Summer of Love as viewed by a Gen-Xer
I was just along for the ride. A friend -- I'll simply refer to him
as Buddy (not his real name – he might be annoyed if he found out I
was writing about our evening, and god knows I can't afford to annoy
any more friends) - was invited to a Summer of Love 40th anniversary
concert "kickoff" event Friday night, on 17th Street in the Mission,
at sort of the last minute, and I went with him.
It wasn't hard to find the place. Just past the Rite Spot, on the
other side of the street, a dozen or so gray haired folks in clothing
ranging from tie-dye t-shirts to little black dresses with heels
milled about, talking and smoking normal cigarettes. Inside, a large
warehouse type space was beginning to fill up with people, and that
sweet smell of another kind of smoke overwhelmed my senses within a
few yards of the front door. A table was set up with a big bowl of
potato chips, a few hunks of cheese, a box of crackers, a small bag
of Oreo-Minis, some nuts, and loaves of bread.
There was a rumor, according to Buddy, that Wavy Gravy would be there
and would be bringing a fabulous goulash. I never saw Wavy Gravy, or
any kind of gravy, or goulash, or anything but the aforementioned
chips and crackers (the cheese disappeared in fairly short order).
Another rumor that Bob Weir might appear went unfulfilled, although
the manager of the Grateful Dead, and their chef, (the Dead had a
CHEF??) both participated in a panel discussion later.
We approached the snack table. I caught a dirty look from a scruffy
looking guy in jeans and a T-shirt, who looked irritated that I was
competing for the cheese. Three slices of cheddar, a couple crackers
and a few handfuls of potato chips later, Buddy and I stepped away
from the repast and scoped out the room.
On the far end was a medium-sized proscenium stage, with three gaily
colored batik and tie-dyed tapestries hung in the back with
clothespins. Classic late sixties scenery. Two large tables
overwhelmed the front of the stage, with a half dozen vases of
flowers arranged on the top, and the same number of microphones. On
a sidewall a VCR projected old back and white television footage of
men I didn't recognize, smoking cigarettes as they murkily responded
to inaudible interview questions.
Music flooded the room. "Funny, isn't it, no matter how many songs
you've listened to, there are always some you've never heard before,"
Buddy observed. I agreed. I was as unfamiliar with the tunes playing
as he was - and he'd been in San Francisco during the Summer of Love.
They say that if you can remember the Sixties, you weren't really
there. The converse is not necessarily true, however. I can't
remember the Sixties, but it doesn't mean I was there.
I could have been the love-child of almost any of the attendees, and
I felt a little out of place in my knee-length skirt, complete with
sweater, long leather coat, boots, lipstick and mascara. Clearly, I
was not among the people who were there for the Summer O' Love,
whether they remembered it or not. I noticed that with only a few
exceptions, the gathering crowd was nearly entirely Caucasian, which
seemed unusual for a SF gathering located outside the Marina
district. "Buddy" and I stood together as the people began to fill up
the room. I wondered how many of these white hippies now subscribed
"Smoke?" I suggested. We headed outside and lit up. "Were you here
for the Summer of Love?" I asked Buddy.
"I was living at a commune that summer," he replied.
"So you missed the whole thing? The drugs, the sex, the rock and
roll?" I asked him.
He smiled and took a long drag off his Marlboro light. "I missed the
drugs. But I caught a lot of the music." I noted silently that he'd
not commented on the sex, but I let that dog lie.
We headed back inside, for more nutritious potato chips. A fellow
approached us - he was rather on the short side, with dark hair
combed back from his face and a sort of a fireplug build. His name
was Eric something and supposedly he had been in radio back in the
day. He turned out to be one of the event organizers. He greeted
Buddy warmly, shook his hand and started talking about the upcoming
events for the evening.
Buddy turned to me, deferring to Eric's stature as organizer by
introducing me to him, rather than the more old-fashioned protocol of
presenting the man to the woman: "Eric, I'd like to introduce
Barbara." I smiled and held out my hand to shake his. He probably had
less interest in meeting methan I had in meeting him, but rather than
be cordial, he treated me as if I was radioactive. He glanced at me
almost imperceptibly, and kept talking to Buddy as if he had not just
been introduced to someone. I stood there for a few moments with my
hand extended until it dawned on me that perhaps as far as this guy
was concerned, I didn't exist. Maybe he figured that if I hadn't been
on the planet for the Summer of Love, I didn't merit a handshake or a
"Hello?" I was a little stunned. What kind of Love was this 1967
summer all about?
They kept talking, I turned away to survey the room. Should I walk
away? Excuse myself for a cigarette? Would it be ruder to stay and
act invisible, or to absent myself? I didn't know. Maybe it didn't
matter, if I wasn't really there?
A minute or so later, a couple other guys joined our trio. Eric
introduced Buddy to them, and Buddy then turned to me to introduce me
to, I think one of them was Dr. David Smith - the Doctor said hello
and I shook his hand, and then Eric sort of turned sideways in front
of me, half-blocking me from the group. I smiled at the other guy,
and thought about holding out my hand, but decided against trying to
reach past Eric. The men continued talking only to each other, about
music and music stuff, and I, in an uncharacteristic move, resumed
acting like an airhead girlfriend who wasn't privy to the boy's
conversation, and continued gazing about the room. Obviously, I had
nothing to contribute, perhaps because I was not a musician, or a
music promoter, or anyone of any interest to them. Just a chick in a
Uncomfortable in my arm-candy role (I'm not that cute, or that young,
anyway), I finally took a step or two away. Shortly, the men's
conversation broke up as the guys headed back to the stage, leaving
Buddy and me by the empty chip bowls.
Ok, I was irritated. "What the fuck was that? He didn't even
acknowledge that you introduced me," I complained.
"Oh, he's probably distracted with everything that's going on," Buddy
said, excusing him.
"How fucking distracted do you have to be to not say 'Hello' to
someone when you're introduced? It wasn't like he was just walking
by -- he stopped and talked to you for like five minutes." Buddy was
silent and munched on another Oreo-mini from the stash in his pocket.
I took a breath. "I'm feeling a bit like I don't belong here," I said.
"Smoke?" asked Buddy.
Outside again, we fought the foggy chill and got our cigarettes lit
just in time to see a fellow in a suit walking up the sidewalk a half
block away. "Damn if that isn't Terence Hallinan," he said. It could
have been Santa Claus as far as I could see.
"Are you sure it's him?" I asked.
"Will he recognize you?"
"He will if I get right up in his face and tell him who I am," he
I told Buddy a story about Hallinan's wife, who was a friend of my
old boyfriend Lance. I'd met her a dozen times or more back in the
early 90s, when Hallinan was a Supervisor and Lisa was involved in
various projects around town. I once attended an event at the Phoenix
where she was helping save the mural on the bottom of the swimming
pool, whose swirling design apparently caused some people concern
that if someone sank to the bottom, no one would be able to see them
amid the busy design. (Now THERE's a hazard!) But Art triumphed, and
the mural remained submerged at the trendy hotel. The last time I saw
her, in North Beach, I went up and said hello, and she smiled but
stared blankly at me. I told her my name, and the blank stare
continued. "I'm a friend of Lance," I added.
"Oh! Yes. Right! Lance, yes. Sorry, I didn't recognize you without
Lance," she explained, smiling broadly. I wondered to myself if this
typical of San Francisco -- were other women always appendages to a
man? -- but thought myself a sexist for even bringing it up in my
mind, and scotched that internal monologue. After all, Lance was her
old friend, not me, and it shouldn't be a surprise that she didn't
remember me - although it was sort of funny the way she explained it
- "I didn't recognize you WITHOUT LANCE." I thought the first rule of
politics was always to pretend you remember people.... And what was
it Lance used to joke about the Hallinans? "They've got half a brain
between them," he'd guffaw as he inhaled his Marlboro and beer nearly
Hallinan approached, wearing a good looking, dark suit, he was
quickly surrounded by a small group and went inside.
"I need some more cookies," Buddy announced. We finished our
cigarettes and headed inside, to load up on more Oreo-minis, chips
and a few slices of the remaining Velveeta.
"Are you going to stay for the presentation?" I asked him, eyeing my
escape already. The Rite Spot was on my mind, as was a tall cold
glass of Guinness. I hadn't seen anyone drinking beer at the bar. I
had no interest in the Oreo-minis, the cheese was pretty much gone,
and the chips were a little less than satisfying. I hoped at least
the music would be good, or that the presentation would feature some
big names. So far, I had no idea who was on the line-up.
"I'm going to stay long enough to hear the beginning of the panel
"Do you know if there's a band?"
"No idea." What the hell?
"Ok... well." I wasn't sure I was up for a whole evening of this, but
you dance with who brung ya, as the saying goes. So, we walked a few
yards back towards the bar, which was run by a couple young women and
crowded with people ordering drinks. Being a bit short on cash, and
unemployed this month, I was hoping Buddy might pop for a refreshing
beverage - but he didn't.
Next to the bar was a staircase leading up towards a sort of balcony,
where a few dozen people were sitting, some in folding chairs, and
some on a few larger reclining chairs, smoking weed and surveying the
crowd from their perch. "Look, rich people," Buddy pointed out with a
nod at the balcony. It was true that there seemed to be a little less
tie-dye and fewer shaggy greybeards upstairs, and some more
fashionable clothing in the balcony area. A tall fellow stood alone
at the bottom of the stairs, in a cream suit jacket and matching
fedora. "That's _____. He's always at the Saloon in Sausalito," Buddy
remarked, mentioning his name, which I promptly forgot.
My feet were beginning to hurt since I had forgotten my Birkenstocks,
and I was getting a little lightheaded from all the pot smoke, so I
suggested we sit down. We took our purloined stash of chips towards
the chairs set up in front of the stage, and picked a couple of seats
in an empty row. I noticed some seats in the last row reserved for
KGO and someone from Grace Cathedral. A younger guy, maybe late
thirties/early forties, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, sat down in
front of us with a young blond woman with long hair. He turned around
and handed us a roll of stickers. We each took one.
"What are these?" I asked, affixing it to my jacket. "Do I lick it or
"Grateful Dead bear stickers!" he smiled. He must have had a few
hundred bright orange bear heads on the roll. Bears? What happened
to the skulls and skeletons? Could Jerry be happy with this?
"Oh. Cool," I smiled. The orange sticker clashed with my tan leather
coat. I removed it and stuck it on my shirt. I had no idea what a
Grateful Dead Bear sticker signified, having only attended one
Grateful Dead concert in college at which I promptly fainted from
"killer pot" during the first song, but if I was going to wear it, it
might as well be someplace visible. It was damn well easier than a
People around us began filling in the rows of seats and lighting up
joints in alarming numbers, and gathering in small groups and
smoking, although no one offered any to us. Just as well, considering
my tendency for passing out in similar circumstances. There were
several women in semi-formal evening dresses and black pumps, with
their hair up, in glittery jackets, mingling with men in tie-dye t-
shirts, jeans, and jackets, and a few other women with long silver
hair, peasant skirts and flats.
"Isn't it amazing," Buddy sighed, gazing at the ceiling while I eyed
the crowd, "No matter what else is going on, the hippies always have
amazing lights." I glanced up to see a wide array of lighting
instruments, which bathed the oddly arranged stage in a warm,
colorful glow. A drum set and a few guitars were set up behind two
large tables. I assumed the tables would be struck after the panel
discussion, and we'd be treated to some music by some musicians who'd
played during the Summer of Love, which I looked forward to hearing.
He continued, "No food, no set to speak of, but good lights."
A few musicians took the stage, behind the large tables. As it turned
out, rather than musicians who'd played in 1967, the band was
comprised of some local journalists. The lead singer was an anchor on
the local news - good looking, young guy - none of the band members
appeared to be old enough to have been at the Summer of Love, much
less have played there. He introduced himself and the band with the
line, "We're probably as good musicians as the Grateful Dead would be
journalists" - an observation that no one could argue with by the end
of the first song. They launched into a few extremely loud numbers. I
didn't know it was possible to miss the melody line of "Mustang
Sally" so completely.
I bought you a brand new mustang 'bout nineteen sixty five
Now you come around signifying a woman, you don't wanna let me ride.
Mustang Sally, think you better slow your mustang down.
All you wanna do is ride around, Sally, Ride, Sally Ride
I turned and gave the KGO guys a quizzical look. They seemed not to
notice. Me or the
musical crimes in progress. Maybe someone had given me bad acid? Am
I wearing my invisibility cloak? Is this really this awful?
While the journalist-musicians were 'playing', another friend, Frank
(not his real name either), came over to say hello. He was trim and
fit, wearing jeans with a button down shirt, and his eyes gleamed
with excitement, (or something) as always. He may be one of the most
enthusiastic people I've ever met, and tonight was no exception. When
I first met him years ago, he told me the story of how he'd quit the
Art Institute. When they raised their tuition, he couldn't make the
costs, so he took all his paintings out and piled them in the main
plaza of the Institute, poured turpentine on them, set them ablaze
and walked home.
"Yeah, man, the Fire Department came to my door, man, and asked me
about that fire, man," he'd told me. "I said to them, 'Hey man, it
was ART. It's ART, man.'" Apparently, this satisfied the SFFD, and
Frank and the Art Institute parted ways, and he went on to do
something else with his life - and had done quite well, man.
"Hey Buddy! Man, great to see you man! Hey honey, you're still
looking good, honey," he grinned. He began dancing in the aisle next
to me, and I did my best to ignore his denim-clad pelvic gyrations a
few inches from my face. He then shimmied back to join a small crowd
of other dancers behind the chairs. I turned to watch the happy
hippies dancing and smiling behind us. I started looking at the exit
behind them and wondering how much more of this music I could take
without sticking my fingers in my ears. Way too loud.
"Go dance with him," Buddy shouted.
I smiled and shook my head "No, thanks. You dance with him, I want a
"Why don't you go to the bar and get one, and we'll split it?" He
shouted back. Uh. Yeah... ok. I got up, threaded my way through the
swaying beer bellies, and made my way to the bar. I really wanted a
beer, and took a look behind the bar. There didn't appear to be any
beer available, nor wine - just a large array of liquor bottles and
lots of plastic cups. I stood around for a few minutes, checking out
the geriatrics at the bar. No one took the slightest notice of me. I
didn't feel like paying for a drink that I didn't really want - gin
and tonic? Geritol? Scotch and soda, mud in my eye? - so I wended my
way back to my seat.
"Didn't you get anything?"
"Nah. They didn't have any beer or wine that I saw, and I'm not
really in the mood for anything else." Buddy looked a little peeved
and started checking email on his Treo. Well, go get your own drink,
then, I thought. I pulled out my cell phone and texted a friend and
former San Francisco DJ, now in Texas: "I AM AT A SUMMER OF LOVE
EVENT. RUMORS OF BOB WEIR. WISH YOU WERE HERE."
After a loud, long three song set, the host came on to introduce
Country Joe McDonald. Dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, Ramblin'
Joe scolded the crowd to be quiet. "Hey, I don't care if you listen
to my song or not, but there are a bunch of people who are going to
have a discussion up here in a few minutes, and some people want to
hear it. So shut up," he growled, and then launched into what I
thought was a pretty good although slightly contradictory new song
about not living in the past, but recalling the good old days of the
Summer of Love.
After he finished, the crowd called for an encore, but the announcer
returned to say that the panel discussion would begin shortly, and
asked all the participants to please come backstage.
All through the musical performances, people had been going in and
out of two doors on either side of the stage, which appeared to lead
to some sort of dressing rooms. The doors opened and closed so often
that it prompted Buddy to remark, "It's like watching some kind of -
what do you call those plays, with people constantly going in and out
of stage doors but not really doing anything?"
"A farce," I answered.
"Yeah, a farce. It's sorta like a farce."
After a few minutes and some discussions at the side of the stage,
the announcer reappeared to introduce the panel, which amounted to
introducing my new friend Eric Fireplug. After more confusion about
getting the proper number of chairs arranged, the panel was randomly
seated. Dr. David Smith (?) founder of HAFC, Dr. Hip, Terence
Hallinan, poet Lenore Kandel (I think), Eric, another guy whose name
I didn't catch, Bruce Brugman of SF Bay Guardian, the CHEF (I can
just smell those LSD cakes in the oven) for the Grateful Dead, the
manager of the Grateful Dead, and Country Joe. Ten panelists. Nine
men, one woman. Was this representative of the Summer of Love, I
wondered? Judging by the film clips and photos I'd seen, it didn't
represent the attendees, but perhaps it represented those who'd found
their way onto the stages or positions of prominence during that summer.
The first 15 minutes of the panel discussion consisted of the
moderator, Eric, recounting at length why he'd invited each person
and when he'd met them that summer of 67. He told personal stories of
how he knew each of the panelists, and rhapsodized about Kandel’s
revolutionary poem ”To Fuck With Love” in which she talked about
explicitly about fucking, and used the word fuck - which, he said,
was as revolutionary in it's time as HOWL had been when it came out.
Using the word "Fuck" made her revolutionary - times have changed, eh?
Then it got warm and fuzzy, each panelist recounted a favorite memory
from the Summer o' Love. The founding of the Haight Ashbury Free
Clinic. Experiments with psychedelic drugs. Dr. Hip. The Human Be-In.
Terence Hallinan being arrested numerous times for civil rights
protests, and getting the Supreme Court to overturn the State Bar’s
ruling that he could not practice law because of his "propensity for
lawlessness." The ways our world has changed since the 60s. Civil
rights movement. Women's rights. Bruce Brugman, in rare form,
speaking at length about the difficulty of obtaining
a permit for the Human Be-in, which was finally granted to Melvin
Belli -- for a birthday party. That old hippie Melvin, always ready
These were things I hadn't experienced, things I didn't live through,
all kind of blended together for me - except one particularly vivid
image drawn by the manager of the Grateful Dead, which stands out. He
talked about going out to Golden Gate park in the dead of night, to
find a long line of mini-buses and vans with camping gear all lining
up along the field in preparation for attending the next day's
concert, and he realized that something big was on the verge of
happening. He went back to the house, got Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir
and they walked back to the park to see the crowds begin to gather at
dawn -- the rising sun creating a golden halo over the field, a sort
of golden dome rising above what was to be an historic event, while a
bunch of guys who'd apparently booked the far end of the field for a
sporting event ran about in the distance.
Although I couldn't help checking my phone for messages every few
minutes, and trying to keep an eye on the snack table in case some
new treat were introduced, it was interesting to hear first hand
descriptions of the summer of love, and the Human Be-in, from people
who were there. The idea that just getting the right to peaceably
assemble was so difficult in 1967, and that these people had fought
so hard to make it happen, was impressive. (The American
Revolutionary War notwithstanding) I realized how much I take for
granted was fought for by the people from a previous generation. But
I was kind of hoping another band would take the stage soon, and in
between reminiscences, I turned to survey the crowd. There were
probably between 200-300 people there by now, just before 9 pm.
But the crowd behind us wasn't behaving too well -- perhaps because,
unlike me, they?d lived through it and didn't feel the need to hear
the stories. (Or they didn't know how to silently text each other on
their cell phones instead of chatting.) Or perhaps instead of Turning
On, Tuning In, and Dropping Out, they’d simply Dropped In, Tuned Out.
and Turned Up?
Eric asked those who wanted to talk to take it outside or go to the
far end of the hall, but even when they moved to the back, the
chatters continued to talk very loudly, making it difficult to follow
the discussion. When it came time for audience questions, no one
could hear the audience members as they shouted their questions to
the stage. I wondered why they didn't just hand one of the abundant
(six or more) microphones on long cords down to the audience, or set
one up on the unused mic stand to the right of the table. Damn,
you're music producers, radio hosts, performers -- hand a mic down!
Or maybe they should have just started battering them with the mic
stands? That would have made it a fun event.
Among the questions was one from Ann Cohen, wife of THE ORACLE editor
Allen Cohen. We couldn't hear the question, but Brugman launched into
a long story about how all the independent papers used the same
(union) press, and how the Oracle staff had pestered the tough
pressmen to use color in a particular way, irritating them to the
point that the pressmen said, essentially, "Here, do it yourself" and
the Oracle staff poured various colors of ink in random arrangements,
resulting in the invention of an entirely new, psychedelic use of
color in journalism.
Frank, who'd come to sit with us during the panel discussion, jumped
up and shouted a question to the panel. It was so loud in the room
that even I couldn't hear his question, and he was standing a few
feet away from me.
"Go up to the front!" people started shouting at him. Eric called him
up from the stage. Frank kept shouting, until Buddy said, "Why don't
you just go up there?"
"Uh, well I don't really have a question, I just had a comment,"
"Sit down, man," Buddy said, visibly annoyed.
Frank sat down, laughing, and Buddy got up and headed to the back of
the room. Frank slid over to the chair next to me which had just been
vacated. "Hey honey, you still look pretty, honey. You got that great
voice, you doing any singing?" I smiled and shook my head no.
After several more inaudible questions, the audience insisted on a
mic (I'd nearly gone up there myself to show the boys, "Here's how
you hand a microphone to someone"). A dark haired woman went up to
the microphone. A woman!
"Why is it," she asked pointedly, "that there are 9 men up there and
only 1 woman, but in the Summer of Love, half the people were women?
Can you explain why you didn't include more women on the panel?" She
passed the microphone and stepped back.
The crowd burst into some of the loudest applause I'd heard all
evening (except for Country Joe). Apparently this woman had said
aloud what a majority of people had been thinking. I found myself
jumping to my feet in a standing ovation, along with several other
women, several of whom were closer to my age than the average age of
Surprisingly - or perhaps not so surprisingly - her question went
unanswered. Just as if she'd never asked it. Eric appeared to react
to her question the way he'd reacted to being introduced to me - as
if it never happened, as if he'd never heard it.
Her voice was soft and cool
Her eyes were clear and bright
But she's not there
In his defense, the next fellow in line at the mic began speaking
before the applause died down. "I am a French man living in America!"
he declared, and launched into a long francologue. People tried to
shout him down and shouted, "Answer her question!" Finally the
announcer came down. He approached Frenchie, motioning for him to
hand over the mic. Frenchie kept talking, and backing away like a
character in a Three Stooges film. Finally the announcer and had to
wrestle the mic away from him and handed it to the next person.
But we'd all heard the woman's question, and no one on the panel
backed up to answer it. Perhaps all the women who'd been invited to
participate on the panel simply had other plans that night? - I might
have bought that as a reasonable response. But it wasn't offered, and
it seemed to me from the silence that perhaps - the idea of
including more women simply hadn't occurred to the organizers. I
wondered why Ann Cohen hadn't been up on stage - she clearly had been
around the core group of organizers and must have had a plethora of
recollections she could have shared – was it because she was "just"
the wife? She didn't have an editor title? Have things changed so
little that her contributions, whatever they were, were still
unrecognized? Were only women who wrote about fucking invited to the
A woman in my row, about my age, with cinnamon colored hair and a
jean jacket and who'd joined me in the standing ovation earlier,
leaned over to me (Frank had left, probably to join Buddy in the
back) and suggested, "Let's get them to answer!" I agreed, but it
seemed futile. They'd moved on. When it was clear that the question
would not be answered, despite calls from the audience, I decided the
time had come to Turn Away, Tune Out, and Head Off. I put on my coat
in the aisle, turned my back on the panel, and walked slowly out of
1967, and back into 2007.
As I approached the crowd by the bar, I slowed my pace - was I being
unreasonable? Was I missing the forest for the trees? Was this one
issue - the appearance of a boy?s club, or not equally representing
women - going to overshadow the rest of the evening for me? Was I
being small minded? Was I expecting too much? And what had I done,
personally, to earn the right to protest what may have been a simple
oversight? After all, in some ways, things haven't changed that much.
Women are still ignored in many venues; women still make up a
minority of CEOs and high level politicians and are underrepresented
in all halls of power. And it's not just men who ignore them
or distance them - it's other women as well, for a variety of
reasons. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
But as the exit beckoned me, I wondered what was the point of making
reference in the opening introductions to the women’s movement but
not applying the lessons learned from it? What was the point of the
self-congratulatory remarks about all the changes they had wrought,
when they couldn't see fit 40 years later to just seat one or two
more chicks on a panel? And wasn't the Second Wave of feminism in
part a reaction to how women were treated in hippie culture – as
appendages, hangers on, sexual receptacles, and baby toters? Were
these revolutionaries, thesevisionaries from 1967 ever going to offer
women more than one token spot at the table, more than 10%
representation, four decades later? The lineup for the September 2nd
concert event, which I looked up later, has an even lower percentage
of women. It would probably be hard to argue that all the women who'd
been invited simply turned it down. Maybe since women were nearly
in the hippie movement in 1967, it would be a misrepresentation of
the "Summer of Love" to include them now?
But, what do I know? I'm no poet, I'm no rock star, I'm no editor of
a local rag, I'm no
impresario. This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful
wife. I'm just an
unemployed chick hoping for a free beer and better hors d'oeuvres. I
was only along for the ride this evening... Ride, Sally, Ride. The
Rite Spot beckoned from across the street (Wrong Time). A song kept
floating through my mind as I walked to the back of the hall and
forward in time:
But it?s too late to say you’re sorry
How would I know, why should I care
Please don’t bother trying to find her
She’s not there….
If that was a representation of 1967, maybe I don’t feel bad that I
wasn’t there. A friend (Bob Simmons) wrote to me recently, “Nostalgia
is the KY jelly of history” it makes the hard facts easier to take.”
Pass the lube, please.
As I went out past the chip bowl, I noticed it was finally empty.
Just a few charred potato shards marked its passing. The lights were
still pretty good though.