We landed? One giant step? Oh, I believe it … I just don’t personally recall it. The memory of that historic day somewhat blurred by the fact that—this was 1969, right?—we were was stoned out of our gourds.
July 20. Yup, that would have been about right. Our neighborhood in Berkeley—with the exception of straight folk, of course, and there were a few—had turned into a commune. Mostly taking place in Joyce’s back yard, because Joyce had the space, Joyce shared her house … and Joyce owned the pressure cooker.