It’s 1AM Friday night. And for some inexplicable reason I’m sitting by myself on top of the Sproul Plaza steps.
And if I squint my eyes real tight I can see the ghost of Mario Savio standing on top of a cop car in 1964 and sticking his ass into the gears.
Or I can see Charles Manson on the steps of the Student Union building down there with his guitar in the fabled Summer of Love (so-called) of 1967, wooing his first Manson Family member hippie chick.
Or I can see myself as a kid coming to Berkeley for the first time at age 17 in 1974.
Or I can see myself 20 years later in 1994, bashing away on the drums in Hate Man’s drum circle.
Or I can see myself still sitting here in year 2018. . . .
It’s like I’m stuck in a time warp.