Phil Lesh at the Riviera Theatre

Phil Lesh at the Riviera Theatre

Phil Lesh at the Riviera Theatre
Chicago, November 16, 2017

When I went to college in Boulder, Colorado, the Grateful Dead were still a phenomena constantly touring the country.  I was invited to many of their concerts, but for years I never made it one.  When I’d listen to their music on CDs, it just didn’t get me excited enough to put in the effort.  Then, after years, I finally went to a show one summer and was totally blown away by it.  Going to a Dead show back then was more than just a concert; it was like you entered a time warp into America circa the 1960s and this little bubble somehow survived and migrated to wherever the band went. 

Tailgating was a big thing at those shows and when we got to stadium, the parking lot was packed to the gills and off the hook.  Everyone was hanging out, playing music, dancing, drinking, smoking weed, throwing frisbees, hacky-sacking...  Drugs were everywhere and on offer.  Multiple people were even selling balloons of nitrous oxide (laughing gas) from big tanks out of the back of their vans or cars.  People were walking around naked.  It was a real trip- in more ways than one.  Another positive is that everyone was mellow and totally cool with everyone else.  There was no violence or aggression to be had at these shows.  People just went with the flow.  There were also cops everywhere, but, amazingly, they didn’t do anything except help people cope with their buzzes.  You’d see people smoking grass right in front of the police and the cops wouldn’t do a thing.  I couldn’t believe that America still allowed this to happen.  It was really something magical to behold.

After the tailgating, we went into the stadium.  Once the show started and the sun set, the place was overtaken by an aura of communal love, a chi of sorts.  Everyone was sharing a common energy and the music was the source, spreading good vibes of peace and acceptance.  I watched the scene, danced to the jamming music and I realized how ignorant I was for turning down so many of these experiences over the years because I thought I didn’t like their music.  Only now could I hear their music for the first time and I loved it.  The whole thing was a small slice of lost Americana at its finest and from that first show, I started going to see them whenever I could.

Sadly, I only got to a handful of shows before Jerry passed away and they stopped touring.  I also moved to Europe for over twenty years and wasn’t around to catch them when they started touring again without Jerry.  Until this week, my last show was at Soldier Field in the summer of 1993.

A few weeks ago an old buddy told me Phil Lesh was coming to town and would play at the Riviera Theatre.  We decided to go.  (For those who don’t know, Lesh is a founding member of the Grateful Dead and was their bassist for their entire existence.)  I didn’t know or really even think about what one of his shows would be like these days.  I didn’t expect any of that old 60s Americana hippie magic (and madness) to have survived these last 25 years, but I figured he was part of an amazing and historic band that I liked, so why not go check it out.

When I invited another friend to come along, he wasn’t interested, but he spontaneously gave me an edible marijuana chocolate for it.  I wasn’t even thinking about doing anything like that, but I accepted his generous offer (it was the Dead’s bassist after all).  The chocolate was just beginning to kick-in when Lesh and the band came out.  We were on the main floor around ten rows back from the stage.  The place was packed.  Tie-dye shirts and the smell of patchouli were all about.  Once the lights went down, the music came up and everyone in the place started torching weed.  Standing in that thickening cloud, it all felt strangely right, harmonious.  The universe was finding its balance at the Riviera that night and I was at a newfound peace myself.  For the length of the show, I didn’t even once think about Trump.  Good times indeed.  The power of music.

From start-to-end the band kept jamming out Dead classics and the crowd was totally drawn into it.  I’d forgotten how powerful and entrancing their music can be and out of nowhere, I had an epiphany about why so many people don’t understand this kind of music.  It’s very subtle and understated, and, importantly, it’s non-visual.  Watching the band play doesn’t help you get into it.  The best way to understand the music is to just close your eyes and let it take over your thoughts.  You get lost to the music that way.  It’s really the same thing that happens when you listen to classical, jazz or even house music.  Once you close out the visuals and focus on the tunes, you’re taken to another place.  The rhythm takes over.  The improvisations, the long instrumental jams, that’s what it’s all about.  Freestyle and order meld together and everyone settles onto the same wavelength and you cannot do anything but dance to it.  It’s a beautiful thing. 

As the show continued, a guy next to me offered me his one-hitter.  I accepted it and torched a couple drags. With the edible I had eaten (which I’m not at all used to) and now this, I was feeling great.  I danced, lost awareness and was free.  Later, another guy who was smoking offered me one of those new vaporizer pens.  Everyone was on the same team.  Once again there was this weird window into the past- full of camaraderie, generosity and mutual respect that provides a stark contrast to what is desperately lacking in our culture today.  When I passed him back the vape, I said, “Thanks, it’s my first Dead show in 25 years and I’m lovin it.”  He was happy to hear it.

“Wow- that’s totally rad dude.  Right on!”  And he gave me a high-five.  I think he was probably only 25 years old, maybe. 

Later when I was walking back from the restroom, I saw like eight cops standing around a woman.  I walked by close to see what was happening but couldn’t figure it out.  I asked a guy with dreads who was standing right there watching.

“Hey man, what happened?”

“Oh nothing.  She’s just a bit out of it.  They’re helping.”  He responded, cool as a winter fresh breath mint.

“Oh, groovy.”  I said and walked away.  The army of police from the old stadium shows was now condensed down into this one unit who came along for the ride to take care of people who are “out of it.”  Perfect- that’s police presence I support-

I returned to the dance floor.  After a particularly intense song ended, I looked at the guy next to me and said, “Awesome- just awesome-”

He seemed confused by where he was and replied, “Yeah, though I’m still waiting for them to play Light My Fire, that’s my favorite.”  I couldn’t believe this guy thought we were watching the Doors or something, but when in the bubble, you don’t want to ruin anyone’s vibe.

“Maybe they’re saving it for the encore.”  I told him. 

It was a fantastic show and the band played from around 8:30pm until around 1am.  When we were in the scrum leaving the theatre, I loudly said to my friend “I’m surprised they didn’t play Touch of Grey” which got me some strange looks until I laughed at my own joke.  (That song is just about universally hated as a commercial sellout by many Dead Heads.)

Then, just when we hit the street and we were exiting back to reality, I heard a very distinctive sound from the past.  I looked over to see people congregating just to the right of the main entrance of the theatre.  Many were leaving this small huddle with balloons in hand. 

“Dude, look- that guy’s selling nitrous balloons out of a backpack!”  I said to my friend.

“Oh my god- that’s crazy.”  We both stopped and stared for a moment.

“Let’s get a couple.  I haven’t done nitrous since the Love Parade in Berlin in 1996.”

“Arrrh, I don’t think so.  I got to work tomorrow morning.”

“It’s nitrous, it will wear off in a few minutes. Who knows when we’ll see this again?”

My buddy didn’t want anything to do with it, “Dude, it’s hard on the system and I don’t have many brain cells to spare these days.” 

And with that dose of middle-aged cynical realism, it was clear that the magic of the night couldn’t survive without the music around to sustain it.  In a final effort to prolong this kinder and gentler alternate reality, I ran over and bought a balloon for myself.  I downed it in a few deep breaths just before we grabbed a cab and headed back to the mundane race to mediocrity that is our culture today.  Despite the destination, for me, it was a good cab ride home.  Full of laughs.  

###

Cupcake

Cupcake

I was at a house party in Logan Square that a chick I know, Victoria, was hosting.  It was in a small apartment; so even though only around 20 people were there, that was enough to make it standing room only.  No one was dancing, but music was playing in the living room from a laptop that was plugged into the speaker system for the TV.

I had just said goodnight to someone at the front door and thought I’d make my way back through the crowd for a last beer or two before heading out myself.  After I closed the door, I took a quick look into the bedroom to my left to see if anything interesting was going on in there.  The lights were off, but the streetlight was streaming in through the windows.  As I popped my head in I could see an Asian guy lying back on the bed staring at the ceiling with his feet still flat on the floor and there was a black woman sitting next to him with her back toward me.  The guy looked out of it and the woman seemed to be stroking his head and saying, “it’s ok, it’s going to be ok, it’s ok,” over and over.  I clearly didn’t want anything to do with that scene and started making my way through the living room to the beer stash in the kitchen. 

As I passed the television stand, I looked down and noticed that someone had left a half eaten cupcake nestled between the TV and the laptop.  Now, seeing this cupcake balancing so precariously, I decided to be a good Samaritan and throw it out.  I didn’t want someone to accidently knock it onto the floor where it would make a mess for Victoria.  So, without any pomp, I bent down and grabbed it and continued toward the kitchen. 

Once there I approached the garbage bin, which was across from the sink and stove.  There were three guys standing in front of the garbage can having a discussion.  One of the guys was a person I’d met earlier in the evening.  He seemed like a nice enough guy.  His name was Brandon and he was originally from Texas, but had lived in Chicago for many years.  He was also the person standing directly in front of the garbage can and the only one from the group that I had met, so, for some reason- I don’t even know why, trying to be funny I guess, I made a little joke as I went to throw out the abandoned cupcake.

“Hey, did one of you leave this half eaten cupcake next to the stereo?”  I said with a smile.  They all just stopped their conversation and looked at me.  “Is this yours?”  I continued as I lifted the cupcake into the middle of their circle and looked at Brandon.  Still nothing.  The joke clearly wasn’t connecting, so I decided to let it go.  “Well, if this isn’t yours, can you make a little space so I can throw it out?” 

“You calling me a cupcake?”  Brandon said, very serious all of a sudden.

“Cupcake?  No, I was just throwing away this half eaten cupcake I found on the stereo and was asking if it was one of---”

“WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU CALLING ME A CUPCAKE?!?!?” Brandon yelled raising his voice dramatically.  He appeared to be trying to psyche himself up and was getting all animated now.  He was also refusing to give me any access to the garbage can.  It was clearly time to nip this in the bud.

“Hey man, I’m not calling you, or anyone, a cupcake.  Seriously.  I was just trying to throw this out so that it didn’t fall on the floor and make a mess.  No stress, don’t worry about it.  I’ll just leave it by the sink.”  I said and retreated to the other side of the room and put the cupcake down next to some dirty dishes on the counter. 

Once there, I grabbed a beer and saw Victoria.  When she saw me, she asked how I liked the party.

“It’s been great, thanks again for inviting me.”  I answered.

“Oh, it’s nothing.  I’m glad you made it.”  

“I will say that I just had a strange experience with your friend Brandon.”  Throughout this conversation I could see Brandon was staring at me the whole time.

“What happened?” 

“Well, maybe I was wrong for making a joke, but I found this half eaten cupcake lying on the laptop and went to throw it out.”  I indicated to the lonely remains of the cupcake now sitting in a puddle getting soggy next to the sink.  “When I got to the trash, I made a joke about it maybe being one of theirs and things got a little weird.”  By this time Brandon was inching his way closer so that he could hear what I was saying.  I again choose to defuse the situation, so I turned and confronted him.

“Seriously dude, what’s the problem?  It was just a misunderstanding, a bad joke.”  I said.

He immediately stepped over, got in my face and said in a coarse whisper, “I just want to kick your fucking ass right now!”  Victoria took a step back.

“Are you kidding me?  Jesus, let it go man.  I really didn’t mean anything by it.”

“You call me a cupcake and you don’t think that’s offensive?”

“Actually, no, I don’t.  Also, I wasn’t calling you cupcake.  I was making a joke that it may’ve been your cupcake and trust me, I regret even saying that now.”  I stared him right in the eyes.  “Come on, let it go.  Why pick a fight over nothing?”

Brandon didn’t know what to say and with Victoria right there looking quite concerned, he finally relented, “Ok, I guess it was a mistake.” 

“Cool, seriously, I never meant any offense.”  I added while offering him my hand.  We shook hands and he walked back to his group by the trash.  I looked at Victoria and she laughed in a nervous way. 

“What the hell just happened?”  She said.

“I really have no idea.”

“I never even knew cupcake was such an insult, what does it even mean?”  Victoria said.

“Well, I guess it could mean gay or girlie in a derogatory way, though I didn’t even think about that when I said it.  People are such idiots I swear.  I just asked if the half eaten cupcake was one of theirs before throwing it away and all hell breaks out.  What kind of world are we living in?”  I asked rhetorically, still tying to figure out what the heck just went down.  Of course, while we were talking every time I glanced in Brandon’s direction his eyes were fixed on me as if I was the only person at the party.

“Let’s stop talking about this.  He’s still tryin’ to listen in.  I’m going to head out back for a smoke to let things cool down.”  Brandon followed me with his eyes as I exited the room.  As I walked to the back, I realized my mood was ruined and decided it was time to get the hell out (after finishing my beer of course).  

Victoria showed up a few minutes later.  She was concerned, “I really feel sorry about what happened,”

“Oh, please don’t worry about it.  I’m sure he must’ve gotten over it once I left the room.  There are more important things in the world than fighting over a cupcake.”  I added, wishing it was somehow true.  

After a couple minutes, I was done.  I thanked and said goodbye to Victoria.  However, as I made my way back inside, I was sorry to find out that news of the “cupcake scandal” had made its way through the party like a tsunami hitting an island in the Pacific- everyone seemed to know about it.  Of course, Brandon’s beady little eyes immediately honed in on me as I entered the kitchen area.  DEFCON-2- we can go ballistic at anytime, I told myself. 

It got worse.  Every time I passed someone I had met, they were calling me “cupcake” and then making a joke about the whole thing, which was dramatically slowing down my exit.  While I understood the humor in it, it was hard to laugh with Brandon still in my peripheral vision listening and physically reacting in a strange manner every time the word “cupcake” was spoken aloud.  Once he bristled up and rose slightly on the balls of his feet as if he may explode at any moment.  At another incident of hearing this dreadful word, he started rocking back and forth while looking up at the ceiling with a strange smile as if he needed some supernatural support from the gods.  Definitely DEFCON-2.  Attack imminent.

As I was entering the main room, yet another person came up and said, “Hey cupcake!  How you feeling?”  I laughed it off, but then saw Brandon had started walking toward me, but he shifted as I turned to face him and made his way into the toilet.  He glanced back at me while closing the door maintaining his evil scowl.   

I immediately assumed that he was going into the toilet to top himself off with some of the coke (or something else) that was going around the party and figured it was best to exit before he would emerge even more jacked up.  I said some quick goodbyes to no one I ever cared to see again and left.  It wasn’t so much as running away, as it was just avoiding a ridiculous confrontation with a fool over something totally meaningless.

The next morning I received a text from Victoria telling me that after I left, Brandon picked a fight with one of her other friends.  While I was glad to have sidestepped that obvious outcome, a certain depression remained over me.  These days, it just seems like society is so lost and divided and everywhere I go, there is some form of a “Brandon” waiting on the sidelines to confront me and manufacture a petty confrontation.  And when things don’t play out as they want, they’ll then latch on to something they can pervert into an insult, like something as small and insignificant as a half eaten cupcake.

Epilogue:  A short time later I was at another house party and wouldn’t you know it, I spied a half eaten brownie abandoned on the arm of the couch as I went by.  I almost left it there, but quickly resolved that I couldn’t let the Brandon incident change my natural inclination to lend a helping hand and that I should throw it out.  I had the brownie in my hand as I entered the kitchen smiling as I remembered how ludicrous the Brandon incident was.  Then I noticed that right in front of the garbage can were three black guys having an animated discussion.  They stopped talking and stared at me as I approached with the brownie held out in front of me.  I was about to say something about throwing it out when panic hit.  I then stuffed the entire remainder of the brownie into my mouth, looked down and kept walking.

###

The Day I was HIV-Positive

The Day I was HIV-Positive

It was just after 7am when my mother opened the door and leaned into my room, “Honey, you need to wake up.”  She said cautiously.

I was in Chicago visiting for the holidays and was out late drinking with some friends the night before.  She was in the habit of waking me up each morning to see if I wanted a coffee from Starbucks or to tell me she was leaving the house for some reason or other and, of course, I didn’t care about any of it.  “Not now Mom, I’m sleeping.”

“Honey, Dr. Salter called.  Your HIV test was positive and he wants you to see a specialist before you leave town tomorrow.  You need to get up and take a shower.  We have an 8:30 appointment downtown at Rush Presbyterian,” she said steadily, in a voice I had never heard before.  I immediately pushed myself up on my right elbow.

“Dr. Salter said what?”

“Your HIV test was positive, and you need to get up right now.  He made an appointment-

“What?!? What are you talking about?  Why would he even tell you my test results?”  I’m not sure why this was my initial reaction to the horror that was unfolding before me, but it was. 

“He was worried that you were leaving to go back to Europe and he wanted to make sure he caught you before you left.  He wants you to see this specialist at 8:30.”  Her steady demeanor was quickly falling victim to despair and she now struggled to get the words out.

“Ok, ok,” I stopped her.  “Let me jump in the shower and we’ll head down to see this guy,” I said in a voice still grainy from the drinking from the night before.  She left the room and I laid there in disbelief.  Disbelief in the news and also that something so personal could be relayed to me from my doctor through my mother.  What the fuck was he thinking?  He was our family physician and had a relationship with all of us, but this level of unprofessionalism was just over the top.  

“Let’s get out of here.”  Is all I said when I went downstairs after my shower and met my mother in the kitchen.

It was balls cold and spectacularly bright in Chicago that morning, and I couldn’t feel a thing.  We got in the car and were on our way.  In silence.  This was unknown territory.  “What a fucking life!  HIV-Positive- How can this be happening?”  I kept thinking to myself over and over.

We were soon heading down the expressway in the left lane going the speed of traffic.  We just drove along in this sensational winter sunlight.  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.  They were all in my head and soul- it was a torrential storm happening there. 

My thoughts were scattered: How could this be?  Could I really have AIDS?  What will become of my life?  Game over—Game fucking over--- 

After thirty-five minutes that closely resembled an eternity, we arrived at the hospital to see a Dr. Bregen, the top HIV/AIDS specialist in Chicago.  There was valet parking at the hospital for $18 for the first hour.  As I took the slip from the valet, I saw my breathe in the subzero air and looked up at the sun hoping to find an answer from above.  It wasn’t there and all I got was spots in my vision, which half blinded me.  “There is no payoff in life.  I’m fucked,” I thought to myself.

The sign on the office door said Retro Virus/Infectious Disease Center.  The waiting room was completely devoid of life except for one person on the far end behind the reception desk.  All the signs on the walls and all the literature available to look through had only to do with HIV/AIDS.  The place felt like where I thought I was headed- a morgue. 

The posters were frank and unrelenting.  “Ignorance = Fear, Silence = Death” was one of the signs I saw.  Anyone who was a patient in this office immediately knew that they were in health trouble of the most serious kind. 

The receptionist handed me a questionnaire.  I sat down and started filling it in.  As I did this, my mother sat in the chair immediately to my right, crossed her legs, her left foot over her right knee and started shaking her foot back and forth nervously.  It was distracting and I almost said something, but somehow kept silent and only found pity for the poor woman.  She was obviously a nervous wreck and being surrounded by all the HIV/AIDS materials only compounded the realization that I, her youngest child, was cooked.  

“I feel like I’m going to puke.”  I said out loud.  I was getting nauseas filling out the questionnaire about my health history and sexual habits next to my mother’s shaking foot.  I managed to complete the form and handed it back to the receptionist.

After 15-20 minutes, a nurse came out and told me to follow her.  She brought me to a room that had no windows and was extremely small. The place was claustrophobic and smelt like iodine.  It was also freezing in there.  The nurse verbally went through my questionnaire. 

“You live in Ukraine?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do there?”

“I work in finance.”

“Are you currently on any medication?”

“No.”

“Have you recently been sick or on any medication?”

“No.”

“Are you allergic to any medication?”

“No.”

“Did you take a flu shot this winter?”

“Yes.”

 “Are you sexually active?”

“Yes.”

“Have you had unprotected sex with anyone recently?”

“No.  Not really.”  She didn’t stop at this vague answer and just kept the barrage of questions coming. 

“Have you ever been involved in a homosexual relationship?”

“No.”

“Have you done any illicit drugs over the past 12 months?”

“No, but I smoke marijuana sometimes.” 

“Have you been in a serious injury or had an operation at any time over the last twenty-four months that required a blood transfusion?”

“No.” 

She basically went through everything a second time and then said, “The Doctor will be in to see you shortly.”

As she was walking out, I asked, “Do you really think I may have HIV?” 

She stopped cold, turned and looked directly into my eyes.  Her demeanor lacked any empathy or warmth, just like the fluorescent lights bathing us from above.  “You definitely have something and you’re here so we can find out exactly what that is.”  She then added, “The doctor will be right in” and walked out of the room. 

I was so shocked by her words that I didn’t even have time to respond and then, just like that, she was gone.  “Oh my fucking God!” was all I could think about as the door to my cell latched shut. 

Now my hands were sweating and my heart racing.  I started pacing back-and-forth back-and-forth.  “I’m done.  OH MY GOD I’M SO FUCKED….” I must have repeated that 50 times while walking back and forth in that little cage.  My hair was standing up at its roots. 

I’m toast. 

I’m cooked. 

I’m dead. 

Everything had a surreal aspect to it.  Despair had me by the balls and she wasn’t letting go. 

After a few minutes, the door opened and a man walked in.  He was wearing a white doctors coat and he shook my hand while looking me in the eyes.  “Hello Michael, I’m Doctor Bregen.”

“Hello Doctor.”

“I have some good news and some bad news.  The good news is I don’t think you have HIV; the bad news is we won’t be able to confirm this for awhile- most likely six months.”

“Wha? Huhhow dooyou know?  Wasn’t my test pos-”

“From your questionnaire I strongly believe that you’re a false positive.”

“Don’t you have to take some blood or run some tests or something?”  I said raising my arm with the underside up, offering my veins for further sacrifice.

“More tests won’t do anything.  They will continue to give the same result.”  He then added, “I see that you took a flu shot this winter.  That’s what I believe is causing this positive result.  I was one of the three doctors that designed the HIV anti-body test and it’s susceptible to certain flu shots.”

“A flu shot made me HIV-positive?” 

  

“I strongly believe you don’t have HIV.  You don’t fit the profile.”  He stated calmly.

“But the nurse said I “definitely have something,” how could she say that?”

“She was wrong to say that.”  

“Shouldn’t we do something?  Run a test?”

“As I said, they’ll all be positive.  You need to wait up to six months before the anti-bodies will disappear and then, after that, I believe your tests will show that you are in fact HIV-negative.  Thank you for coming in, I have to go now.”

 And just like that, he was gone.  How could this be true?  I just couldn’t believe it. One moment you’re fine, the next, you’re sick and dying, then you’re fine again (maybe) and in between all these changes, nothing has happened!  This was so depressing.  What a crock of shit.    

After a few minutes, I left the room to find no one there.  The halls were empty and I was dazed.  “What bunch of fools these people are”, I thought to myself.  “These fucking idiots- all of them.”  They give you some vague assurance that you’re fine and then they abandon you.  I went back down the corridor and opened the door to the waiting room. 

My mother was standing there in front of the reception desk, which was also abandoned now.  As I surveyed the room quickly to see if anyone else was there, my eyes fell upon myself in a mirror above the reception desk and I held my own gaze- trying to reassure myself that I was indeed there, this was really happening and I was living through this madness.  Behind me, in the reflection was the poster about “Ignorance = Fear” and I realized just then that the poster was misleading.  Ignorance didn’t equal fear- sadly, everyone is ignorant and just as much, everyone is an idiot full of fear. 

I looked around.  We were alone in the office.  All the rats and roaches had fled because the lights were turned on and the sun had come up.  I returned my eyes to my mother.  She looked as frail as a long cigar ash just before it falls into an ashtray from being overburdened by its own weight.  She visibly braced herself for the news and said, “What did they say?”  There was only pain in her eyes.

“They say they don’t think I have it…but I really don’t know if I can believe them.”  Is all I could muster to say.  My voice was shallow, filled with disbelief. 

Her body started shaking uncontrollably.  She was crying. 

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