“San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very
special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in
the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can
touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of
time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . .
We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful
wave. . . . So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas
and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the
high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”
– Hunter S. Thompson
There are few places more interesting to spend a
Thanksgiving than at Golden Gate Park.
Located at the western edge of the famed Height Ashbury district, this
park is where you go to fit in where you don’t fit in anywhere else. And since I’ve got no where to go this
tofurky day, that’s where I’m going.
In my line of sight is a group of sketched out travelers (the
kind that wear only black and drab green) accompanied by as many mangy dogs as
there are humans. There’s a touch football game going on between what
appear to be all the middle class dads and their small children who were likely
thrown out of the house before the family gathering, their children (infants
through about age 7) scattered down one goal line playing games or asleep in
their kid carriers. There’s a guy in a
pick gorilla suit with Bono glasses wishing everyone a Happy Thanksgiving. Another guy – totally passed out face down –
would have stirred my former first responder instinct to check on him but, it’s
The Height. And, directly in front of
me, is another football game, between about 20 people dressed as Pilgrams and
Indians. Costumes ranging from a simple
feather or Washington Redskins jerseys to a couple full blown Halloween
costumes on some barefooted fair skinned Indians that draw the attention of
every straight man to walk by. The rest
of the foot traffic ranges from fit joggers decked out in their best Lululemon
to assorted homeless passing through for the free meal being handed out at the
entrance to the park. Everyone completely
indifferent to the incredible amount of good weed smoke and bad guitar and
djembe music floating in the air.
Hunter’s metaphoric “high and beautiful wave” has certainly
crested and rolled back. But I sit here
in the remaining cultural tide pool, fitting in just fine. Thankful.
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