"grateful they are dead"
by by dr. finger, red baiter

i'm against dying. i'm rather extreme in my need to avoid thinking about disease, homicide, or any of the other popular choices in the cessation of life-support functions. it might then surprise you that during the grateful dead concert in camden, nj this past saturday, i was diligently trying to raise my blood/alcohol content to life-taking levels. why the effort to kill myself off? it had something to do with being surrounded by thousands of ill-scrubbed, long-haired, well-to-do white people. i met more trust fund kids on saturday than you can shake a shabbily constructed grilled cheese sandwich at. how nice it must be to live a life devoid of responsibility!

i saw no reason for them to be so...well, counter-cultural. was it their bare feet that had them so upset? i suggested to more than a few that their parents could probably afford to purchase for them a nice pair of bruno magli loafers or heck, even rockport docksiders (if you're going to slum).

i guess the real question is: what is it about the scene that keeps 'em coming back? i was there to find out.*

after somehow keeping my eyelids propped open during willie nelson's insanely boring set, i detected a hush in the crowd and a break in the clouds (of patchouli). i thought it was time to leave, so i cheered. unfortunately, it was time for a confusing set of so-called 'music' performed by the remaining members of the grateful dead.

as the sweaty oldsters played their one song, i noticed i was being watched. it was a hippie guy. you know the one: long hair or bushy/curly 'fro; no shirt; no beer gut; cut-offs; devil beard; bare, soiled feet; and an undying allegiance to self. in fact, there were hundreds of them slinking around the lawn. but this one in particular seemed to sense my abject disinterest in the music. like a cat to a feline hater, he sat down next to me. his feet were, of course, bare and knotty.

i'm not suggesting he belonged to a cult, but he did exhibit that hive-mind of single purpose. he asked about my "energy." he told me how long he had been on "tour." my only escape was to tell him the truth:

"sir, you are not on tour. the band is on tour. you are wasting valuable resources. now get a job!"

i suppose this was not the desired answer. he called me "harsh." i pointed out that i was not as harsh as his father will be when his fetid son calls him from lord-knows-where requesting a plane ticket home to the estate in horse country.

now frazzled, the age-indeterminate, neo-love child pointed a craggly, dirt-encrusted finger at me and shouted, "law nazi!"

i countered, "wastrel!"

he parried, "pig!"

i cried, "ne'er-do-well!" this went on for some time. oddly, he couldn't comprehend that i was not a member of law enforcement. finally, he slithered away, muttering (and leaving behind a rancid, foot-like odor).

i'd like to say he went on to land a cush job in his father's firm, but i don't have a time machine.

i did manage to fall asleep on the slacker-laden grass. i dreamt of better times...like the day before, when I was able to sit on my sofa and eat a sandwich not proffered by a hirsute woman in a peasant dress. this made me happy. happier than you can imagine, dear reader.

*serious note: on leaving the concert, it dawned on me why so many people come to see the grateful dead: they don't have to pick up after themselves! i was stunned and totally dumbfounded by the mountains of garbage left behind! this from supposed environmentally aware crowd! i thought it showed utter contempt for the people who had to clean the place up.