Dating myself
: Kind of a sad night. Well, poignant. Yes, poignant, that’s it. I turned on the local PBS station and there we had This Land Is Your Land: Trini Lopez with back-up singers who each weighed as much as any three backup singers in their heyday.
On the drive back from Hershey, I saw one guy with an anti-Bush bumpersticker and as I passed him (going slowly in his van), I saw he had a beard the size of a bush. Cliche, I said. Then I passed another car with another such bumpersticker. This guy had on a fisherman’s cap. Gawd, don’t they know they’re breathing cliches, I thought. Were we all like that?
And then I turned on PBS again and here is the Grateful Dead from the closing of Winterland in 1978.
I was there.
Yes, my children, I was there.
I covered the event for my column in The Examiner. I pissed off Bill Graham when I asked readers for the memories of the place and I dared to include drug-induced vomiting.
I seem to remember cosmic brownies that night.
I do remember legend Herb Caen pulling out a silver cigarette case stuffed with joints.
Mellow. Damn, I miss mellow.
