As I mentioned earlier, The Dead had the same tremendous impact on my earlier years as Pat Boone or New Kids on the Block. I'd heard their music on the radio, but I didn't hang out with hippie types, not even in college. It wasn't until I married an ex-hippie that an opportunity came up to see The Dead in concert at Columbia Meadows north of Portland, Oregon. I wanted to better understand the music and the culture the band has created over their lengthy tenure.

In late July, we drove out to the barren hayfield, currently filling rapidly with rows of cars. While I expected the venue to be unimpressive, I had high expectations (no pun intended) for the pre-concert festivities. Luckily I didn't hold my breath. I was completely under whelmed by the venerable "Shakedown Street." While I did see my share of dirty, smelly youth, the atmosphere was fairly tame, if not outright capitalistic. The rows of faux-impoverished merchants plied prospects with everything from ice cream and cheese sandwiches to the predictable (and popular) "tobacco pipes" and Bic lighters.

After a brief sightseeing tour, we rendezvoused at our car to have a few drinks before heading into the concert. By the time we meandered through the security, the opening act was over and we spent the majority of the evening in the beer garden consoling ourselves. By the time The Dead finally came on, we were three sheets to the wind and had trouble focusing on the group from our expensive, and unfortunately, deceptively close seats.

We were burned out on the scene after only 3 or 4 songs and picked up a corndog on the way back to the car. Interestingly, the two Dead Heads of the foursome didn't say one word about the concert or the music on the ride home, or the days following. For people that memorized the lyrics to every song, let alone every play list at every concert they attended previously, I was more than surprised at the lack of enthusiasm.

When questioning my wife about her first experience with the Jerry-free Dead, she said it was slightly disappointing, and let it at that. I believe there is more to it, but am content to come to my own conclusions: The Grateful Dead are talented musicians, even without Jerry, but they will never be the same without him.

I respect their music, even if I'm not exactly a fan, but what I appreciate the most about them is their marketing acumen. One visit to their Web site and you'll see what I mean: everything for sale from shoelaces to baby clothes. More importantly, The Dead have built their fan base by encouraging bootleg recordings and inventing a cult-like lifestyle that involves following them to every concert (read: recurring revenue). Phish learned well from the masters and have a similar following in Phish Heads.

So I guess you could call me a fan. The Dead have generated wealth by creating a lifestyle that taps into the conscious across age, gender and demographic factors . As long as we are among the living, we will be among the Dead Heads. You'll find me on Shakedown Street selling my famous garlic grilled cheese sandwiches to the target-rich crowd.