Like The Do-Dah Man

I have never been to a Grateful Dead show. But last week I got very close. A very good friend and I drove up to our old high school and found the parking lot staked out with a man who held a sign: $20 Concert Parking. Would we be afforded a free spot if we told him that we used to go there. That we started dating back then. We were in marching band together. This was a reunion some twenty years in the making. Back in the 1980s, we had attended a great many concerts just up the hill from there. At Folsom Field, home of the Colorado Sun Day series. All-day rock and roll marathons. We didn't have tickets for the Dead show that particular evening.
So, instead, we found a free spot to park just across the street from the high school and wandered up onto the campus. We passed buildings in which we had classes, and eventually made our way over to the University Memorial Center. There we found the grill, named for inspiration for Cannibal! The Musical, Alfred Packer. It was closed. We went upstairs and found the doors to the Glenn Miller Ballroom unlocked. Inside, I recounted my glory days as part of a Trivia Bowl team: Renegade Poodles From Hell.
Having expended the memories of that came from inside, we walked outside the Memorial Center. Here we found the spot where we, and a few other brave souls, had braved the elements and camped out for concert tickets. Before the advent of click and refresh Internet purchase of seats, this was the way we rolled. Or sat. For days. This reverie was broken as a young man called out to us, "You got an extra ticket?" The collapse of our reality was profound. Wouldn't you just go around  the corner, as we once had, to see if there were any available at the Select-A-Seat outlet?
Sorry, man. Hoping you got your miracle.
Off we went, finding ourselves outside the University Art Museum. A new structure, and we found ourselves amused at the notion that the powers that be would keep it open while just across campus there was a huge crowd forming outside the football stadium. We were happy once we were inside. Air conditioned and a thought-provoking exhibit describing the history of climate change, we were entertained, but not by the Grateful Dead.
Once we finished taking in our dose of culture, it was time to see what all the fuss was about. The closer we got to the stadium, the more tie-dye we encountered. Just across the way from the security gates, a bazaar had been set up for the sale of T-shirts, cool drinks and even more of that ever-present  tie-dye. As we waded through the sweaty throng, we agreed that it had never really occurred to either one of us that we might be missing something, concert veterans that we both  were. When we had finally reached the other side of the gathering mass of humanity, we breathed a sigh of relief. We had made it through. Now we could proceed back down the hill, back to the place we had parked before all this nostalgia. Walking down the path, a teenager flew past us on a bicycle. "Hey," he called out, "Nice couple!"
To which I yelled back, "Couple of what?"
That's when another teenager bicycler whizzed by, hollering something that was almost certainly amusing, at least to his friends. We couldn't make it out. We, as a couple, were left wondering. Reaching the car, and noting that we were the only ones heading away from the Dead and Company. I suggested that before we drove away that we might try and  sell our curbside spot to some anxious concert-goer who might see ten dollars as a fair asking price. Instead, we made room for that last minute fan who needed a place. We drove away, leaving all that tie-dye behind.
And we didn't look back.