It’s 1976, late summer. Another beautiful, sunny day in Southern California, not so far from the beach. Sitting on the grass, and smoking grass, with some sweet, smiling hippie chicks. And this:
The conversation, which was probably about the President of The United States falling off of an airplane that wasn’t even moving, stops when the song comes on. Another joint is lit and makes the rounds, because starting at about eight minutes into the song it’ll be time to sing along. You might or might not sing along with the rest, but you absolutely must at about eight minutes. Everyone does.
And for a brief moment in time, life is perfect. It’s everything it was supposed to be.
I’m privileged to have that moment among my memories. It’s one of the moments that saved my life, but even if it weren’t I’d consider myself privileged to have had it.
Where were you in the summer of ’76?