~1969~
My sister and I couldn’t stop staring at our faces in the mirror. Our initial reaction of shock quickly gave way to amazement and a fond remembrance of those bittersweet bygone days. As newly “restored” adolescents our images reflected a genuinely sweet and guileless quality that is owned solely by the young. It was uncanny to physically look fifteen again and yet even more incredible to have our adult intellect still intact. The old saying, “If I only knew then what I know now,” came to mind and I wondered how we’d put that “hypothesis” to the test.” I turned towards my youthful twin to share my excitement. “San Francisco in '69 was... I mean, it is the nucleus of all that is happening and groovy. Welcome to “where it’s at,” baby!
Claudette listened with a neutral expression and didn’t seem to share my overt enthusiasm. “Well, at least we’re back in a more familiar time zone and one we actually lived in. Now don’t get me wrong, I think the Roaring Twenties kicked ass as an era. I’m just glad to be moving forward along the timeline because as it stands right now, we are forty-one more years closer to home.” She drew in a deep breath and let out a peep of a sigh. “Oh, and I do agree that San Francisco was the “it” place in the sixties. If someone wanted to step out of their proverbial box and into the wild....well, it sure was a jungle out there.
I nodded. “Both eras rocked the radical, that’s for sure. It is hard to believe sometimes how young we were during the whole 60’s shebang. You and I were just barely teens in ’68 when the “anti-establishment” crusade was in full swing. I remember when the national news showed Jimi Hendrix playing The Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock, dad nearly kicked in the television. I’ll never forget the indignant expression on his face.”
“True, he really despised our music. However, I think it was the entire decade of changes across the board that shortened his generation’s lifespan. I’m still sad that in my youth I didn’t have a clue what the 60's “counter-culture movement” was setting in motion.” Claudette pounded her fist into her other palm for emphasis. “Revolution, evolution, institution, constitution, demonstration.... !”
I tried to redirect her stream of consciousness. “Hey, aren’t those lyrics from The Beatle’s song Revolution? Or maybe it was The Temptation's Ball of Confusion. I raised my voice a few octaves higher and quoted the Temps by singing, “Just a ball of confusion, that’s what the world is today.”
Claudette ignored me and continued to furiously unpack her thoughts. “I only hope we aren’t heading for devolution in the near future and I mean in the new millennium. And don’t ask me what I think about our so called counter-culture now ..in 2011!”
“Girlfriend, I hear you loud and clear.” I wasn’t going to risk asking my sister anything in her present mood. Claudette had become extremely agitated and it always happened when she was hungry. The last time we ate was, hummm, way back in the 1920’s. I needed to locate some food and fast before she completely decompensated. We stopped outside the bathroom to get our bearings. The doctor who had attended us earlier was standing near the medical tent smoking a cigarette. We waved and gave him two thumbs up. Dr. Welby stubbed out the ciggy and saluted us before retreating back into his temporary hive. Apparently, he thought we’d sufficiently recovered enough from our “experimental drug ingestion” to enjoy the rest of the day, unlike his other buzzed patients inside. The joke was on him though as we hadn’t taken any drugs at all...unless Lapin and slipped us something in our cocktails back in the 20’s. I put that thought on a back burner.
Claudette pushed me from behind. “Come on, let’s dive into this mess of flesh.” She pulled me in the direction of the field where a sea of bona fide hippies wearing bell-bottomed jeans, tie dye, and other assorted 60’s attire had amassed. The polo grounds looked like a three ring circus on Nickel Night. A throng of tangled folks stood in front of the empty stage and swayed in unison as if one hairy breathing entity. They still kept movin’ and groovin’ even though the band was on break. A disheveled hippie teen in a red velvet top hat shoved something into his mouth as he stumbled past. Claudette observed the motion and briefly considered tackling him. Instead she yelled, “Hey man, where did you get the food? My sister and I haven’t eaten in like.. forty years.”
The shirtless flower child stopped in his tracks having heard my sister’s plaintive cry. He attempted to greet us by tipping his top hat but couldn’t seem to locate his head. The sight of twins must have been doubly confusing for him in his present spaced-out state. Like a cheeky monkey in the zoo he scratched his privates and gaped at us shamelessly. While keeping his bloodshot eyes trained on our faces he returned to gnawing on whatever he clenched protectively in his right fist. As he chewed mechanically dribbles of macerated brown goo escaped from his mouth and splattered onto his bare chest. At the end of his dining experience he groaned in ecstasy as he licked each finger and his palm clean.
Claudette was angry (starved) and it looked like she was going to snap his ass in two. “Listen numbskull, I told you I need to eat. Tell me where they sell food around here before I squish my thumbs into your eye sockets!”
I stepped in front of my sister before she throttled the poor bonehead. In an attempt to get his attention I clapped my hands loudly by his ears. “Hey bud, where did you get that greasy possum pie you just snarfed down?” For some reason my words must have computed because he pointed to a school bus a few yards north of yonder.
Claudette barred her teeth and bowed in mock gratitude. “Thanks, you friggin’ loadie.”
We were in the process of leaving when the hippie dude yelled something incoherent in our direction. “Grobbs und kidkn poss, noooooo.”
I thought he was speaking German until I realized he was in the midst of freaking out. We stopped where we were and watched as his face turned a ghastly shade of gray. He started sniffing wildly at his hands like a dog in search of a scent. A second later, he looked cross-eyed as he stared down his nose at his own tongue which appeared to be moving involuntarily in and out of his mouth. When he dropped to all fours his shoulders started to roll and I knew that vomit wasn’t far behind. I took several steps backwards to protect my shoes. “I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned the word possum. I guess there’s nothing like the power of suggestion, eh sis?”
Claudette put her hand over her mouth. “Oh no, I have to get out of here before I start to gag. I can’t stand watching people hurl. Please let’s go.” She grabbed my hand and we made a direct beeline for the bus.
The aged behemoth was parked sideways and its original school bus yellow color was long gone. It was now a thing of “art” painted in a quasi-Peter Max style, canvased over with psychedelic swirls of turquoise, red, and green. One long lone table was stationed in front of it and offered an enticing array of packaged munchies. We quickly amassed a pile of our own and sustenance was just a bag’s reach away. Obviously there was no bottled water as it hadn’t been invented (marketed) yet. I grabbed two Fresca’s and opened them with a church key I’d found hanging on a nail. We stood around for a few minutes and waited for someone to wait on us. I called out, “Hello, is there anybody home?” Nobody answered, no curtains parted, nor did anyone appear after I’d knocked. I looked at my sister and knew there is only one thing left to do. I yelled, “run Claudette run.” We bagged the food and beat feet!
Claudette had eaten several bags of chips and was working on a cookie by the time we reached the hub of hippiedom again. After she had washed back the dry snacks with a few slugs of soda her color had finally returned. She wiped her hand across her mouth and smiled. “Damn, I’m on a junk food high. That was good stuff.”
I watched as she pawed through her stash. “At least you didn’t grab any pink Hostess SnoBalls. You finally remembered that I don’t like coconut. I do see that you snitched a package of DingDongs. Speaking of DingDongs, do you think that’s what the hippie kid was chompin’ on before he upchucked? It’s not um..im..possumable.” I laughed at my juvenile joke but Claudette waved the thought away in disgust.
We walked into the middle of the concert crowd where everyone seemed to be enjoying various stages of intoxication. An array of stoned merrymakers clowned around and busily annoyed other fellow concert goers like ourselves. A topless blond with peace sign decals stuck over her nipples screamed as one of her pasties was hastily removed. At exactly the same moment a shrieking whistle abruptly escaped from the standing microphone situated mid stage. Both high-pitched sounds pierced a multitude of eardrums far and wide, including my own. A man appeared from behind the the drum set and adjusted the mic before making an announcement. “Hey man, hang in there. Airplane’s coming back to finish their second jam in a few. So all you freaks out there mellow out.” The happy and high horde of music worshipers roared with pleasure at the news.
Claudette leaned towards me and said, “The natives are restless tonight.” We both laughed as our father had used that quote frequently when we were growing up. He was so not “PC.”
“Sis, let’s ditch these knuckle draggers and move closer to the front. My dream of seeing Grace Slick perform live is about to come to true.” Claudette and I hooked arms and waded through the thick audience in a slow moving snake-like progression. Joints passed by us every which way and the sweet smell of weed permeated the air. Most of the anesthetized folks barely reacted when we kindly stepped in front of them in search of an unimpeded view.
Claudette put her hand in the air and pointed upwards just as we’d positioned ourselves in the most perfect spot. “Look Paulette, this is so awesome!” The male band members were already in place when Slick sauntered to center stage and picked up the microphone.
“Grace Slickkkkk!” I’d screamed her name out loud and felt like a drooling groupie, but I couldn’t help myself. In front of me stood my favorite iconic rock goddess dressed in a dark blue kaftan and lace-up boots. Slick’s signature dark hair/cropped bangs framed her face and made her soulful eyes appear even more penetrating. She stared at the crowd and commanded their attention before belting out Somebody to Love in her lusty mind-blowing contralto vocals. The band followed with She has Funny Cars, Embryonic Journey, and ended with the riveting ballad Comin’ Back to Me. I felt like I’d melted from the power of the music and the heat of the crowd. Even when I was really truly fifteen years old their music had a profound effect on me. In my perspective, Jefferson Airplane’s music captured the end of the 60’s, a decade of tumultuous changes, crossroads, and new frontiers. In that moment, I felt that those around me had the same passionate foreknowledge... that times were indeed “a changin’.”
Claudette interrupted my reverie by pointing excitedly. “Oh my God! I can’t believe it. Look who is standing over there and he’s not alone!”
I shook my head in disbelief and laughed. I took this sighting as a very positive omen.
