Chapter one; Vivid memories or euphoric recall - You decide. hoppin' the bus, droppin' the paper, the bud bombers (16 ouncers), the fuckin' deadheads. Got the tickets and hopped on a jersey bus to get to the show. The deadheads had arrived and that sleazy element that I loved about the city was replaced by something else - not better, not worse, just different. I was with my boys and one of them didn't have a ticket so he scalped a 10th row seat on Jerry's side, much better than mine. He wanted to stay with the gang but shit was startin' to melt for me and I wanted to be up front when the whole mother liquefied. We swapped paper and I was flyin' solo on a NYC night.
Chapter two: I don't recollect walkin' in to the garden but I vaguely remember amblin' down the aisle. I strode past row in a very natural, unassuming stoned daze that went unnoticed by all includin' myself until I struck a crowd of freaks called the front row where I remained for the duration of the party.
I pulled one of the three bud bombers I had out from the very loose pants I wore to the show and pulled out a tommy joint (Tommy was a legendary jersey dealer known for his fat joints he'd sell for a buck). It was juggling act drinkin' the bomber, passin' the joints and pipes around, and deflecting the purple lizards and red spiders flying around me. I gazed in a circular motion about 10 feet in diameter and thought, "what a great fuckin' opening act".
Chapter three: Please forgive me for those who worship the holy dead but I don't remember them walkin' out on stage. I am really not a bad person. I do recall being so close to Jerry that I saw his missing finger - Christ it looked good when your mind's full of blotter. When they broke into Jack Straw I had a moment of clarity. Women and wine weren't being shared but beer and weed were plentiful in our little front row family. There were moments of shadows, moments of light and my foggy brain was serving blurred memories. St. Stephen was the pinnacle - clear as a bell and remembered like it was yesterday. I did not follow deadhead jargon or history and had no idea the last time it had been played. I just liked the music and man, what a great fuckin' song, tripping, drunk, stoned, sraight or lyin' dead in a grave - what a great fuckin' song. After St. Stephen my world wasn't as muddy and I remembered who and what was being played.
Unfortunately when the music disappeared, so did my mind. I walked out in a stoned daze like a sheep in a herd of cattle and blindly picked my way to port authority. Funny thing, I walked past port authority the same way I walked past the 10th row at the Garden. My mind finally told me I shouldn't be here and better get out of dodge - being from jersey this is beat into your subconscious even deeper than the acid that was tryin' to make me push ahead. Miraculously I made it back to the bus and met up with the boys. There was one other thing I remember later that night - packing a bowl full of mushrooms and smokin' it in a bong in a jersey park. What a fuckin' night - put that in the Grateful Dead archives and smoke it.