Ah, Salon. My old nemesis. Lord, how I hate thee. Who is your audience, Salon, People who don’t quite understand The Atlantic? Why must you print shit like this:
In June of last year, with less than a week’s notice, my husband Paul and I scrapped our plans to go to Europe for our summer vacation and decided instead to follow the Dead for their entire West Coast tour (and some of the East Coast too). Over the next few weeks, we drove 4,000 miles in a rented truck, slept in 14 different places, ate at truck stops, and saw about a dozen Dead & Company shows.
Before we left, I was at a particularly low point — feeling alienated and broken by the destructive and seemingly relentless attacks and fights in my professional world — and in the world more broadly. It was my Australian husband, to whom the Dead was an entirely new experience, who suggested: “Let’s do what we know makes you happy — see as many Dead shows as we can.” It wasn’t meant to be life-changing; it was meant to be an escape. From myself. From the world. We’d go back in time to my carefree Deadhead days. But not long into the journey, I realized that I wasn’t escaping myself; I was returning to myself. I was going right back home. Right back to my roots. Right back to the things that have always been and will always remain my core values and beliefs and passions.
The things I feared were frivolous during my young Deadhead days, I began to understand in an entirely different way. They’re the very things I study, write and teach about: presence, listening, generosity, trust, authentic self-expression. The building blocks of healthy human interactions, cultures and communities. The things that we now know, through abundant scientific research, lead people and societies to thrive. – Communing with the Dead, Amy Cuddy
That’s it, I can’t take it, I’m making an official proclamation: NO ONE BUT ME IS ALLOWED TO WRITE ABOUT THE GRATEFUL DEAD ANY MORE. Or maybe people can but they need permission. Whichever. This can’t happen again.
Why, Salon? Why inflict this on a world already suffering and broken, and why pay for it? Whatever you gave Amy, I’ll take twenty bucks less. I’ll give you some blather about community and gentle hugs from fat guys or whatever the fuck she’s on about.
OH, and guess what the “relentless attacks and fights” were over? Amy Cuddy is a dirty, dirty P-hacker, and no righteous soul should abide her presence. (Her crime was making shit up in a field–social psychology–that is 100% made-up shit. They call it psychology so you’ll think it’s a real science like biology, but all that shit’s made-up shit. So: she did it, but so did everyone else.)
What has become of the fanbase, Enthusiast? We’re picking up the whiff of delinquence here. Neo-Fascist political operatives, academic grifters, silicon valley draculas…I weep for the state of us.
Oh for fuck’s sake:
When I look at all of this from 30,000 feet, I can’t help but wonder: Are we all in a moment of greater need of community? Of hometowns? Of bounteous presence? Does this help to explain why the Dead are selling out shows and booking the largest venues every single year, an unusual accomplishment for any band? And does it help to explain why these talented musicians — each of whom could be enjoying the glory of solo shows — have instead come together to build this new home?
She wrote it on the plane ride home. She literally wrote it–
…
I’m just so tired.
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