Jerry Garcia died the day I left Albany for good, August 9, 1995. In an apparent murder-suicide, he took my childhood with him. (NOTE TO MILLENNIAL FUCKWADS: I don’t want to hear how old you were in 1995. Whether you were in Middle School, Elementary School or Diapers, I don’t want to know about it. And wipe that patronizing “listening to Grampa Simpson tell his Lollapalooza Mosh-Pit Stories for the 10,000^th Time” smirk off your soul-patched, hipster side-burned, weasely little face. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the suckers who showed up too late to the Great Global House Party of cheap gas, music videos and nuclear anxiety that was the 20^th Century and arrived just in time to mop up the puke, save the polar bears, and recycle our empties to pay for healthcare. Have fun with that, kids. Hey- if you’re lucky, maybe you can scrape out a little resin ball of Contentment from the huge bowl of Prosperity we smoked last century. That was some gooooood shit.)

Anyhow, I always felt like by dying right as I left my hometown for the Big City, that Jerry was looking out for me, protecting me from myself. It’s like he was saying: “Hey man, I know you’re moving to New York to follow your dreams and that’s groovy and all, but it’s going to suck major dog-balls for the first few years, so, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to go ahead and die That way, while you’re telemarketing credit cards to old people who can barely afford the minimum payment, or cleaning toilets in comedy clubs for stage time and tips, or getting turned down for that sweet job at Brookstone (fucking personality test- I was this close before they made me take that thing. Angry and anti-social my fucking balls, you ass-face corporate novelty electronics retail Nazi pigs!) you won’t be kicking yourself the whole time for not dropping out of life instead and following me around in a beat up purple school bus called the 420 Express (next stop- Terrapin Station) playing bongos and selling Super Kind Veggie Burritos in the parking lot outside Giants Stadium before scoring that miracle ticket and catching your 10,000^th show. Nope, I’m just gonna die and take this happy, hairy, hippy fantasy down to the grave with me so that you can just keep grinding away in miserable under-employment until you make something halfway useful out of yourself. I mean, what’s the alternative- follow Phish? Phuck that.”