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“You know.” Cool-guy said. “This’ll be Holly’s first time.”

Stan spun around. “Your first? You mean your first Dead concert in Colorado, right?”

I laughed. “This’ll be my first Dead concert in my whole-long-Winter-life.”

Martin adjusted his baseball cap. “You’ll be glad you came. They’re amazing.”

Stan’s eyes got big. “You’re going to LOVE it! You know their music, don’t you?”

“A few songs.” I said. “Like that one, “If you’re not with the one you love, love the one you’re with…”

Cool-guy put his arm around my shoulder. “Nope. Right era, wrong band. Really good try, though.”

We settled onto our benches and watched as twilight descended. This last light is a magical time at the Red Rocks outdoor Ampitheater, when the huge, natural rock walls surrounding the seating area appear to glow a deep red in the fading light. Heck with the music. Just being there is entertainment enough for anyone.

The far away city of Denver twinked its lights on and the stars popped out, all at once, adding a festive touch to the air. The stars rarely miss a show out here. Can you blame them?

The warm up band started. Hey. They sounded pretty good. Dancing broke out in the crowd like a spotted rash that was only in the front and then suddenly everywhere all at once. A woman in front of me started crying and hugged her husband tightly.

Cool. I knew this song. Wow. You know it too…. Truckin… down to New Orleans…. Look. The whole stadium was dancing in rhythm. Up. Down. Up. Down. The preteens next to me plugged their noses trying to keep out the pot smell, while they sang along to the song their father had drilled into them via osmosis long ago.

Oh. I guess we missed the warm up band. This was them: The Dead. The music filled the night with excitement.

“Bet they’ll sing “My Uncle” next.” Stan said. “They haven’t sung it yet on this tour.”

The next song started.

“Ok.” Stan assured me. “This one’s good too.”

I left my bog of boys, whose wives were happy to stay home with the children tonight, and headed up to the bathrooms. Each step of the stairs was laden with multiple dancers. Women in long flowing skirts spun around in slow circles while their arms tried to float away on the beat of the music. There wasn’t room on the stairs to pass. Hey. Upstairs. Um. Can I get through?

Swirling dancers. Twirling dancers. So drugged. Each in her own, dizzying world.

I’m sure this is what Alice saw when she entered Wonderland. Only she didn’t know how to describe it, so she put a big hat on one guy and a funny personality on another and tried to drink tea with them. This concert was the dancer’s wonderland. I climbed carefully, knowing I didn’t fit in.

Me? Jeans. Long sleeved fleece jacket. No bandana. No colors. No drugs, well not recreational drugs. Only doctor prescribed medication. Could the dancers tell I wasn’t sure if the Grateful Dead were still performing together and then when I found out they were, I figured Gerry was still alive? And then when I found out he was truly dead (not just part of a band), I wondered why the remainder of the band didn’t change their names to the Grateful Living rather than The Dead?

I accepted being the oddity. Isn’t that why we go out in public? To stand around and look at all the people who are like us so we feel as if we fit in. And then when we are sure we fit in, we have grounds to stand around and call everybody who doesn’t fit into our mold crazy, or foolish or frayed around the edges. I was willing to be seen as their crazy person. After all, I was at their concert.

An old man beckoned to me from the top of the stairs.

He pointed to the crowd and said, “Have you seen all the baseball caps?”

I had noticed that baseball caps outnumbered all the other headgear on the younger generation attending the concert. “I have.”

“Well.” He said, pulling on his gray beard. “I can remember when nobody would go to a show without a bandana on their head.”

Having never been to a show before, that was something I wouldn’t have noticed. “Are you saying that the change away from bandanas is good or bad?”

“Well.” He said, pulling on his gray beard. “Years ago people were into the colors of their life, so they wore bandanas. Now they’re into the game of life, so they’re wearing baseball hats.”

Oh. “So.” I said. Man. I like that. Color of life. Game of life. “What do you foresee the headgear of the future to be?”

“Well.” He said, pulling on his gray beard. “I’m expecting that the head gear of the future will be exactly what you are wearing tonight.”

I shook my head. “Um. I’m not wearing anything.”

“Exactly.” He said, pulling on his gray beard. “In the future people will be so comfortable with who they are, they won’t have to wear anything on their heads, just like you. They can wear themselves as a decoration, as you do.”

“How will we recognize these people?” I asked. Hmmm.

“Well.” He nodded, pulling on his gray beard. “We will recognize them by looking in the mirror.”

“Oh. So.” I said, tapping into his analogy. “Are you saying I don’t need to recognize the others? I only need to recognize myself?”

“Well.” He smiled. “You got that very fast. Very, very fast. That’s quite unusual. But. That’s the way you are.” He pulled on his gray beard. “What I’m telling you is….. you should only look at yourself, because you’re always first. There is no comparison.”

“Thanks.” I said, confused. Was he a sage or a crazie? He was dressed in loose, comfortable clothing. Should I regard his advice differently if he is a Dead-head? “And when you look in the mirror?” I asked. “What do you see?”

“Well.” He said, pulling on his gray beard. “When I look in the mirror, I’m first. But…. when you look in the mirror, you must always be first in your line of vision. Don’t look for others in your mirror.”

Sage? Was he all wisdom? “Oh. So.” I said, not willing to admit how often I compare myself to others when I look in the mirror. Was I that transparent to him? I laughed. “Is getting rhetorical advice from a stranger part of the Grateful Dead experience?”

“Well.” He said, pulling on his gray beard. “It’s all part of the show. People who come to these concerts know that.”

I turned and looked back at the twirling dancers on the stairs. They weren’t watching the show. They had become a part of it. How long had I considered myself an extra in someone else’s movie? A compliment to someone else’s dinner party? Was being a writer some measly excuse for sitting alone and recording what happened to others rather than grabbing life by the reins and yelling, ‘Giddy up!’

He pulled on his gray beard and smiled. “Remember. You’re not just a part of the show, you’re the star in your show.”

“Ok.” I nodded, as little goose bums ran down my arms. Had he just read my ‘Giddy up!’ thought? “And what shall we call my show?”

He pulled on his gray beard as he thought about the answer. “I think we’ll call your show, ‘The Show of Life.”

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