Wave that flag

I was well aware that the 250th anniversary was something over which to make a big deal, but my color scheme for both Pride and Independence Day was tie-dye. Tie-dye comes much closer to the original Rainbow Flag, as opposed to the bastardized, artificially woke-enhanced “rainbow” flag. It pretty much misses the American Flag, though I did see some great red, white, and blue tie-dye, including tie-dye with stars, on the Fourth. I wore tie-dye in the Pride parade on Sunday, and tie-dye on the Fourth. That was because I celebrated both days as a Deadhead.

Why, you might ask, did I take part in the Pride parade, given what it’s become? Simple: after a long, long time, somebody revived the Queer Deadheads contingent. That name was never chosen to be au currant; it was short and simple the year some Deadheads decorated a VW bus and brought a sound system and live Dead show tapes to play, so we could boogie our way up Market Street. This year, all we had in the way of sound was a single speaker in a hand-pulled wagon, but plenty of camaraderie. I took part because it was a gathering of the tribe, and a chance to dance together.

I didn’t get much dancing in, because the walking pace was stepped up by the organizers to accommodate the large number of contingents, to the point sauntering wouldn’t do and stepping lively was a must. We were a small but a fun group. One of us had a large flag with a rod to keep it displayed as he rode rings around us on his bicycle. Someone else had a bubble gun. We were being silly, which was part of the point. We may be a tiny sliver of the gay community, but we were out representing. And a baseball buddy of mine saw me on television.

I was wearing a t-shirt from the first, one-off Queer Deadheads contingent which I’d tie-dyed at my first opportunity. It bore a Stealie—the skull with a big circle whose lightning bolt is often swapped out for other logos. This shirt has a pink triangle in the skull, and above it the legend “Ain’t No Time to Hate” (from “Uncle John’s Band”). When we turned out of the shadowy canyon of Spear Street and into the sunlight on Market, the chorus of “Here Comes Sunshine” began to play. Faces duly stolen.

I didn’t see anything untoward at Pride, but we saw the start of it. The radicals got prime lead-off positions, after the traditional roaring kickoff by the Dykes on Bikes. I saw a number of men dressed as women, which may have been just drag. Lots of pharmaceutical companies with large contingents, and Kaiser Hospitals.

On the Fourth of July, the Haight Street Art Center, two blocks off Market, was throwing an opening celebration for its Forever Grateful exhibit, which will rotate works into September. Grateful Dead art is not just album covers and concert posters, but fan art, patches, and even art on envelopes sent to the band’s ticket office for show ticket lotteries. There was the tile sign from Magoo’s Pizza in Menlo Park, where the band played its first paid gig as The Warlocks. There was a letter page flyer, hand drawn in crayon, for the very first Acid Test in San Jose, for which the band changed their name to the Grateful Dead.

Fun fact: one reason for the change was that another band was already calling themselves The Warlocks. They, too, changed their name—to the Velvet Underground.

There were posters for shows I remembered fondly, some key shows from the year we were all worried that a hiatus after extensive touring might mean the end of the band. Fortunately, that was not the case. I gave myself plenty of time to make my way through a raised bed garden to a courtyard surrounded by apartments of condos in time to get a seat on a concrete barrier to listen in comfort to a free show by the late Grateful Dead bassist Phil Lesh’s son Graeme and some of his usual suspects. They played two hours. The encore, of course, was “U.S. Blues,” with its chorus of “Wave that flag, wave it wide and high.” It opens with “Red and white blue suede shoes/I’m Uncle Sam, how do you do?” and is quite the fun little bopper. Early on, cheers went up at the “Jack Straw” line “Leaving Texas, fourth day of July.” We were on theme.

There were cheers also, of course, during the ballad “Standing on the Moon,” at “Standing on the Moon, but I’d rather be with you/Somewhere in San Francisco, on a back porch in July.” That hit me, because sometimes I miss living in The City like crazy, as happy as I am to have more warm, sunny weather in the East Bay. There’s something about a preponderance of Victorian and Edwardian houses on streets in a grid overlaid on tall hills that’s magical. Everywhere I go in The City feels familiar, because it is. It’s still my natural habitat.

I’d thought of finding something to do so I could stick around for the fireworks, some of which would be set off at Golden Gate Bridge. As forecast, though, the fog was rolling in, and the long, crowded trek back would not be worth looking at a fog band of shifting pastel colors. So, I went home. I didn’t even do any grilling that weekend, and wondered whether I’d undercelebrated the 250th.

Then I thought about all the wonderful social media footage of World Cup visitors to the U.S. marveling at our country, its beauty, the abundance even ordinary people can enjoy, and the friendly welcomes they received wherever they went. The eagle and the Buc-ee’s beaver. Sweet.

Everyone I knew, personally or online, and people I didn’t know, were posting America 250 memes like mad and liking and commenting on each other’s posts. No, this one was duly celebrated, and shared. My efforts were modest, but in the groove.