Hey, I'm no rock star, and never have been. The tiny image above is my press pass in my years as a reporter for the coolest magazine of the era. I have deliberately kept this image small, because in the context of that time, my contributions were relatively minor, although I do believe the series of articles Howard Kohn and I wrote under the initial title of "The Inside Story," which detailed the saga of Patty Hearst and the self-styled "Symbionese Liberation Army" did contribute not only to Jann Wenner's magazine's financial success, but to our progressive culture's ultimate success in discerning between our truly revolutionary impulses and the foolish thuggery of the misguided.
Our three-part series of articles, which probably ran to some 60,000 words, captured in real time the tragic-comic end of an era where idealism drove an entire generation to challenge the authority of the societal structures we encountered as we came of age.
We fought against this "system," which in psychological terms might be described as our parents' world, and we eventually won. But what, exactly did we achieve?
Next month, here in San Francisco, my former colleagues and I will gather to celebrate the first ten years of Rolling Stone, when it was our magazine in this fine city, before Jann took it to New York, denouncing this town as a "backwater," as he became a billionaire.
I harbor no resentment toward Jann; the truth is I admire him as an entrepreneur. Had he cooperated with me, I would have published his biography by now.
But he did not, so I haven't. And since the only writing left inside me has to be emotionally honest, the nuanced story I might have told about him will perhaps never become a book.
A month from now, when the big Rolling Stone reunion occurs, I may have a different perspective. Who knows?
Tonight, it just seems a long time ago and a place oh so far away, even though it is not, in physical terms. After all, 625 Third Street sits barely ten minutes from my flat.
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