Golden Gate Park.
There’s a guy going to interview me tonight for his book on San Francisco rock impresario Chet Helms. I think the main reason he wants to talk with me is that I’m still here with memory intact. And I knew Chet back at the beginning – 1962, 1963.
So I’ve been digging around in the backfiles of my mind today turning over events of forty years ago when I was twenty years old in North Beach, twenty-two years old in the Haight-Ashbury, married to Linda Lovely, baby on the way and in my arms.
I can walk down the hallways – look in every room. I can tell you what Allen Cohen was wearing the day Laurie Sarlat blew through the front door of 1736 Page Street into our lives – but I can’t tell anyone what any of it meant. Just a collection of images in my mind, some clear, some fuzzy.
Why do I bother? Because I gotta pay my debts, I guess. I wish I knew.
The writer will be calling from California at 7:30 tonight. I’ll let you know.