“AND MY SOUL’S BEEN PSYCHEDELI-SIZED”

October 28th, 2007

I dated an woman in my mid-30’s who was 5 years older than me. Not much of a difference?

My ass.

The split arrived in 1946. Not too many drugs around at the time. Border town Mexicans in the Southwest smoked hooty.And while some of the dry, dirty brown herb made it into jazz clubs and onto the stoops of patch work Harlem tenements, white folks getting their consumers groove on as the 50’s dawned were spared the sweet, enlightening buzz of high mountain sativa.

Blacks and Browns, ramped up on the surrealism of 1950’s grey flannel culture, entertained white people covertly, writing music and improvising background mood music for consumption of cocktails in lounges so dark no one could see anyone’s secrets. Some of their stuff even ended up on turntables in college dorms with Playboy advised seniors filling briar pipes with imported tobaccos instead of smuggled Afghani Golden Sole hashish.

Then came the babies of 46′. By the early 50’s, Christmas became a national anthem for the explosion in toys that rolled off American assembly lines by the multi-bajillions. War weary parents spend huge amounts of tax dollars educating almost 85 million kids. The Government was an obedient servant. Unions and average moms and dads determined the direction of the country. Politicians spend hours back home with the locals, bowing and scraping for votes. Adlai Stevenson, a bright man with aspirations to turn the country around from fin-tailed Cadilliacs to financial comforters of government largesse, wore holes in his shoe leather tramping around the Eisenhower interstates searching for support.

Eventually, a few of us boomers made it across the borders into Mexico. We drank watered down whiskey in nightclubs where Mexican hookers high up on stage sqatted on top of us, settling their thick, black haired labia down into our uplifted adolescent faces. At some point we shared a thin, hand wrapped cigarette that appeared to be filled with McCormicks oregano. A taxi driver gave it to us for nothing.”Best smoke in TJ”, he laughed as he eased his old Chevy back into Tijuanas thin streets.

The rest is hippie history. True, the Beats smoked weed everyday before we did. But bongos and folk music didn’t roll for boomers. Screaming Jay Hawkins stormed into our lives along with Elvis and transistor radios from Japan. We needed an upgrade and we got it.

Woodstock 69.

But we also got the dark side. While a minority of us we’re turning on to uninhibited sex, tuning in to Tim Leary and Alan Watts , and tuning out Hubert Humphrey, others were anxious to make the world a safer place for Imperialism. At first, the War On Vietnam seemed just like another unimportant police action in a place too far away to forget all the old Victory at Sea episodes we watched on those big box tv’s. In between Willie Whopper and Gabby Hayes, boomers learned that before they were born, America beat the most evil man ever to appear on the planet. Once that happened, we assumed America’s brush with worldwide armed conscription was over.

Thats when the boomers split right down the middle. While some jacked up meatheads too loaded on propaganda from their hard hat mentors gladly signed up to get slaughtered , the rest of us took our millions of spoiled, well educated troops into the streets to elect a pig for president and to back up black people who were denied the right to piss in “whites only” southern state gas station toilets. We fueled our dancing, fuck our brains out demands with Colorado Ounces of seeded weed. White hippies were certain they had the power. Black Panthers weren’t quite sure. They knew the Man better than white kids did.

By the mid-70’s , the Panthers uncertainty prevailed. What we hippies assumed to be our destiny fell apart as career carrots dangled by big money establishment opportunities led many down another path. Back to Christmas morning in the early 50’s with all those unwrapped opportunities packaged and bundled under the glistening lights of the dying pine in the living room. Shifting gears was as easy as the slick click of a Miata’s 5 speed box. The boom was over. Elvis was fat. James Taylor strummed the closing moments of the 60’s theme park.

John McCain, a pilot who should have faced court martial instead of prison camp when he smashed a second multi million dollar jet on the deck, returned waving a flag on a stick, hoping his “sacrifice” ( whatever the fuck that means) would catapult him into the White House where his side of the Tribe could suck whatever cum was left from long time establishment dominance.

Now Hillary wants a monument built to honor Woodstock. McCain jokes that he was tied up at the time. Instead of Hero, “putz” might be more appropriate for this brain washed fuck up.

Yet, the same can be said for Hillary and the Democrats . They had no more to do with Woodstock than I did developing the hydrogen bomb. Hippies despise Democrats as much as the Republicans . To try to score points, Hillary’s on her knees attempting to deliver a blowjob just as hot as the one the tall blond with no bra on gave us backstage at a summer rock concert right after Hendrix and Joplin died.

It won’t work. As Roger Kimball wrote, “The sixties didn’t end when the last electric guitar was unplugged at Woodstock.”

Hillary doesn’t know what Kimball is talking about. No idea. Because the majority of boomers, like the airline educated blond I fucked around with for 5 years, just a few joints older than I was, never let their freak flag fly. Instead they stayed in the second grade where America was right and the rest of the world was out to get us.

Politicians today have the power the Panthers wanted a piece of and the hippies thought they purchased with their street cred. But there weren’t that many who were “psychedeli-sized”. Just a few. And like Kimball, we’re still plugged in.

Dipshits like Hillary, robotic establishment clones, will never hear the speeches the same way we do when they pour from the mouths of button downed brained political opportunists. If only Hubert Humphrey knew how really good he’d be if he’d just been born in 1946 instead of the early 1700’s. He too might have been psychedel-isized.

But he’d never run for president.


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