The changes happened quickly, because Marge was behind on her payments. The mansion in Terra Linda went up for sale within a few days, and she made an offer for the cabin. The family waited nervously for the real estate agents to sort everything out. Meanwhile, Krishna had her first real litter of kittens in Marty’s closet. There were four of them, all different colors. “She must really get around the neighborhood,” his mom drawled wryly when she saw them. Then she looked down, and the bottoms of her white pants were covered with little black dots like pepper. The closet was infested with fleas! The entire bedroom had to be treated with those new “flea bombs” they sold at the pet store. The chemical smell forced Marty to sleep with his window open after that, but at least the bugs were gone.
On one of Marge’s “off days” after she had returned to work, Marty came home from school to find Jimbo sitting at the kitchen table without his shirt. His mom was in her bathrobe cooking eggs. “Don’t you have work today?” he innocently inquired, knowing full well that the gentle giant had spent the night, fulfilling the role of “the husband” in their home in more ways than one.
“Jimbo brought a surprise for us,” Marge interjected hastily, pulling her bathrobe together and trying to change the subject.
The big redhead was stroking his thick beard with great satisfaction, “Yup, I got tickets to the SNACK concert.” He gestured to an envelope on the table.
“What’s that, some sort of picnic?” Marty wondered what kind of snacks they would have.
“No, silly. It’s a rock concert,” his mom explained. “It’s at Kezar Stadium in the city, so it’s a big deal. The Doobie Brothers will be there, and Tower of Power.”
“And Santana,” added Jimbo as he pulled a shirt over his muscular shoulders.
“What’s a Doobie?” Marty asked innocently.
Marjorie and Jimbo exchanged wry glances, and she nodded. His huge, freckled hand reached in the front pocket of his overalls that were draped on a chair, and pulled out a skinny, hand-rolled cigarette. Marty’s eyes got big. “Is that a marijuana cigarette?” He had of course heard about marijuana, but had never actually seen it except for those corny films they showed in gym class.
“I can’t tell you,” Jimbo whispered in a conspiratorial tone, then glanced about in mock furtiveness. “But its code name is doobie.”
“And don’t you tell anyone, either!” Marjorie added quickly. Marty held it up to his nose, and it smelled like spices. His mom took it from him, apparently having second thoughts. “You’re too young for that. This is real grown-up stuff, okay?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty good shit,” Jimbo chuckled. “Ow,” he exclaimed as she socked him in the arm. Marty was beginning to suspect that wasn’t the only joint he’d had in his pocket that day. He went upstairs and looked up marijuana in his encyclopedia, and it didn’t say anything about fecal matter… he was just kidding himself… of course, he and his friends knew what weed was, they just hadn’t tried any yet. But now Marty was thirteen, and teenagers in those days smoked weed the way cows eat grass.
Will young Marty fall victim to the evil overtures of the diabolical devil weed? Will the sinful wiles of Mary Jane rob him of his unspoiled innocence? Will he find out why a rock & roll fraternity is named after marijuana? And what would Good Ol’ Dad say about this?! The boy had much to learn in the ways of the world!
On the Saturday of the concert the entire extended family drove in two cars to the Haight-Ashbury district in the city, near the panhandle of Golden Gate Park, where Kezar Stadium was nestled in a threadbare grove of eucalyptus trees. Marty was surprised they made it that far in Jimbo’s truck, and for that matter, Jack’s old panel van that didn’t look like it was built for anything but local bread deliveries. He had been to Kezar once before with his dad to see a 49ers game, but all he remembered was his team won. That part of the city was still legendary hippie territory, and many interesting characters roamed the sidewalks or lounged on the green grass, tossing Frisbees and smoking weed. An old man with a long white beard rode a unicycle while blowing giant soap bubbles. Marty glimpsed what appeared to be naked ladies, dancing while wearing nothing more than psychedelic body paint. Lots of cops were standing around with bemused expressions, trying in vain to direct traffic. A goofy group of about 12 teenage beatniks crossed the street in front of the White family, waving peace signs and carrying tie-dyed banners. Jack called them “deadheads,” but they looked very much alive. It was an impressive spectacle for a budding cartoonist, and Marty took many snapshots with his mind’s camera, to be developed later with pen and ink.
The bearded brothers pulled their funky vehicles into a gravel parking lot, and Marty laughed out loud to see many even funkier conveyances. People were hanging out of psychedelic VW buses and partying on the tailgates of battered pickup trucks as if they were tripping in a brightly painted junkyard, while drifting in and out of billowing clouds of smoke. A group of bikers huddled protectively around their Harleys, not wanting to mix with the freaks. Frisbees whizzed past and over their heads, as rock & roll music blared from every radio. They recognized some Santana songs coming from a nearby VW bus, on one of those new contraptions that let you play tapes in your car without commercials. By this time, the Summer of Love had devolved into the Spring of Anxiety, when the Vietnam War was finally winding down. San Francisco was a filter in which much of the social storm debris of the Sixties had gotten caught. Lots of older, more experienced hippies like Jimbo and Jack were mixed in with the younger crowd, and Marty saw many more kids than he expected. He learned later that taking your children to rock concerts was considered a family outing in San Francisco.
The current of the crowd picked up, and folks started drifting towards the stadium as it got close to the time when the gates would open. Everybody mixed together at that point, and there were no autonomous groups anymore, just a surging mass of humanity. Each individual had only one goal in mind: to get as close to the stage as possible, because there were no assigned seats. Marty couldn’t wait to see the stampede when they opened the gates! Jack, being the oldest and wisest, advised that they should wait off to the side and let the crazies get through first. There was a surge in the crowd and a cheer as the gates opened, and people began crushing each other like sardines, to squeeze through a small opening. There was a lot of shoving, and swearing, and a couple of fights broke out, but it didn’t look like anything serious. When it thinned out a bit, Jimbo and Jack used their great bulk to plow a path through the field of heavily medicated concertgoers. Marjorie and her kids followed in their wake, but once inside they learned that the main gates were on the other side of the stadium, and the place was already half full. A huge crowd had turned out for the charity event to fund San Francisco school athletic departments. Marty saw tiny, distant beatniks crawling like multicolored ants towards the top edges of the stadium’s bowl. Their group wound up in those far reaches. about as far from the stage as they could get, but it was still interesting because they sat at the top edge where they could turn their heads for a nice view of the park. Marty had been to many exciting baseball games at Candlestick Park, but this was by far the most electric crowd of which he had ever been a part. It made him a little nervous, because there was a different attitude in the air (mixed with the ubiquitous smell of burning weed) …as if anything could happen.
Marty scaled back his focus to examine the people closest to him. He had always been a keen observer of human nature, but this spectacle overwhelmed his senses. There was very little conventional behavior – other than the couple three rows down that were passionately making out. It was a little unsettling, however, that all the people around them (including Jimbo and Jack) were lustily cheering them on. There were two guys right next to them with dreadlocks, rolling the largest doobie Marty had ever seen. He didn’t know they came in different sizes! It was as big as a salami, and took them a long time to get it lit. When they finally did, they magnanimously passed it on to their neighbors and started dancing, and everyone close by cheered.
The signs outside had said “no cans or bottles,” but it appeared as though nobody had paid any attention to them, because nearly everyone had a can or bottle of something alcoholic. Marty had brought his Boy Scout canteen full of water, and was very glad he did. Outside, a security guard had asked him to open it, and he’d joked, “Yeah, my dad made me carry the vodka.” That got a good laugh.
Back in the present moment, his mom nudged him from behind, and stuck something extremely noxious in his face. It was the huge doobie! Half of it was gone, and the remainder was brown and sticky and not at all appetizing. The oily smoke curled off the end like incense. Why would somebody want to put that in their lungs? Marty glanced around, trying to look casual, and all the hippie faces smiled at him expectantly, as if he was going to join a secret society or something. One last look at his mom’s approving, goofy grin, and he took a little toke. Yuck! He tried to pass it on to Julie, who was proudly nodding at him, but it was stuck to his fingers. Everyone laughed at the young buck toking on his first doobie, and a few people cheered. His fingers smelled like tar all day.
The concert opened with the sky high horns of Tower of Power, and Marty was enraptured. A very pleasant feeling came over him, and he felt joined with all this humanity, enjoying the bonding vibrations of music. People were moving everywhere – dancing in the aisles or in their seats, stepping through the crowd to get to the bathrooms, and coming back with refreshments. Several beach balls were being tossed among the masses, and the people at the top had to keep them from going over the edge. Then the Doobie Brothers came on, and the crowd went crazy. They played a couple of songs Marty recognized from the radio, but they didn’t sound the same. The crowd didn’t care. From that point on, the energy level was very “high.” There must have been over 50,000 people inside the stadium, and everyone was stoned out of their minds. The noise was so loud he could hardly hear the music! He turned his head to see hundreds of people partying outside, as well. He was thoroughly enjoying his first rock concert, but starting to wonder when it would be over so he could go pee. Marty didn’t want to act like a girl and ask someone to go with him, but he wasn’t too sure about using the bathroom alone in this exceptionally strange crowd. He speculated if he could surreptitiously pee off the rim of the stadium, or fill his canteen under the blanket they’d brought. Jack apparently read his mind, as he called loudly, “C’mon, Marty, let’s go find some drinks and the john!”
“I’d like to hear some funky Dixieland, pretty mama come and take me by the hand…”
Moving through the shifting, pulsing, dancing crowd of hippies was hypnotizing. Happy faces appeared and disappeared, colorful fabrics rustled as they passed, and the smell of patchouli oil and burning marijuana was everywhere. Marty must have been offered five different doobies before they even got to the bathroom, but he waved them off with a smile. There was a line for the portable bathrooms, and another doobie was being shared, so he shrugged and toked again. This one had a sweet, spicy smell that wasn’t as bad as that sticky cigar. His bladder felt like it was going to explode by the time he got to the front of the line, but then the stench was so bad he wished he didn’t have to go. The porta potty was overflowing in a very disgusting way, and he had trouble finding a clean spot to put his feet so he could add to the mess without touching anything. When finished, he burst outside and gasped for air. Jack was waiting outside with a disgusted “What are ya gonna do?” look on his face. He bought a bunch of sodas and they navigated slowly back to where his family was seated.
Next was the Jefferson Starship, a local favorite. Their music didn’t appeal to Marty at the time, and when they were followed by the lilting folk goddess Joan Baez, he got a little sleepy and tried to doze in the shade of the bearded giants. The smooth rhythms shifted when Carlos Santana and his band took the stage, changing to a Latin salsa beat to accompany the ringing guitar solos. This re-energized the crowd, and some staff members started passing out cups of water that were very much appreciated. Then the munchies set in, and everyone in the area was eating, dancing, and smoking weed. Some celebrities made an appearance for the charity event, including his idol, Willie Mays. Marlon Brando was there, too, but Marty couldn’t fathom his connection to either rock & roll or sports. The concert was a benefit for athletics, and Willie was pitching the after school sports programs or something. He couldn’t hear much of what anyone was saying, anyway.
After that there was an electric buzz in the crowd, and more people started pushing into the stadium from outside. When they announced the surprise guest to be the Grateful Dead, the place went absolutely bonkers! Like a wave receding from the beach, many of the people in the stands excitedly rushed down and joined the crowd surging towards the stage, and the bleachers became half-empty in just a few minutes. Below, on the football field, an incredible pulsating mass of multicolored humanity was dancing in joyous rapture to the music. Without so many people yelling around him, Marty could finally hear it. He didn’t recognize any of the songs – they sounded kind of loose and improvised – but everyone else acted as if it was the overture of the universe. Outside the stadium, the crowd had swelled to twice its size, and there were tens of thousands of people in the area of the stadium, grooving and dancing and partying to the Dead. It was an immensely amazing spectacle for a sheltered suburban boy whose only prior exposure to concerts had been the local fair!
A man in the next row caught his eye, and Marty noticed he was wearing braces on his legs and had steel crutches. That explained why he wasn’t dancing. Marty had casts on his legs as an infant for the first year of his life, so he could relate. After a few seconds they exchanged the wistful smiles of two people who share a mutual understanding. The hippie dude was wearing a Levi’s jacket covered in Grateful Dead patches, so it wasn’t hard to guess which band was his favorite. Marty was fascinated by his large, Rastafarian knit cap into which was stuffed enough hair to make a new rock band.
“The Dead are awesome!” Hippie Dude shouted above the din, with such joyful ebullience that Marty nodded vigorously in agreement.
“This is my first concert!” Marty yelled back at him. The dude’s red eyes fluttered open like a pair of happy cardinals taking flight, and his wide lips formed a perfect “o” in the middle of his beard.
Hippie Dude tipped his huge hat back, and kissed the sky. “Aw-w-e-some!!” Marty suspected that awe was an integral part of his life. He gesticulated wildly to a drum solo, and radiated such pure ecstasy that he should have been flying over the stadium, swooping down joyfully on the crowd. With compassion, Marty sincerely wished that he could!
His mom interrupted his heartfelt reverie to ask him to accompany her, Julie, and Susie to the bathrooms. He realized he was very hungry, and waited in line for some snacks while the females endured the indecencies of bodily functions. An agitated beatnik with long stringy hair and an Uncle Sam hat in the line next to him was arguing with the vendor. “I’m not going to pay for that, man! You should be giving food to the people for free, man! Power to the people!” The vendor looked like he would rather be at the dentist, or doing his taxes.
Other demonstrators started taking up the chant: “Power to the people! Power to the people!!” Now all the vendors looked scared, as the crowd broke line and pressed forward. A couple of guys grabbed some food and ran.
The supervisor tried to restore order by waving his arms with peace signs like Tricky Dick Nixon, yelling “Love is all you need! Love is all you need!!” but he was really short, and disappeared as if he was drowning in a sea of tie-dye and long hair. So now there were two warring factions, both of them shouting love and empowerment, but engaged in conflict and division. Lots of pushing and shoving ensued, and it seemed to Marty that a whole lot more than love was needed! To avoid the riot, he sidled over to the bathrooms to wait for his mom and sister, where he could watch the drama from a safe distance. After a while it calmed down at the concession stand, with displays of impassioned agreement and hugging.
The Dead played their encore, and Marty asked his mom who would be next. “Neil Young.” It was Julie who answered. She never hesitated to answer for someone else in a helpful sort of way, if only to save them from the embarrassment of being wrong.
It wasn’t easy getting back to their seats, because many of the fans who had left the bleachers to get a closer look at the Grateful Dead’s long-anticipated reunion were now returning to the approximate areas where they remembered leaving their belongings. There was lots of milling about, and people crossing against the flow of bodies, and abruptly changing direction. Margorie decided just to go up to get away from the human riptide, and led her kids back to Jimbo and Jack along the rim of the stadium. Along the way, they scored some vegetarian sandwiches from a generous hippie lady in a tie-dye dress. Mary scarfed two of them before they reached their seats! Suddenly there was a roar from the crowd, and several people near them screamed, “It’s Bob Dylan!”
Of course Marty knew who he was, though his music was more popular with adults than the kids. His lyrics, on the other hand, were not lost on him at all. He was the jester who sang for the king and queen in Don McLean’s famous song, American Pie, but on that day he sang for the hippies of San Francisco. To witness such an iconic musician make a surprise appearance was an incredible cherry on top of Marty’s Super SNACK Sunday. The Band was there too, and when they finished their set the entire stadium – inside and outside – applauded loud and long, and whistled, and stomped, and yelled until everyone was completely spent. The people were in an exceedingly mellow mood as they filed out of the stadium, grinning sheepishly at each other as if they had just shared a miraculous religious experience. Ladies were passing doobies to their children, strangers broke into impromptu reggae dances, or locked arms in shared song. Marty never felt more a part of a collective human whole than on that day.
When they got back to the trucks, Jack’s van wouldn’t start. Word got around, and one of the biker dudes produced some jumper cables, and a bodybuilder guy with tattoos expertly maneuvered his truck into position. Exhausted, Susie crawled inside the cab of Jimbo’s pickup and immediately fell asleep. Jack was inside the van, arguing with his brother good-naturedly, and tinkering with the carburetor where the hood to the engine could be opened. It was weird to see a motor that was inside a car. Together, they got it to start and exchanged high-fives as Marty scrambled gratefully into the back, where Jack had installed storage benches made of scrap lumber. The suddenly grown-up boy laid down and slept all the way home, rattling his stoned bones among the plastic crates of tools and building supplies.