Bernie and Bootsy launched into Aqua Boogie, Sir Bignose passing round doobies from the crowd while Grandpa George, wearing rainbow pajamas, took it all in—arms spread in some metaphysical hug. Miss. Karen kissed me with promise, and any difference between walking and dancing had long since disappeared.
That’s when the Mother Ship landed. Right in the middle of Golden Gate Park. Well, it didn’t really land, but a billion flashing lights put the bay night to shame and hovered maybe 20 feet above our heads. Dozens of ramps descended; band climbed on board, crowd let out a cheer, and one hundred thousand funk monsters took the ultimate trip. Less than an hour later ramps retract, and the Mother Ship launched itself back toward the stars.
There might have been a hundred of us left wandering the littered grounds.
Now, P-Funk had disappeared before, but they never took so many fellow funkstersalong, and this time there wouldn’t be any reunion tour. Nobody really made a big deal out of it—thirty seconds on Entertainment Tonight, half-page with photo in Rolling Stone. Friends and families gave most of their stuff away—look, I got Henry and Maurice’s 52 inch plasma TV.
All-in-all, life goes on pretty much as before, except I tell this story every year when my freshman read The Road Not Taken. To their clamoring why, the best I can say is that I did not hear the call.
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