We were partying in Hollywood

but I woke up in the Berkeley hills. I didn't know the name of the girl under the quilt with me. I found my jeans, and tried to figure out where the smell of waffles was coming from. Searching for the kitchen, I stopped stunned briefly by the view from the huge living room window.....the fog breaking to reveal the bay and the bridges. In the kitchen I found Mary, whom I did know, and we ate many waffles, and drank Irish coffee. Slowly, others crawled out from under quilts and sleeping bags, and I helped crank out more waffles and coffee. There was a whole case of whiskey under the sink. Someone turned on the television, and they were bombing Hanoi. Howard had this funky Ford Fairlane with a 390, and we blasted south down the 101, and were back in Political Science 200 by eight Monday morning. I got an A minus in that class. Forty years later, I found out that the girl under the quilt had a top ten country music hit somewhere along the line, but just died last week of an overdose in Hamburg, Germany.