The first time I didn’t see the Allman Brothers was also, by the strangest of coincidences, the first time Duane Ailman saved my life, or at least a large portion of it. I was just back from an extended, forced stay outside this country and was finally repatriated one misty morning in San Francisco. This was still in the Sixties and, since I had faithfully read my Time Magazine International. Edition , I knew that San Francisco was awash in flowers and that the Grateful Dead would be tuning up for a love-in just about the time I would be arriving at the corner of Haight & Ashbury. I had a lot of money on me when I landed, so I immediately hired a taxi at day rates. I looked down the row of yellow cabs until I found what I needed a large spade driver wearing a dashiki. He would know where the action was. I wanted a grand tour.

In the country where I had been living, it was commonplace to hire a cab and driver for days at a time. The driver also served as your messenger, bodyguard, guide, and general savant who could protect you from your own ignorance. The big spade at the airport thought I was crazy, but agreed to a day’s hire for a hundred bucks. I leaped into the cab: and yelled to Gerald, the driver, to “take me to the Haight!” His broad shoulders shook with laughter as he shut off the engine and turned to me: “Now, you don’ really want ho Haight. I'm gone have to tell you a few thangs, I see that rat now."