Somebody to Love? by Grace Slick, Andrea Cagan Page B

fun), and a huge linebacker from the college football team. We did a lot of quadruple dating—my dormmates and his teammates—usually centered around movies. Typically, the guys sat in every other seat because their bodies were so big, the normal setup would bring on claustrophobia. Swimming, boating, and attending the obligatory formal prom at the Fontainebleau Hotel completed the list of “must-do” activities. It was a tame and sunny year, during which I remember only two inclinations to deviate from the norm.
    The first came when I was in a record store looking for “La Bamba” by Ritchie Valens, and happened to see an album cover with a picture of a guy having a picnic by himself in a graveyard. It was Lenny Bruce. I'd never heard of him, but as soon as I listened to the record, I knew I'd found a soul mate. He used and abused the English language, and he cracked jokes about the Catholic church, Adolf Hitler, the judicial system, and anything else that needed catharsis. In short, he
said
the things that most people only
thought
. When I first heard the album, my face hurt from laughing, and I dragged my friends into my dorm room to listen to this prophet of attitude. Their response was not as enthusiastic as mine, but I wanted to find more people like him to hang out with—fringe-thinking as a way of life.
    Look out what you wish for—you might get it.
    My second “deviation” was toward a lifestyle change that proved permanent. I received a letter from Darlene that included an article by the
San Francisco Chronicle
columnist Herb Caen. Herb's article was about the new scene—a Bay Area phenomenon that included “hippies,” marijuana, rock music, and strange but pleasantly artistic postbeatnik behavior. Darlene suggested I come home to check it out. Since her instincts regarding promising scenes were always reliable, I decided to return to the West Coast, probably the most pivotal decision I ever made, considering where destiny ultimately took me.
    It would be a while before people realized what had hit them, but within a decade, every section of the country would be tossed into the eruption and spit back out with a whole new paradigm to paddle around in.

12
    Stupid Jobs
    W hen I arrived back in northern California in the fall of 1958, I moved in with my parents on Hamilton Avenue in Palo Alto. The first order of business was to find a job so that I could support myself and move into my own place, but what could I do? Neither the knowledge I'd gained at Finch (don't drink your finger bowl) nor the partying skills I'd developed at the University of Miami were much in demand. I scanned the want ads daily, looking for a suitable job and asking myself the same question that had plagued me during puberty:
    Where do I fit in?
    I decided to apply for a job as a receptionist in a lawyer's office, where multifunctional phones were just starting to rear their ugly little heads. My job was about being polite while trying to remember how many people I had languishing on the hold buttons. I failed—I'm
still
terrible at doing two things at once. After watching me struggle with the advanced technology for a few days, my boss informed me that my “phone manner” was unacceptable.
    I remember taking another short-lived job as a market-research guinea pig. After seating me in a dark room in front of a glass case containing three different cartons of aluminum foil, they switched on the light for a fraction of a second. When they turned it back off again, they asked me which box I'd noticed first. The point was to determine which color scheme would best grab the average housewife by the eyeballs and lure her into a spontaneous purchase. Ever find yourself unpacking the grocery bag and wondering why you bought the instant dustball warmer? They've got it all figured out at both the advertising
and
the shelf level.
    As I continued to search the want ads, one caught my eye. It read like this:
    Singer wanted for new record