In any room, there’s a dumbest person there. If the room’s large enough, there might even be three dumbest people there. Here are the three from Chicago.
The only explanation I can think of boils down to: it was their fault. I am not blaming the cops on this one. Sure, doobie should be legal and prohibition doesn’t work and yarble yarble yarble, but I can say from direct observation that the cops assigned to Soldier Field that weekend were not being all that aggressive; most seemed bemused, and all of them looked happy to have an easy shift babysitting the white people. We’ve all read stories about (or been present for) cops using Dead shows as hunting grounds for revenue, and being violent louts. This was not the case at the Farewell Shoes.
Cops do what they’re told (in public), and they had been told to welcome all the visitors and their money into the city and not bother anyone; Deadheads are mostly clever (yay, us) and we all figured out the score quickly. But 64,997 of us remembered: cops are still cops, no matter how pleasant they’ve been ordered to be, and certain rules still applied. Basic rules that have their roots in not the law, but primal primate bullshit.
Yes, the grounds of the stadium and the park have been de-facto declared a free-for-all, but no, you cannot smoke your doobie right in front of the cop. Like I said: 64,997 of us knew enough to–when walking past a police officer–cup the joint in our palm. Or slip the bowl in your pocket. You didn’t even have to do a good job: the point was to let the cop see you making the effort to hide the contraband. It’s a respect thing; cops are into that bullshit, and it doesn’t matter if you aren’t: when the cops play status games, participation is mandatory.
These three idiots, I’m sure, were dabbing up while making eye contact with one of Chicago’s Finest. There can be no other explanation; quite frankly, I have no sympathy for these rebels.