It’s March 2025 – cold, harsh reality. World is crazy. People are nuts.
You’d like to be somewhere else.
You have this mind, and it wanders.
It lands right in the middle of August 1968. Was that your last good year? Maybe. It’s the one you swore you’d remember forever, no matter what.
Went downhill from there, but you had your seatbelt on and you had friends and you were all holding your breath at the same time.
Crystal clear – Golden Gate Park. Road trip before school started. Your crew. Spaghetti Factory – Mike’s Pool Hall – Ghirardelli Square – Fish and Chips wrapped in two-day old newspaper – headlines that needed to be smeared with Cod – crashing on a floor in Berkeley.
Sara – she smoked Newports. A blonde with brown eyes that saw a thousand years into the future.
We all loved her – but she was family – she was like your little sister. Never thought once what she tasted like. Daddy kisses and forever hugs and we were fine with that.
We all went into mourning the day she told us she was getting married. Who was that guy, anyway?
They moved to Rhode Island and got busy – got busy and lost touch.
One of you wound up in Vietnam – the last helicopter to leave Saigon. A Tin Huey that got dumped overboard when you reached the Midway. You have memories and you sweat at night because of them.
One of you got famous, your life got busy – other friends – other families – other world. Last time you saw him – faint recognition and a publicist getting between you asking what I wanted.
One of you drowned in an ocean of Heroin – alone, somewhere in the Fillmore two blocks away from the last concert you saw.
You got a tie and a jacket and a promise of paid vacations – wife number 3 and a house in Encino – half a dozen kids who look like you and want nothing to do with you.
You were a crap dad and you have the Shrink bills to prove it.
And sometimes it’s just you and an old tape machine and a cassette you’ve had since UCLA.
You press Play and it’s August 1968 all over again – and you’re wandering around Golden Gate Park. And March 2025 hasn’t happened yet.
Here’s an hour’s worth of Chris Edmonds at KYA in San Francisco – August 11, 1968.
