Campus Editorial April 7.1993 pagej^
Grateful, but not dead -- yet
This the story of a woman who
needs to graduate.
Thursday befcM^ last, I attended
my first Grateful Dead cc»cert. I
knew from the start my motives
weren’t pure. I’m working on a
character who has hallucinogens
in her past and thou^t Td get in
some obso^ational research. But
mainly I needed
a break from be
ing an English
raajor. I knew
things were bad
whra I watched
Star Trek: The
Next Genera
tion. Five min
utes into the
show, I began
composing a
memal thesis about how having
multi-planetary species all speak
Engli^ comf^mised the story’s
integrity. I had, however, under
estimated my dementia. The
Gratefiil Dead concert made me
realize how bad off 1 really am.
Walking tiirough the Dean
Dome parking lot, I was fasci
nated by tt)e Deadheads. The were
Jackie Webb
Senior
Major: English with
a Concentration in
Professional
Communications
oblivious to their blackened feet,
ragged clothes, and well-defined
rib cages. They were pilgrims,
drawn to the shrine that held their
leader. And it was easy, even for
a novice like me, to tell who was
a real jnlgrim and who ran out
that afteriKx>n and bought tye-dye
tee shirts. “Hey,” I thought, “this
is just like The
Canterbury
Tales." liaade
myself a note
(yes,'I really
wrote it down)
to tell Dr.
Knight I fi
nally under-
stood
Chaucer’sem-
phasis on his
pilgrims’ clothes. I worried a little
^ut myself.
The crowd thickened as we got
doser to Uie Dome,, but in the
middle was a clear circle around
two young women who carried a
sign that said WILL TRADE
SECRETS OF TERRAPIN
STATION FORRIDETOTHE
ALBANY SHOW. My experi
MltorJBthier
Asiuty Bro»Q
LavvMKdliur frATylUwh
Biwtiiww M^Mgcr Kim ;
w t KaiKriLi^
r. . ■ nuwuiuub^ 'V
kditf Sara
■
V-eUx LItt Yi>on
Adtber |«chiuc«ld«b«ir
BnrvoM in Mej«jHb 9omm^ to »tiw 11 letUr hi tSs All
pubiKMi' _• M j V •* m* ac * t ■ I a. - ar l. « J «v mkI e. .e
Dumber ^ mil b« vittitMlli tipoQ
nqoML
enced brother explained that
‘Terrapin Station" is a collec
tion of songs about wise turtles
who live in a world beyond a
door of fire. To crack the code,
he said, is to achieve Deadhead
nirvana. As I got within earshot,
I heard the pilgrims asking rev
erently who the women had stud
ied under and if they knew Jerry.
“Hey,” I thought, “this is just
like American lit when Dr. Gil
bert revealed Eliot’s seaets in
‘The Waste Land’ “ The simi
larities were striking: Garcia’s
fire door versus Eliot’s fire ser
mon. Fortunately, I was dis
tracted bfefore I began reciting
lines.
On a nearby embankment a
real side show was forming. A
wild looking young man, with
tattoos and earrings covering
most of his body, had a small
dog hanging from his
dreadlocks. After checking the
dog’s bite to make sure it was
fastened securely, he twirled
round and round — thereby
making die dog fly. Another guy,
motivated by the clink-clink of
change in Mr. Dreadlock’s gui
tar case, mounted his cooler and
began reciting “Casey Jones” in
his best Olivier-wannabe voice.
“Shoot,” I thought, “ Jean Jack
son (with Willy) and Garry
Walton out do those guys every
day, and they don’t even have a
tip jar.” Completing the triangle
was a turbaned person —gender
unspecific—selling pamj^ets
entitled “Mental Health Thru
Better Writing,” (a Nan Miller
motto if ever I heard one, but
she'd spell it right). I looked at
the would-be poets, jrfiiloso-
phers, and journalists gathered
round Le/La TUrban and wished
desperately I had copies of A
Writer’s Rhetoric to give them;
Suzanne Bria is nodiing but spe
cific.
The competitive vibes I’d been
building up were quieted by the
peaceful aura that overtook the pil
grims as the crowd moved toward
ticket-gate heaven. Standing beside
me was a hulking brute made eight-
feet tall by the red and white striped
Dr. Seusshathewaswearing. “How
cool,” I fliought, “diis semi-literate
giant and tiny-woman-mammoth-
scholar Louise Taylor share the
same hero. And how cool it is that
I am here to make the connection.”
I was feelftig groovy. I was ready to
emer.
But no. Even in the presence of
psychedelic providence I couldn’t
escq>e my professors. I found my
self studying this group of groupies
who were twirling and twirling even
when the music stO[^)ed and never
getting dizzy. They were so beauti
fully feminine in their baggy dresses
and unpainted faces, so much en
joying being female. They reminded
me instantly Of Sarah English —
pre-Laura Ashley, of course. And
when the Grateful Dead played
‘Terrapin Station,” the arena was
as electrified as a Frwwill Baptist
congregation at the last preaching
of revival week. But I was solemn;
I couldn't help being sad that Betty
Webb was not there to seetiie purple
splendor that illuminated the Dean
Dome.
see GRATEFUL page seven
ATTENTION JUNIORS:
Would you like to have all your e?^enses
paid to travel and study abroad the year
after you graduate?
See Dr. Novak before April 20 about
applying for a Fullbright Fellowship
Grant (Joyner 114: x8398)