It is 1976. In the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco, a group walks into a park. Some are carrying a coffin, and others dance around the wooden box. Flowers droop from their hair, from their fingers, from the coffin. The hippies chant, they sing, they light the coffin in a burning moment of drug-induced symbolism.
Within the crowd is a bald-headed, bearded man. He carries a sketchpad that, if he were sitting cross-legged, would be big enough to cover his knees. He is not a reporter. “The funeral is over, but the corpse is still grooving,” he writes. The man is Shel Silverstein.
Heidi Sistare’s Attention, Attention discusses the “freewheeling, shaggy, peripatetic, roving, bawdy, hirsute, and saucy” genius of Shel Silverstein.