Flying my freak flag

I'm going to San Francisco with nothing but my cowboy boots and a guitar. I hear there's a freaky scene out there with longhairs making love in the streets and chemicals that can make you see God. They say you can touch the music in the air and that Frisco is the first fruit that will spread all over the world and end war forever. Artists make the laws, and hippies and heads rule with a marshmallow fist. I'm going to start a band. I'm going to start a commune. I'm going to become one with the first flower child who'll have me, and we'll create a passel of naked offspring who'll dance among the dandelions and never know the meaning of fear. It will all be a stone groove, man.

Wait. Sorry. I just checked my boarding pass, and it turns out that California is only two hours behind Texas and not 41 years as I read on Wikipedia. Also, I have a return flight on Sunday.