The Bob

Going to see The Bob tomorrow night, even though he's on a bill with the (remaining) Grateful Dead. I've never been a huge Dead fan, and early on decided that I really dislike Deadheads. In fact, it was the prospect of being in a room full of them (albeit a very, very, large room) that had me hemming and hawing about actually going to the show.

Then I realized how old that made me feel and sound, and immediately got on line and bought the tickets.

It was my experience in college that Deadheads always had the very best audio equipment, but all they ever played was the Dead. They universally wore plaid flannel shirts, hiking boots and too much patchouli. Men or women, it made no difference. They tended to be pasty, ill-looking vegetarians, too. I have never had reason to update this opinion of Deadheads, either.

And, worst of all faults, aside from the tragic fashion sense, was their obsession with all things Dead.

As someone with a healthy obsession for all things Bob, one could easily assume that their obsession would only endear them to me. It did not. It does not. There is a fine line between obsessed and crazy, and for me, Deadheads tend to fall to the other side of that line.

Case in point: a vacation many years ago to the island of Nantucket. The host was an old-money preppie. He had two suitcases. One contained his Izod shirts and khaki shorts, and the other contained nothing but Dead bootlegs. This was all he brought for a long weekend house party. Nothing but Dead bootlegs, and he wanted us all to listen to the various drum solos from a pair of shows in Dusselburg, to compare and contrast the 15 minute solo on each tape. I thought I'd have to push pencils through my eardrums to escape.

I, yes even I, will pack something other than Bob or Bruce for an extended weekend with guests who might not share my obsession. And that's the difference between obsessed and crazy.