Moose in the Kitchen

On Wednesday, I went with some friends to an exhibit of original concert posters from San Francisco’s musical archives – Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Grateful Dead, Led Zeppelin, Jefferson Airplane, and a band improbably named Captain Beefheart. One of the posters listed an opening band at the very bottom, almost an after-thought. Like the designer had totally forgotten them and had to squeeze the name into the last remaining inch of free space. The band was The Rolling Stones. We figured it was the last time the words “The Rolling Stones” were printed in that order in such small font.

I love San Francisco with a somewhat rabid devotion: Its collection of Victorian homes, some jewel-like in their pristine perfection, some shabby and crumbling; cresting a hill to an unexpected sun-drenched view of the Bay; its whole-hearted dedication to food; even its ornery summer weather. One of the most exciting things about my job was learning I had free reign to poke through original Supreme Court documents, written in the hands of the original justices and detailing punishment for claim jumpers during the Gold Rush. Because I am an unabashed nerd.

Lucky break. They could have flipped to the S’s instead and been named Woeful Sturgeon.

Fond as I am of the present – and all those much-lauded women’s rights – it must have been quite something to live here in the late ’60s, when all these legends played the Fillmore. As we wandered through the basement vaults and stared at the rambling bubble letters mounted on the old brick walls, one of my friends stopped wistfully in front of each Led Zeppelin poster and eventually sighed, “I was born 20 years too late.”

I’m now tempted to paste eyes onto all my avocados before I eat them. 

At dinner tonight, I was telling Nora (in town from England, hooray!) about the exhibit and the 20 Years Too Late Theory. She replied, “You know, I don’t think I would have appreciated it.” I had to agree. We’ve known each other since we could speak in fully-formed sentences, and we are two of a kind. Which is to say, even if we lived here in 1968, we are the people who would have been tucked in bed reading Howl, rather than pulling on bell-bottoms and embroidered peasant shirts to attend a concert starting at 9 p.m. and ending at 9 a.m. With a ticket price that included breakfast. And what I can only assume was a marijuana buffet.