• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 11
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— Heartfelt Hatfield thanks to the good guy real McCoy

William Buchholz’s last name translated into English would be Wood Book. Raised in Chicago as 1st grade World Book rivals & 2nd grade 3rd base frenemies I tormented Woody bullying basement sewage Blind Man’s Bluff. Booked in the same college dorm the blotto schmuck nearly nailed me by dangling both feet from Dunster’s 3rd story window.

Then WB & I ended up at Stanford. A Billyboy bull session turned me on to a bulletin board advert to divvy expenses for a woodsy cabin half way to the Pacific which situation rescinded my graphic comic bookworminess because the pre-Silicon Valley CGI geek was also a gonzo head who headed the Free U. that matriculated nude parties.

Suffering more’n my share of bloodless wooden No Thanks, I got a quirky practicum in non-book female learning under the influence of humungous computers rigged to vinyl (fave was Winwood’s Traffic) synched to ceiling light-organ black-light psychedelia. Trusted Wm. in the clutch I had him repair my hernia so didn’t need to wear no girdle.

After enough lurid sex, drugs & rock ‘n roll almost this weekend dropout got hitched to my old lady. You know who was the best man, clued us in about groovy honeymoon opportunities? Where I could perform natural childbirth home deliveries from Russian River bliss to the Haight Summer of Love runaways’ miscarried Bosched LSD detritus?

Though divergent careers & coasts, many kids & decades later when I really needed a good friend, eyes sloooowly opening after a rough meditation, there was William Buchholz.