Summer of '67 was one of those special once in a lifetime experiences. It was the '60's now famous, “Summer of Love,” before the race rebellions, before the Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy murders. Lyndon Johnson was president and the war in Viet Nam was taking an ugly and deadly turn for the worse. It was years before the “light at the end of the tunnel.”

We were, “groovy,” and “far out.” My friends and I all believed the world was going to turn into a Socialist Utopia if we just loved hard enough, protested against war long enough, and mellowed out. We saw ourselves as changing the world. It was the “We Care Generation.”

My friend Nick and I decided we were going to go to San Francisco to catch a look at the happening Hippie/Love Generation scene. It was to be a great adventure. My grandmother Burla took us to the bus station late one night for the overnight bus to San Francisco. Trying her best to induce us to stay home was not good enough. Like my father before me I was ready for a teen adventure out in America. Unlike my father who crossed the U.S. in the late 1930's at 16, I was going only four hundred miles north and also had family in the Bay Area in case something bad happened to us. Faster than I could say “Stop,” Burla was stuffing money in our hands and pockets, talking nonstop with no small sense of panic. “Be careful, don't talk to strangers, call me when you get there,” she repeated again and again and again. We were barely 16 years old.

Nick and I climbed on board the bus picking seats towards the back. We pulled out of the station with Burla waving with her pink scarf at us and pulling at the scarf around her neck; she was very nervous. Nick and I talked most of the night but finally fell asleep. We pulled into San Francisco around 8:00 AM, weary but very excited as to what was ahead of us. As planned we checked into the Bellevue Hotel, but not with out the hotel calling the police department first. A burly San Francisco policeman walked into the hotel lobby. “Where are you boys from, why are you here?” I pulled out a piece of paper with my Aunt and Uncle's name, address and phone number on it. “We are visiting my Aunt and Uncle, here,” I thrust the paper into his face. He looked at it and said to the deskman “It's OK, let them register.” My uncle was a well-known banker and owner of Columbia Bank in San Francisco.

Nick pretty much took off on his own after two days of general sight seeing together. We had money for two weeks only and we both had a personal agenda to fulfill. We would meet back at the hotel room every night or early morning and make sure we kept in contact, but other than that we were to create our own adventure in The Summer of Love. 

I went to Golden Gate Park the following day, a misty Saturday afternoon. There was a “Be-In,” taking place and I wanted to be a part of it.  I had on my bell-bottoms and a headband; I attempted to look the part. There were thousands of people. They were dancing and looked very Hip and cool. People were openly smoking pot, dancing and making love. I couldn't believe my eyes, I had never before seen anything like this, and it was wild. People were real friendly and talking about love and peace and the death of the Old Order. I felt a wonderful sense of belonging. I was like a little mascot to the event.

Late in the afternoon a tall guy came up and starting talking to me. Stan was his name; he was a junior at San Francisco State University. He had shoulder length dark blonde hair. He was talking a lot about the peace movement and student protests and things like that. I was very impressed. He asked about me and was surprised to find out how young I was. He said he could get me a fake ID so I could get into the after hours clubs. I agreed to meet him later that night. He gave me the name and the address of a club in San Francisco’s notorious Tenderloin district.

It was 10 PM and I was waiting outside of this really freaky hippy club. Up came Stan, “Here” he said handing me someone's draft card; the description was mine, the age was 18. I just looked at him. “Don't ask.” He said softly. “Show it to the door man when you walk in.” I did.

Inside the club the walls were all black and there were spinning lights and very loud music. Most people were just sitting at tables talking, looking very hip and cool to me. I was easily impressed at 16.

It was the first time in my life I really had a sense of being adult. I was grooving. Across the room was a redheaded girl with her hair all tied up above her head with ribbons and she had two flowers painted on her face. We caught each other's eye and she moved over to our table. “I'm Casey. What's your name?” I was stunned; she had to be at least 18 or 19. “My God, she came over to me!” What was I supposed to say or do? Casey took over. She started talking and holding on to me, and pushed Stan out of the conversation. Stan stood up and said, “Come on let's get out of here.” Casey spoke up. “Hey why don't you stay? We'll do stuff together.” She held my arm. “I'll meet you later”, I said to her. She wrote down an address to a club. “Be there at 1AM OK?” And off Stan and I went into the foggy streets of San Francisco's tenderloin. After walking around for a while Stan stopped and said, “Why don't you come over to my place and we'll drink some wine and make it together.” His words did not catch me by surprise. I figured he was interested in me. “Naw,” I interrupted him. “I'm going to meet Casey. It would be uncool to stand her up.” Stan was visibly upset. I was on a date with an older guy and never fully understood all the implications or expectations. I had been openly Gay with my family since I was 13. But I wanted an adventure not a romp in bed. The last I saw of Stan he was walking in the fog with his big Navy Pea coat, collar turned up. He yelled out, “See ya' later.” He looked pretty upset. I was numb to caring. I was a kid on a mission and my mission did not include Stan. 

I asked a street drunk how to get to the address on the piece of paper Casey gave me. After an hour of searching I found the club. It was a club on the second floor of an old building. Out in front of the club there was a line of women waiting to get in.

I got to the door and the doorwoman just looked at me. “What do you want junior?” “To get in?” I said as a question. The doorkeeper had on leather pants, had short-cropped hair and tattoos on both her hands, and did not look pleased. I felt a tug at my coat; it was Casey. “He's with me.” She barked at the woman. “OK, go in.” As I passed the doorkeeper she said to me, “Watch yourself!” We walked in and everywhere I looked there were women standing around talking and dancing. "Casey, what's all this?" I asked in total bewilderment. “It's a woman's club.” “A woman's club?” I asked back. “They're lesbians,” she answered matter-of-factly. “No one will ever believe this!” I was thinking to myself. I never even knew places like this existed. I never would have believed I would be in a place like this. “I'm bi-sexual Donnie,” Casey said holding onto my arm. I could not believe my ears. I got a big smile on my face, put my arm around her and said, “me too!”  Sounded good.