if he wants to keep the whole class in front of him and to the side of his strong arm, so he could observe them and fend them off, if need be, and so that he couldn't be made fun of behind his back. He was wearing a thinly disguised look of disdain on his face, looking at the cameraman as if he might be thinking "Oh, how thoughtful; including a picture of an over weight, unpopular kid just to send the message that everybody is important and we're all one big happy family...I don't want to be part of this family, no thank you"
I had seen him in school, but the first time I ever spoke to him was in the basement of the music store, as he sat waiting for his guitar lesson. He had the same kind of Fender Telecaster, as the one Bruce Springsteen played, only slightly more "used."
I was about a year ahead of him on the guitar, and, after I played part of a Bruce Springsteen song on his guitar, I could see in his eyes that I had become some kind of god to Bill.
I basked in his admiration -a token of my own low self-esteem at the time.
I aspired to be a much better guitarist than I was then. I had my own insecurities, doubts and fears that I might never reach that plateau, but, in Bill's eyes, I was a great guitarist, and I liked the feeling. Plus, I was skinny.
Bill's insecurities, doubts and fear of never acheiving greatness hinged upon: "Who ever heard of a fat guitar player?," Something he lamented to me, after we had become friends.
Bill was overweight, and was convinced that all the great guitarists were skinny; Jeff Beck (and myself, for that matter) being a prime example.
At some deep level, I felt unsatisfied with my guitar playing, yet convinced that I had potential. I think I refused to believe that I wasn't going to be a very good, if not great musician. With Bill listening to me play, I could take a shortcut to being "an amazing musician," without having to be an amazing musician at all.
I was the leader; Bill the follower.
We were kindred spirits in that, we both believed that we could be loved and adored and have anything we wanted, using music as the vehicle.
After we graduated High School, we wound up going to (and subsequently smoking a lot of weed and dropping out of) the same college.
We remained friends, but our friendship became of a peculiar nature. It began to revolve around pot.
I got the feeling that, behind my back, Bill would tell people that he couldn't stand me, or that "he thinks he's so great," the very traits that had drawn him to me. I don't think he liked his predisposition to be a follower, and thus he secretly hated the leader. I, on the other hand, knew that because of Bill's limited exposure to much of the world, (even while moving around all over it), he was putting me on a pedestool much too high. I had a guitar teacher at the time who could play like Jeff Beck. That is what I aspired to. When Bill would say, "Wow!" after I played something, I wanted to say, "Look, Bill, I'm not that good!" I resented him and wanted to punish him for admiring me, because I wasn't happy with myself.
By the time we were in college, Bill was starting to see the bigger picture. He was starting to realise that I wasn't as "great" as he had nievely envisioned.
But, because we got together to smoke pot, all those personal dynamics took a back seat. When we were stoned, we weren't really ourselves and so the issues never got addressed.
Bill could be in the middle of telling his roommate how much he hated a certain facet of me, but, if I rang the doorbell and had some pot, he woudl drop the subject and invite me in. His roommate was also overweight and kind of a friend/rival of Bill's. It was as if they both wanted to lose weight, but wanted to keep each other in sight, so one wouldn't get too far ahead of the other. Any strides made by either in self improvement was met by derision and acrid envy.
Purgatorio
The arena began to seem like the Purgatory of Dante.
Before the music started, Bill and I were walking through the aisles and corridors of the arena. I was walking and Bill was following, that is. At one point, I suggested that we make a full circle around the place.
Then, Bill said "Ok, you lead; and I'll follow" and the tone of voice that I heard was as if he was rolling his eyes when he said it. There was resignation and bitterness in his voice rolled into one, which told me that he hated the fact that he was deferring to me, but I also heard a bit of sarcasm, as if he might have been thinking "Some leader I have." I started to wriggle my way through mobs of deadheads with Bill at my elbow every step of the way, when something in that tone of voice that he used which had resonated within me finally rang a bell, and I decided that Bill would be better off on his own adventure amongst 20,000 anonymous deadheads, than to further re-enforce his image of himself, as weak and inept, and a follower of a guy who was there with as much to discover as he.
I felt like a mother bird who pushes her offspring out of the nest, leaving it to its instincts, but, at my first opportunity of being out of Bill's line of sight, I made a few quick and devious motions, which left me well apart from Bill, and moving in an opposite direction. 
I wound up leaving the auditorium and walking around the outer reception area, where shirts and programs are sold. I made a semi circle around the perimeter of the venue, until I calculated that I was on the opposite end from where I had ditched Bill, and then I ascended several flights of stairs, which brought me to the very upper seats, as high and far from the stage one could get.
From that vantage point, I looked down upon the whole spectacle.
The Tourists 
I was surrounded by others, who seemed to be taking in the whole of the activities way below them, but from a perspective of not participating, but rather, removing themselves further from joining in on the fun, by mocking and goofing on the deadheads below.
These were what I will call the tourists.
Men about my age, with both dress and mannerisms which sparked so much recognition in me that I was immediately placed in the mindset of, and felt myself re encountering the belief systems, which had been ingrained in me as a student of a private Catholic shcool.
It was the uniform of the upper middle class that they were wearing, not consciously, but in ways that only other members of that exclusive could pick up upon. I instinctively knew that I could approach them and be instantly accepted as one of their fold.
They were most assuredly college students, who saw themselves bound for greatness in "the world" -the world which the serious deadheads had dropped out of.
They had come to the show out of curiosity, and to enhance their resume's in life with the addition of having witnessed the notorious countercultural spectacle which is a Grateful Dead concert, and is part of Americana. 
The very fact that they had purchased the cheapest tickets for the highest farthest seats, spoke to their casual interests. They stood above it all and looked down upon it all like they would a freak show; in amusement."A Deadhead spent 15 hours on this," he said, pointing to the tie-dyed shirt which he had just over paid for and which he wore, along with his mall-bought jeans and leather oxfords.
One of them extended his hand to me and introduced himself in a fashion that I had become inured to in my upbringing. It triggered a conditioned response in me, and I returned his handshake in just the right way, with just the right pressure and for just the right duration. Our eyes came up from our hands and met each others and we each had an expression on our faces, which we each regognized, the smug grin of The Priviledged.
I was conscious of the involuntariness of the whole exchange, and for the first time, thought about ways in which I had previously acted without thought at all.

That was my cue to meet his point of view that we were private school graduates, on our ways to earning college degrees, and would never have to spend 15 hours making and selling a shirt for money upon which to survive. We were above that, trained in the ways of the real "upper class" world. Our 15 hours would be worth at least enough to buy every shirt and every trinket for sale out of the backs of VW busses.
"Yeah, you put gas in the VW bus and fed the kids trail mix for a week, too" said his companion, provoking a round of chuckles. I chuckled gamely, but I recognized the pattern of humour born of condescention, and it felt old and tired. I had spent four years in a private school honing that type of humour and cultivating the attitudes that spawned it. I suddenly wanted to give that part of me a rest. And to start to move closer to the stage.
He offered to buy me a beer.
The band was getting ready to start.
The idea presented itself to me that, as one of his ilk we would hang out; as far removed from the festivities as possible, looking down upon everything.
Then, we would talk about college and our future plans, having taken for granted that we would achieve so much more than these nomadic people who follow this band around with its leader who is like a priest.
I saw all this flash across through my mind. I turned down the beer and took leave of him and his companions, giving what was probably mild offence when I told them that I wanted to move closer to the stage. Maybe I wasn't of their ilk, afterall.
The Tourists
I had the meeting with the guy's whom I refer to as "tourists." There was a familiarity in therir speecha dn theiru mannereisms and juas about every theing aobu th them put me in the mind of my middle class cathoulic upbringing. these were the private school guys who sat areound me and competed with , yet still loved me in  a Chructioand way ; yeah, them.
It was so familiar. Just to test them, I exchanged a few of the kind of jokes which had smoothe my way through high scho0l and made me a moderately popular kid despite my sickly essence.
They responded in kind. There was a hand shake, an apparent recognition and appreciation for the class of person I seemed to be, an offer to buy me a beer, and basically an offer for me to spend the concert with them, exchanging haughty barbs at the freaks below, and then a shared wish for succes s in the world exchanged by all.  


The guy seemed offended. Does he think he is better than us?
The band had began to play "Alabama Getaway" as I made my getaway.
Then, I started to decend from that highest up, farthest back section with its tourists looking down upon the proceedings.
A little lower, I encountered an older gentleman. He said that he hadn't been to a dead show since the 60's. He was there for nostalgia, something that I couldn't join him in, so went lower, I felt drawn to the stage, to the music. I wanted to be closer.
Divorced Mothers
I moved down the rows of seats, until I encountered a section in which I noticed women. they seemed to be in their early 30's, maybe 10 years older than myself.
Something told me that they were divorced women with young children at home and were at the concert hoping to meet some cool (with a job) guy, to establish a rapport with.
I sat amongst them, and, after ditching Bill Lenfest, listened as the music started.
I felt bad about having ditched Bill, but the tone in which he had said "You lead; I'll follow," told me that he was not happy at all in that role and I heard resentment.
That's when I told him that I was going to take a walk and that I would be back, or some lie. I wanted to give him a chance to explore and maybe "find himself" somewhere in the crowd.
That's what I wanted to do. I wanted to stop following all the impulses which I had habitually reacted to and to question all of my beliefs and become aware of how I was acting and why I was really acting that way.
It would be an inward journey and there would be no need for a companion. It would be like inviting someone over to meditate in a dark room with you, for companionship and camaraderie; It didn't make sense.
bent upon walking maybe right up to the stage where I felt certain that I would be invited up to jam, and would become the life of the party; maybe that was the old way of thinking, the comedian, the entertainer;, but, I knew I was passing up a good thing with the smoke blowing woman there, I bet she had a couple of the cutest little kids and a story to go along with them about how "Lou just wasn't ready to settle down, I mean, he had a good job and everything, but we got married pretty young, and ..."
I felt a puff of cigarette smoke hit me in the side of the face. There was nothing accidental about it; the puff had authority; it said "Hello! I was born to pick up a bachelor...
"Hmph!" was as close as I could approximate to the syllable which emited forth from out of her downturned lips.
It wasn't like I was going off to find "better" divorced young women who are hoping to meet a man who is able to support myself and my kids, but who might even find love...
I had met the best, I would have no problem falling head over heels in love with that particular one, she was really that fine, and probably 25 years old....let your imaginations run free
Bill Lenfest found me, as I was making my way downward where I saw empty seats in front of some young women, who looked to be in their late 20's. They were wearing jeans and Grateful Dead tee shirts and smoking cigarettes. One of them was kind of pretty in the manner of one who had come through some rough times, but come through pretty well.
Something told me that the woman behind me and to my right as I sat in one of the vacant seats in front of them, was divorced and raising a couple of kids. She had gotten a babysitter for them and had come to the show. She had pretty good seats, on the end near the stage and about 20 feet up on the side, where you could get hit in the face by a deflected puck on a different night at the Civic Center.
I was interested in the ladies sitting behind me, but I was also close enough to the stage to make listening to the music an understandable priority. When you are that close to the band, you are forgiven for losing yourself in the music and not even turning around to introduce yourself to someone sitting behind and to the right of  you.
I felt the women's attentions though, I sensed it in the level of their conversation, the tenor of their giggles, and the way they had subtly repositioned themselves after I had sat down.
I represented something to them. I still had my black blazer, but I had taken it off. My tie-dyed shirt was brand new, white as snow in places, and vividly rainbowed in others. My shoes, my mall-bought jeans, my hair, as well as my posture and mannerisms, must have painted me in photo realism to the young ladies.
Here was a young guy who is single and has a pretty good job; he didn't hitch-hike here from the last show, in Portland, Maine.
I was gleaning all of this, when Bill Lenfest found me. He sat down next to me. At that point, I had a very strong desire to be left alone, if not with the ladies, then in general.
"Make it look like you just get up and walk away; I'll explain it to you later," I said to Bill, who returned a bewildered look. "I'll explain later," I repeated now with an urgency in my voice.
Bill took the bait and disappeared.  His mind was probably intrigued with plots involving a drug deal, most likely. That left me with the young ladies and the Grateful Dead.
The music began to play a larger role in the choreographing of the events of the evening. We didn't have to talk, it was as if the lyrics were speaking for us.
As the band played "Me And My Uncle," and the last line came "...and I left his dead ass there, by the side of the road" there was a whoop from the lady, telling me that she was single.
They then played "New Minglewood Blues," It was during this when I turned and made my first eye contact with the young lady behind and to the right of me. She had a pretty face, and looked sexy in her faded jeans, her hair highlighted with a reddish hue, over it's natural chestnut brown. She had on shiney lipstick. 
Simultaneous to my turning to face her, Bob Weir was at the part of "Minglewood" where he sings "...Well, my number one occupation, is stealing women from other men.."
It was as if my motives were layed bare by the song. She had responded to the line about leaving a guy by the side of the road and I encountered her with the above lyrics.
We greeted each other; I nodded my head. She smiled.
"Row Jimmy" was played next. It was during its hypnotic cadences that I went deeper into myself, and began to analyse what I had done in pushing Bill Lenfest away. Was it a primitive urge to find a mate? Did I want to be alone with the divorced mothers, yes, but...
I had wanted to be alone. I had wanted to have a new and original adventure, and surely was interested in meeting a member of the opposite sex. Mostly, I wanted to shed a lot of my old, inhibiting and self limiting beliefs. It was as if I sensed the potential to change my personality that night, become more true to my own self.
Still, I felt bad, and at one point, I began to cry; out of sadness and happiness.
I wanted to move closer to the stage. I had cried, partly over having had to administer the cruel treatment to Bill, which I felt was for his own good. but which also made me feel like the parent who has to say "this hurts me more than it hurts you (as he tans the hide of the child)"
I had to move closer. The band had played the song: Althea, WHICH contained the line; I was born to be a bachelor. I had an impulse at that time, and I raised my hands over my head in a celebratory, triumphant, but mostly affirmative gesture. Hell, yeah, I was born to be a bachelor!! I'm done crying "tears for that woman" It fit perfectly, and I was hit in the side of the face with smoke immediately. It came from the pretty hot one. It was her smoke. I think she was the only one smoking. I raised my fists above my head and flexed my biceps. I think that I was just trying to tell the lady that I wasn't married, by reacting to the word "bachelor," but, she blew smoke at me, and I knew that it was my time to move.
I could respond to her, and probably spend the duration of the concert focusing upon her and enjoying her charms, and make it no closer to the stage. I could spend the concert in section 236, seat 12, or I could follow something which I felt, yet I didn't feel, It was real, yet it wasn't real! HA HA HA HA HA !!!!!!! Am I freaking you out, gentle reader??? Well, good!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I left the seat near the young women and began to descend. The
The Gatekeeper I decided to just walk down onto the floor. I hadn't purchased a ticket to be on the floor, which is basically where the hockey ring usually is, but, I felt a sense of destiny and I got up and walked toward the gate, which was being watched by a man in a blue blazer, who had a patch on his lapel identifying him as the guy who checks people's ticket stubs to make sure they have access to the floor. I started to wonder what I would say to the guy if he accosted me. I wondered if, since the concert was half over, he had relaxed the rules. Something told me to just not worry about it at all.
I got to the gate and, as I walked right through it, the guy turned his back to me and sneezed. I got the sense that I may have been glowing in a certain way make him decide to let me through by faking a sneeze, or that he might have actually had to sneeze; but why turn his back and sneeze on the people behind him; strange.
I walked right onto the floor and turned in the direction of the stage.
The Brutes: There, I encountered a veritable wall of backs. These were like bodyguards, keeping anyone from passing into the most inner circle of deadheads, near the stage.
I tried to push my way past them, and their resistance increased in proportion to how much I struggled. Then, something told me to stop trying. I became passive. I stopped pushing altogether, and, at the instant that I surrendered my will, so to speak, I was literally pushed through the line of men.
Then, I could see the stage and the group of deadheads who were closest to it.
I found my black blazer to be drenched in what I assumed was beer.
I took it off, leaving only the tie-dyed shirt with the kaliedoscopic pattern on it. I had shed the last remnants of what I was...
The Intellectuals: THen, I heard the discussions around me. They were centered around the analysis of music theory as it realated to what the dead were playing. They talked about modes and key changes and other constructs of music. I was tempted to join the discussion, but was tweeked by the memory of how Bruce had preyed upon my pride in my musically knowledge and ability. I didn't want to go there. I moved closer, to maybe the 18th row.
The Druggies: There, I was in amongst a nervous sort of group. Nervous, until one of them asked this new guy who just appeared out of nowhere, for a light.
When I took my lighter out of my pocket, my bag of pot came out with it. As soon as the group around me saw it in my hand, their pipes and bowls came out in kind.
Someone lit a bowl of pot. It was offered to me. I felt like I didn't need anything, so I declined.
They motioned me to go up closer to the stage, and I thought I heard someone say "move closer"

The Lustful: I got to about the 12th row, where I was forestalled by the frangrance of perfume, and I looked to my right and saw the most beautiful girls with sking like silk and the face of a Polenesian princess. My spell was broken.
Instantly the rest of those in the row began to chuckle and someone said "Aha!," as if my weakness had suddenly been exposed.
I made it no closer than that row. From there I could see those at the very front, closest to the stage. They were motionless. They looked like they may or may not have been even breathing. They had glassy looking eyes that seemed to never blink. They sat and looked at the stage, as if they were absorbing heat from a fire through their eyes...
None of them smoked or drank. None of their eyes wandered. These were the "saints," I envisioned...
The Saints 
Bill Lenfest
I had gone to the concert with Bill Lenfest. He was a friend of mine, though, our friendship worked on an interesting dynamic. He admired, almost worshipped me.
He was  a guitar player as was myself. He was overweight. He felt like he would have to lose weight before he could consider himself even a candidate for guitar player.
"Who ever heard of a fat guitar player," he once said.
I was skinny and a few years ahead of him in mastery of the instrument, and he quickly became an admirer of me.
Bill was a military brat. He played the part very well  by being isolated from the mainstream, quiet, shy and a daydreamer.
He said to me, at one point as we walked around the arena, "You lead, I'll follow." This struck a note within me. First of all was the tone with which he had said it. It was a weak, nasal tone which told me that he was lamenting the fact that things were the way that they were; me leading, him following.
I felt the same way. I was coming to grips with the truth that I really felt that I hadn't come near reaching my true potential, and that having someone like Bill think the world of me was a mockery to me.
I wanted to be on that stage playing with the Grateful Dead, not strumming my guitar in my room with Bill looking on in awe.
It was when he said "You lead, I'll follow," and said it in a tone which communicated, "Why am I such a follower; I hate being a follower" that I decided to ditch him.
I also felt that I was ready to have an adventure which would be mine alone.
You can meditate with another person; but of what value would their company be, as you withdraw from all, including them.
This is how I felt, that I was ready to have a transforming experience, and shucking ol' Bill Lenfest would be necessary to my progress. I didn't want to be the hero in Bill's eyes; I wanted a lot more.
I got rid of him, using a subterfuge. He was gullible, and soon, I was sitting by myself, surrounded by women, who were blowing smoke in my face....tbc....
All that would happen the next night.
Extra Stuff:
These I recognised all to well as the class in which I had grown up and went to school with. They were the uniform of the middle class.
I call these the tourists. They were there to enhance thieir worldliness by observing the remnants of this hippie culture, from the viewpoint of witnessing a freak show.
Their language, mannerisms and handshakes were like steps in a dance which I had been doing my whole life; up until that point, that is.
The divorced homemakers. I was surrounded by women in their mid to late 20's. They were unaccompanied by men. There was a slightly battlescarred look to them, as if they had gone through some hardship but had come out of it pretty well, only slightly the worse for wear and ready to throw their hats in the ring again.
Final Straw
I had already separated myself from Bruce anfetr calling him a user.

"I could have gotten you a deal (turned a profit on you) on a D-5, Spudman..."
My goal in becoming so educated was to finance, through working in that lucrative industry, a lot of music equipment. Once I owned a lot of nice equipment, I was going to leave the computer job and pursue music full time. That was my dream.I didn't know then that the more expensive equipment that I would accumulate, the less inspired I would be to put it to any good use. My compositions about life as a computer technician, just didn't work, but, that is a story for another time.
He resumed our two year old conversation as if there hadn't been any pause in it at all.
B. Fried
Before I walked off,