Did Jerry’s death keep me alive? Four days before he had died two miles from my home, I had just celebrated one year of clean and sober living after using drugs every day of my life for 26 years. And dealing drugs as my sole means of income for 23 years.

            I had moved to idyllic Marin County in 1981 with my girlfriend to raise our one-year-old son Benjamin. By 1993, I would see Jerry around because his daughter went to the same Waldorf school as my son, and once a month the school would stage a play. Jerry would come to see his daughter perform, and my son would be in the same plays. Phil Lesh’s daughter also went to the Marin Waldorf school.

            The first time I laid my eyes and ears on Jerry Garcia was at Temple University’s neighborhood football field on May 16, 1970, in Philadelphia. I remember complaining to my brother about the band having to have two drummers. The Dead were not the headliners that day. Opening the concert was Buddy Guy’s Blues Band and The Steve Miller Band. Hendrix was the headliner. A very special day to say the least. I smoked pot the whole day and dropped a little acid after Buddy Guy. When the entire stadium landed back on earth after Jimi broke the sound barrier and space expanded past the known universe, my brother drove us back to our cozy little row house in Logan. I remember being on the verge of a very unpleasant personal mental conundrum. In other words, I was on the verge of freaking the fuck out. Laying on the couch trying to stay stable, I asked/implored/begged him to keep “Turn On Your Love Light” playing over and over. He sat by the Columbia House stereo with extendable speakers, and when the song was over, picked up the needle and laid it gently back at the beginning of the track. Over and over. And all was well with the world.

            It was that day I decided to get high every day from then on. But I was no idiot, and I knew taking acid every day was not an intelligent option for a Jewish teenager with no ambition other than to get high every day. After all, wasn’t it Allen Watts who said about LSD, “When you get the message, hang up the phone.” So marijuana became my North Star. And I fulfilled that promise until I drove myself to the Betty Ford Clinic 25 years later. There were probably a couple days off due to hospitalizations caused by life threatening asthma attacks. I guess I was an idiot after all! And developed a dependency on weed to be alive. I didn’t just smoke weed, I kept a very active survival kit filled with Percodan, Valium, ‘shrooms, and ecstasy. I was also addicted to Absolute Vodka and Chicano Tequila.

            So after a month of not getting high (or low) at Betty Ford, I realized to my utter amazement I had just gone 30 days without smoking pot. I didn’t think that was possible on a quantum level. Yet it happened.

            I walked into the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous a couple weeks later. Got a sponsor, started going to a few meetings a week, stopped dealing and felt OK. But just OK. So when my one year sober anniversary came and went on August 4th, 1995, I started reconsidering. I had a lover, but no real girlfriend, no great job, and a subtle ennui had set in. And then two miles away, in Forrest Knolls, Jerry died in a car outside a rehab from allegedly natural causes. He was only 53. The ’60s were really over, once and for all. Drugs were passé! On that day, I made a vow — I would stay off drugs and booze forever.