MOST AMAZING TRIP AS ANAHEIM SAM takes me all around town on his bike. You'd never guess, with the dirty looks you get on long waits for cable cars, that this city can be so small, sly, serendipitous.
It's been a month of some serious I-Ching referencing. You know what they about nothing's-certain-in-life-except? Farmer John passed on and Mr. Billy got pinched by the IRS, but like rebound deliverance the Brotherhood received a new patron saint.
"Thank Siva! the sun is out of Leo!" my man from Anaheim calls over his shoulder and over the buffeting wind.
I tell him I'll walk from Golden Gate Park. He insists on dropping me off. But I want to get in another session giving out Sunshine on the Haight before getting on the Greyhound. He says sure? I kind of wonder if I should have said yes.
The sedan pulls up like only a sedan can: a shark on land. I'd say I was seeing things if it weren't for the jaws: out comes a man with gangster gloves like in the movies. I think things like this happen all the time on the Haight, because if anyone else sees it then it doesn't arouse much alarm. I just take it in stride--the next step in a ride that began weirder than even THE MAN can make it. Checkered suit, soft brown hat--that's the freak who, in the back seat, decorously suggests I put on the mask, a Lone Ranger affair with elastic strap, only no eyeholes. Is his accent British? Indian? Blue Meany? The smile all the same right out of Yellow Submarine, teeth gleaming to contain a bird just gnashed.
He compliments me on my lovely hair. Eyebrows and all.
pssst. . .sign the guestbook!