How often does one have the chance to give a fool a ride back to his house sit in Lower Haight? Before my eyes, in the dark of a sliver moon night in late October, stood Rumpel the Aussie fool. I couldn’t stop staring at his vest, all full of ridiculous shiny things that idiots like me can’t help but look at. I tried to avoid the man’s pointy shoes and the mouse nose that forced Greg Mooney to ask “is that nose your real nose?” Rumpel dodged the answer, saying he has 300 noses, and I believe him.
Poor Rumpel, not from San Francisco and way too stoned to find a direction home (sorry for the Dylan/Hendrix reference, but Jimi Hendrix was the patron saint of West Fest today. His signature even blazoned the label of an energy drink, most likely licensed by the guitar great’s brother. That same sibling was on stage when a rag tag group of guitarists “played” Purple Haze in an attempt to break a world record. I don’t think they pulled it off). Mr. Rumpel was cold, in the dark of Golden Gate Park, and looking for the after party “where some of the bands were going to hang out.” He heard an address and was too high to remember it. Or too foolish to write it down.
But he found me and Greg in the middle of a field chatting. I played with a broken branch and Greg toyed his lit-up unicycle. Rumple showed up and fell in “with the folks you need to meet tonight” (Greg’s words), getting a ride home from Jonathan and the Wonder Truck. We dropped the fool off at the corner of Fillmore and Oak, still unsure about what he was going to stumble into next.
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