Dating myself

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.

  • Please don’t title a post “Dating Myself” and then start it with “Kind of a sad night”. It’s always a sad night when you’re dating yourself instead of, you know, dating other people.
    Sorry, I can’t resist a double entendre, even when it’s unintentional.

  • My brother once got into a shoving match with Bill Graham at the top of the fire escape at the Fillmore East, back when he was Janis and Big Brother’s road manager. He has no fond memories of the man.
    Drag about discovering how many ex- or unreformed hippie types are raving “peace fools”, but you really shouldn’t be surprised. I’m just as sad when I see old punk compadres spouting anti-Bush paranoid conspiracies. It’s just a fact that youth culture for two generations or more has turned liberalism into a bad idea. Maybe there’s hope for the young’uns, but I’m not holding my breath.