You know me by now, I'm the one who hates death. I didn't like reading about the demise of Bruce Welnick (who many close to him called Bruce Sicknik behind his back), and what was possibly the last emotional straw for him, a well-paid performance, a reunion of sorts, at some unnamed corporate event in Las Vegas. The music press just didn't do their job on that one, they and the "new" Dead played along with the powers that be and the band or their legal representatives all pretty much set their names in permanent ink on the non-disclosure agreements in exchange for God only knows what (stacks of glittering bullion and future access to more of the same undoubtedly), as the private corporate party is every bit as secret as the rites shrouded at Bohemian Grove
, where the Grateful Dead also agreed to perform their hippy wiggle music, because after all they were never "political" and having eaten mounds of 'shrooms and given acid to their doggies and kitties and horses, they are free thinkers and attracted what they saw as the best minds of their generation who lacking anything better to do hovered around them like groupies. I'm afraid I'd lost what respect I might ever had for the Grateful Dead a long time ago, say 1967, and I'd never really liked their output, and while Bob Weir (who many close to him call Bob Weird straight to his face) says only *he* is incapable of reuniting the band (though those unnamed corporate party brokers certainly seemed capable of pulling that off and the Bohemian Grovesters even more so) and a person they invited in to their fold (which they say in hindsight once he began being troublesome wasn't correctly structured as an audition, meaning they were as lazy as always and got the wrong guy and that wrong guy makes too much of the scene and is increasingly excluded and ends up slashing his own throat. Wow, they're the engineers of their choo choo train, okay.