HANG UP YOUR TAMBOURINE

Luscious and I spent two winters in a little cabin in Bearsville, NY. We heated by wood, had a cat named Axel, Shawna the lab, a black and white TV, a rotary phone and a record player. I worked as a carpenter's helper and Luscious got a job as a salesgirl/seamstress in Woodstock. We thought of having a kid but instead got an insane Irish setter named Kelly from my brother Bird. I taught stone lithography at the local art association in town and didn't do much in the way of expanding my own work. Luscious was 19 and I was 22. We were too busy playing house and figuring out ways to pay the monthly nut to enjoy being young freespirits in paisley shirts and bell bottoms. We did have a little time to drop some acid and screw alot. It wasn't all like our parent's life.
Vietnam was winding down. Nixon had been ousted by Watergate. Paul Butterfield and Albert Grossman were neighbors. Lee Marvin walked around town with a hawk on his shoulder. Gas lines were forming. Shag haircuts and glitter rock were becoming all the rage and i still had an itch to to see the Pacific. Woodstock seemed old fashion to me. I was realizing that we were late to the scene. Gasoline was 50 cents per gallon and we thought if it went any higher we wouldn't be able to eat. Even with these extreme prices we decided to load up our brand new, shiny red, 1975 pickup truck, give away the crazy irish setter and head for SF. Surprise! We were late to that scene also.
At 22 I thought it was all over. Glassy eyed vets, wounded either physically or mentally came home, buried their uniforms in the bottom of trunks and tried to get jobs in a shitty economy. The hippies were gone. Long hair was no longer a sign of anything more than good folicles. We landed in Haight/Ashbury amongst Hell's Angels, burnouts, and a few enterprising gays painting the Victorian houses bright colors. Where were those babes in peasant blouses playing tambourines? Luscious and I began to look at each other like strangers. The little incident of her screwing my best friend was still stuck in my craw. I guess I wasn't quite mature enough to let it go. She got bored and enrolled in junior college night classes in Marin. I got a studio in an old ship building warehouse in Sausalito and when i wasn't picking up the odd carpentry job, I spent long days staring at blank walls. So this was what an artist did. The beret didn't quite fit.