I’ve been driving to work here at 7x7 every day for the past nine years. Having a car on hand is a requirement of the job. Sometimes I’m out and about all week, but a majority of the time my car sits on alert (I was once stationed on a aircraft carrier) in the company garage.
With the exception of two states, Louisiana and Nevada, there are hours in most U.S. counties where bars have to close and stores can’t sell booze. That’s a real bummer if you’re hammered and still able to stand at the witching hour. Californians are allowed to drink in bars or buy from a store between the hours of 6 a.m. and 2 a.m., seven days a week, 365 days a year.
But San Francisco, the exception to almost all rules, is no exception to this one.
What I remember best about my years living in a commune is that there was always a record playing in my home. All of the hits of the 60s and early 70s (as well as classical, jazz, real country, gospel, and other music) made a terrific backdrop to the daily chaos of communal living.
Many of the vinyl discs and reel-to-reel tapes were actually given to “us” by the artists themselves during their not-infrequent visits to our abode. There were also quite a few jam sessions, and a lot of us kids “lived” backstage. Because of all this, I’ve always needed to play some kind of music.
When I was a kid, my mom (a one-time Las Vegas showgirl and bunny at the Chicago Playboy Club) used to reprimand my grubby nails, “You’ll grow potatoes under there!” Her scolding used to bug the crap out of me, but as I started to be interested in girls, at about 12-years old, I quickly realized the benefits of better than good hygiene. Not all of my multiple daily showers were just for…
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