Joe sat in the comforts of Henry's sleek, 1968, hard top, Ford Thunderbird, captivated by the meticulousness with which it's designers had thought out each minute detail...

Joe couldn't believe that each of the switches dressing the dash board, console, and arm rests like one of those computers he had seen at the World's Fair in '65, controlled a different and unique gadget! And, like that computer, the car's many gadgets were amazing: Electric windows, seats, locks, antennae, and even seat warmers; automatic floating stereo radio; tilt, turn, telescopic steering wheel; stock, super performance engine; electric sun-moon roof; electric defrosters; air-conditioning; rolled, tucked, and pleated wrap around leather seats--trimmed in shiny chrome with metal embossed Thunderbirds to remind you of the bird whom inspired the artist to create this sleek chariot--Joe could not keep his hands from touching, pushing, pulling, and generally bugging the heck out of Henry. Though Henry, like a father showing a stranger his first born son, seemed honored by Joe's amazement: occasionally encouraging Joe by demonstrating some of the extraordinary features of his pride and joy.

Henry, Joe's savior of Flagstaff, in green fatigues and baseball cap, huffing away on a Kool menthol cigarette, sat back like he was the king of the road; with gentle taps of his foot on the accelerator, he zipped around cars with the ease of a full blooded Arabian Stallion racing a pack of mules.

"So... what were you falling from?" He asked in pun after Joe finally calmed down.

Joe explained the motel episode--leaving out the Barbie duo--and soon they were friends.

An African-American, Air Force Sergeant from "Philly", Henry was on the begining of a sixty day leave. He was headed to a funeral over the mountains. After, he planned to stop in San Francisco and visit friends before reporting to his new duty station, Beale Air Force Base, above Sacremento, California. He invited Joe to come along for the trip and Joe happily and excitably agreed.

Through out the journey over mountains, which separated them from their ultimate goal, Joe and Henry talked; with Henry pointing out items of interest to an astounded Joe, whom had never seen this portion of nature before: "See that mountain over there?" Henry pointed to a distant, snow capped peak hidden by a group of clouds. "That's where this road is going to take us. Sometimes, when I make this trip, I think of all the hardship my family went through to raise me. The Air Force has given me the training, education, pride, and resourses to overcome a mountain which was ten times that size... with out any roads!" The conversation continued like that for four weeks while they stopped at Henry's relation's and friend's homes scattered along the way. Finally, they began their cruise to San Francisco, with Henry still doing the majority of talk while Joe listened to his words of wisdom. When they reached the last peak, and were well into the valley, Joe finally got his message. For, after the grueling, snow and ice capped climb; after snow chains and slippery sharp drops; after freezing stops and short hops; they had burst upon a sight that turned Joe's head like nothing in his entire life---IT WAS BEAUTIFUL...

...From the mountains to a vast ocean--which was like a deep blue canvas, rippling in brush strokes of a multitude of shaded reds and oranges--they drove across the valley floor; stretching in greens, golds, and brownish patches that glinted in a glorious, receding, orange and yellow boiling sun. With snowy, white-capped mountains of purple and black, boarded by huge, white, billowing clouds behind them contrasting the golden yellow, streak swept sky, Joe felt he was riding on a road where the canvas was painted by God himself! And, for the absolute first time of his life, through the combination of Henry's new lessons and the splendor and majesty of his first Pacific Ocean Sun Set, Joe truly knew life had much meaning and purpose... he only had yet to discover his!

They hit San Francisco late that night. Henry, wanting to join some of his buddies, "loaned" Joe twenty dollars before dropping him off at Height and Ashbury in the center of the city. Joe waved as the car drifted into the traffic and became but just another memory to be filed away...

...Joe was suddenly alone once more. To get his bearings, he began to scout his surroundings. As if he had been dropped into the land of OZ, the streets teemed with a multitude of young street people whom were dressed in the most outlandish "costumes" he had ever seen: Purple, yellow, orange, and red seemed to be the colors of choice--all put together! Baggy pants. Pants which had legs ballooning out at the bottom. Pants which had a multitude of patches. Pants which looked like Pjs. Pants made of two different kinds of pants sewn together! Oh, and the shirts... it seemed that the tee shirt, streaked with one's favorite colors of the sun set, were the rage. Another item that did not fail to astound our traveler were the hats... not the Fedora kind, but other types of hats--hats that made a statement: do-dads; crumpled; high top; low top; put together; torn apart; flipped to the side, top, back, and even low over the face; black berets; green berets; tie-died berets; red berets; military; complimentary; hereditary; contrary; mother goose; red and loose; hillbilly; I'm a filly; cowboy; sailor; bailer.... Joe's mind was out of breath! Then, the most telling item Joe recognized as proof of his theories was the baggage. That's right! The baggage: duffel bag; gym bag; paper bag; leather bag; round ones; rectangle ones; rich ones; poor ones; back packs; shoulder packs; dragging packs; carrying packs...whom ever walked, talked, or rested upon the trash strewn sidewalks had some sort of "pack"! What finally caused Joe to take a deep breath and scurry to place his back to a wall to gather his thoughts were the faces! Dressed in those pants; under those hats; in those shirts; under them packs; were the most diversified group of individuals ever assembled in the entire history of mankind! Every color, race, religion, persuasion, background, nationality, and social hierarchy was represented in the crowd. Though the vast percentage of individuals were between the ages of sixteen and twenty five, a large group of young teenagers mixed and mingled with in the crowd. Joe had never even dreamed--or had nightmares--of a scenario such as the one he was now actually standing in. The first thought Joe had after evaluating his senses--after he kind of self-slapped himself--was that on this side of the Great Rockies, life had in some way evolved into a freak show!

Harry, Joe's shock and confusion were the sort which made him wonder if he had landed in a strange place where at night the people took on the colors of the sun-set... and the sky was never blue; always setting as in the picture he had seen upon the mountain on his way down! Really Harry, Joe began to believe that when the sun arose the next day, either the place would begin "normal" with everyone changing with the rising sun or that it was in the setting mode--24 hours a day! It was as if he had landed in the Twilight Zone! Well, Harry, when Joe finally gathered his senses and thoughts, he began to notice the physical images of his surroundings; the conversation; the antics of the people.

The inhabitants of the beautiful, hilly terrain of San Francisco, packed with old buildings, old street lamps, and other assorted historical structures, reminded Joe of The Fall Of Rome--with a few changes. An old and stately city, sitting upon a hill, is invaded by a group of "barbarians" whom, though peace loving and artistic at heart, are unfamiliar and uncaring of it's culture, society, history or indigenous peoples, and therefore, change every thing but the physical architecture. Soon, a continuing orgy of festivals develops and it's streets are strewn with paper wrappers, cans, cigarette butts, and an assortment of food wrappers. It's buildings begin to display the new verbiage of the conqueror: Peace, Love; Stop The War; Head Shop; Meditation. Its art takes a turn and spills the streets with: The Beatles; Arlo Guthrie; The Stones; Jimmy Hendricks; John Sebastion; Canned Heat; Richie Havens; Country Joe McDonald; Joan Baez; Crosby Stills Nash and Young; The Who; Joe Cocker; Santana; Led Zeplan...names and sounds as alien as the outfits preferred by the barbarians! But, in the reality of the barbarians, they were liken to a great resurrection and congregation of every minstrel, court jester, and philosopher ever to walk the planet earth and beyond.

With musical instruments and voice in song, carrying more tunes then words in a dictionary, their new thoughts resounded off the newly painted, loud, bright colored store fronts which faced the tangled streets. From harmonicas wailing everything from Blues and Southern Foot Stomping Jam, to peaceful renditions of acoustic guitars and flutes, their musical statements were offered as testimonials of the manifold backgrounds which were merged into a phenomena of peace, love and joy. Yes, though the barbarians called hippies had come and begun a revolution, San Francisco flowed and ebbed on the tides of past and future great souls...

"Yo, you got a place to crash?"

The voice startled Joe. Looking to his right, he was astonished to see.... no, it could not be! No $%#@#$%$ way! Is that you?

His hair was now long and tied in a pony tail, it draped his shoulder--loudly contrasting with the purple and orange tie-dyed tee shirt he was wearing.

"Wow, ain't Frisco cool?" Pauly said as he lit a hand-tailored, odorous cigarette--which gave off a un-familiar, sweet and sticky cloud... causing several barbarians to rush over to take huge, long intakes, turn red, and cough in small successive bursts.

'Were they trying to hold the smoke in!'Joe thought before answering Pauly. "I just got here." Feeling a wave of relief at the sight of his buddy from NY--someone he was familiar with even if he had been infected with the barbarian's strange disease--he wanted to ask him how he was; how the south west was; and if he was clean...

"So you ain't got a pad to crash in, do you?" Pauly interrupted.

Joe was stumped to answer Pauly. Pad? Crash? Not only was the clothing, mannerisms, cigarettes, and music completely alien, but the language contained words which were twisted out of context! "To tell you the truth, I don't know what your talking about."

"Oh man., cool dude, like I can check your vibes out. Your still like square man..."

"Pauly, hey, I do not care how you speak, only give me more than a clue to your meaning or don't talk to me.."

"Hey man, like don't blow your stacks. Check it out, you just dribble your karma all over the street...like that's not cool to lose your cool......."

"Pauly, how long have you been here?" Joe asked in an attempt to calm the situation down and find out what the "street word" was back in "The City".

"I split the roost six months ago. Your goomba, Big Franky, who was steeming hot, caught the scoop from some guy you were with a "Jack the Cat"... then I got it through the vine you were crashing in some digs in Miami. I hiked the thumb out of there to see ya....SEE YA! I sez to those capitalists. But like, you know, it was not cool. Miami was square. The pigs just rut the streets... you know? And, at the projects-- some psycho called Clyde some thing or other went berserk when I asked about you. Kept running his motor about his lady friend running off with a Monkey face.... weird man... really $#$%$%# weird!... so I hopped the thumb with some cool dudes from LA... and now here I be one week!"

Joe was stunned by Pauly's comments. Obviously, Uncle Frank had known where he was. The connected guys at the track must have lea... or was it Shorty himself!, What about the score and Jack! Did this mean more questions? But the fact of how quick "Clyde" wound up back in the projects--by himself--made Joe grin inside at the news of Bonnie's "discovering" a new running mate...did she take the money too? Boy, the street news traveled long distances! "Hey, Pauly, where's LA?"

"Like LA is the place man! THE REAL CITY! Movie stars, Grumman's theater, Party, PARTY, PARTY TIME!! Hey man, we gota hike the thumb there, ya know what I mean..."

Pauly and Joe wound up "crashing" the night in an open house on the "hill"; an expensive house where some wealthy adults and teenagers held non-stop parties. In fact, the home was swarming with people off the street; people whom would walk the corner of Height and Ashbury, the surrounding streets, alleys, hallways, and even rooftops, till they were ready to drop, then take a hit of speed or acid, and eventually "wind up" "on the hill".

The way it worked was... you just kept asking: "Got a place to crash"... or "Got something for the head", nine out of ten times you would be offered a joint, hit of speed, acid, and/or directed to a hippie crash pad...a place, in one way or another, communally used. It might be an abandoned house, office or store front; it might be a theater, house, apartment or someone's mansion; it might mean a party, a simple crashing (sleeping) place, a group of voyeurs or exhibitionists whom would engage in sex in front of the crashers or even a home opened up by the male owners in the hopes of making contacts with young male and female runaways. What ever the crash pad, there was always story behind it!

The morning came and Joe jumped up eager to see for himself if it had been a dream or nightmare which he had had, but before he could look out side, bodies, piled haphazardly all around, indicated it was reality....

Stepping over several sleeping figures, Joe shook Pauly awake. "Come on Pauly, get up it's time to go."

Pauly just rolled over and grumbled before pulling a tie-dyed sheet over his head.

Joe was a pro at this sort of thing. From Carmine in '65, to the guys in the grove, Joe knew how to energize sleeping people into action. Walking over the snoring bodies that were in all forms of dress, Joe found the kitchen. Ripping pizza boxes and all types of refuse from the counter, Joe found what he was looking for....

"Hey, Pauly! Wake up!" "POUR." "SPLASH." Joe dumped a gallon of ice cold water on top of Pauly's head....

"What da $%#@%% do you dink your $^%^$#$%% doin! I'll cap your ass!" Pauly screamed as he jumped up as the Pauly Joe knew ... ready to wallop the jerk who had the audacity to dump a gallon of water on his head!

"Come on lets go. I got some bread. I'll buy you breakfast!"

Joe entered the crowded intersection and was not surprised to find that a legion of street sweepers with brooms and catchers had eventually swept down the corner and carried off most of the debris; there was now space enough for additional cast off's whom surely would follow when the vampires awakened that night!

With the corner partially cleaned up, it was once more a place of day time activity: business men traversed the busy intersection; hippies, whom had taken up residence in the various, strategic locations of traffic flow, stood with their hands out in pan-handle fashion. The revolution had a few pre-planned agendas. While the majority of revolutionaries slept the day away, a few individuals got up early enough to grub (beg) bread (money). Each individual was expected to perform their share of pan-handling; the proceeds of which were always shared with the group. Oh, there was always the occasional six shooter-loner-type-person whom did every thing for them selves, but in order to have a steady supply of grub and drug, one learned mighty fast of the power of team work. After all, even barbarians had brains....

"Hey Pauly, I'm glad to hear you talking NY speak. For a while I thought you had burned your brains out on drugs or something."

Pauly, whom was still steaming after the bath routine, just sort of grumbled and began asking passersby for some "loose change".