Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Good Boy
As I mentioned recently, I just finished Blair Jackson’s biography of Jerry Garcia. He’s not the most compelling writer I’ve ever read, and the book went into rather more detail in some matters than I’d have preferred; I could sum it up by saying, if you thought Return of the King ended rather too abrupty, you’d find this a gripping read. I did learn a great deal, though, about a thoroughly fascinating man and a true creative genius. And it’s an unusual experience for me to be reading a thick volume of significant journalistic and investigative research, and recognize in it incidents from my own life. “Oh yeah, Spectrum ‘86, I brought hamentashen to the parking lot that year.” “Oh yeah, Dylan and the Dead in Anaheim; that’s when I sunburned my head so badly I was sick for a week and never went out without a hat again.” “Oh yeah, the memorial concert at the Polo Grounds. What an overwhelming outpouring; what great music; what a great party.”
One reference in particular rang a bell for me - an offhand mention of some security problems at Irvine Meadows ‘89. But I remembered a lot more than the book mentioned. I, after all, had been there - and not alone.
We were all there, Kel and me and a lot of other people. I think Al and Phil and a bunch of affiliated freaks were around, and my sister Evi was there too with Clyde the wonderdog - a big german shepherd, solidly built, friendly, smart and damned sharp looking. Clyde was the archetypical guard dog, but as he lived with Evi, he knew the hippie score very well indeed. In every sense of the word, Clyde was what a dog should be.
Being as he was such a good dog, and as she was still young enough to be naieve about a few things, Evi left Clyde tied to the bumper of her car while she went in to the show. During the concert, as Blair recounts, we could see the security team ranging the dark stark hills behind the outdoor ampitheater. They had ATVs and big spotlights and they were scurrying hither and yon to keep the ticketless hordes from gaining access to Deadsville. From where I stood it was nothing more than a light show. I felt sorry for everybody who was out there getting dusty and sweaty without good acoustics to dance to, cops and scammers and random wastrels alike. But beyond that, I did not care. I was having a high time, living the good life, and the troubles of the outside world ranked low in my hierarchy of concerns.
After the show we wandered through the bizarre bazaar, a veritable ren fair for freaks, back to Evi’s car. There we discovered the unthinkable, or at least the profoundly disappointing: Clyde was gone. His leash lay limp on the pavement, still tied to the bumper. Someone had let him go. Evi was nigh hysterical and we started an ostensibly methodical search of the sprawling parking lots, which were jammed with vendors and lost souls and gawkers and standard issue hippies all strung out after a really good four-hour dance concert. We had miles and miles of parking lot to cover; we tried calling for Clyde but we had shouted ourselves hoarse during the concert and everywhere there was sound and confusion .
After about 90 minutes of fruitless effort, and acting out of pure desparation, I resorted to one of my fallback skills: I can talk to people. So when my searches led me to the main gates and the security command center, I stepped up to report Clyde as missing.
The fellow I chose to approach was clearly (to me) a ranking officer of the in-house security force, who stood like a yellow-jacketed oaken pier piling in a surging sea of dazed freaks. He’d had a long night, with another one to come the next day, and he was tired of inarticulate, incoherent heads asking him dumb questions. I presented myself very much in that mold when I stepped into his awareness, but at least had garnered my capacities beforehand so as to be prepared to interact with him politely and effectively. I therefore spoke with all the clarity I could muster: “Excuse me sir, I think I need to report a lost dog, in case anyone recovers him.”
The guardsman smiled on me with less indulgence than disdain. “You folks let a lot of dogs go. Don’t know how to care for a good dog. I wouldn’t expect you’ll find yours, this is a wide open space and dogs spook and run, get lost, get hurt.... Well okay. What’s his name?”
“Clyde. He’s a german -”
“Clyde? Oh, Clyde.” That light that hadn’t been on behind his eyes had turned back on. He got on his walkie-talkie. “This is Jackson. Who’s got Clyde?” A voice shortly crackled back: “Billy’s got Clyde up back, rousting campers.” “Well send him down, his people are looking for him.”
What we’d repressed was that Clyde came from a line of police dogs, and as much as I hate to accept it, genetics counts - in dogs, anyway. It was in his blood. So, after he’d gotten loose, it seems he’d gone straight to the top cops of the venue to ask for instructions, and they’d put him to work - enthusiastically tracking down gatecrashers in the hills for those ATVs and searchlights I’d seen during the concert, busting freaks and jerks alike. He was living his dream while I lived mine, hunting while I danced. By the time the security team brought him back to us, grinning broadly and clearly actualized, Evi had joined me, crying with relief. “That’s a mighty fine dog you’ve got there,” Jackson told her as he handed Clyde over to her.
MORAL: Character is not a function of circumstance.
