Sunday, June 15, 2008

I was at some college where a famous writer was an English professor. I'd heard that his favorite piece of advice was this: "Every story must have an alias. Why not you?" I took this to mean a story should be written from one's own point of view, or at least be based on one's own experiences.

At this college, Bob Weir and Phil Lesh were members of the faculty. I was hanging out with my dad and we spotted Phil entering a building with his bass, possibly on his way to teach a class. My dad said, "Look who that is," and walked over to introduce himself. I knew that Phil was very guarded about his privacy so I was worried that this would not go well. Some bodyguard or assistant tried to intercept my dad before he got to Phil. My dad persisted and finally got Phil's attention. Phil was trying to tell him to leave him alone, refusing to shake my dad's extended hand. Then my dad was back by my side. He told me that Phil had hit him. My dad was lying in some kind of bed or stretcher, stricken, with a pane of broken glass extended over his body. I understood this to represent his glasses, and that they had been shattered when Phil hit him.