Another late-night diary. I’m shy that way. Except for posting this pic of me back in 1984 or whenever it was.
I WANTED to be a hippie, but it was 1971 and the Hippie Movement was already dead. They held a funeral for it in San Francisco back in ‘67. Blue Oyster Cult sang the death of it in the Summer of Love. The Rolling Stones had their Altamont. Joni Mitchell saw it in 1970 at the Isle of Wight. But we younger Boomer kids couldn’t let go. We wore our hair long, our jeans bell-bottomed, our shirts tie-dyed. We did more than that, but that parrot was dead, man.
A funny thing happened over the decades. Mostly the Right wing declared everyone to be a hippie who was a Liberal. The fact is that hippies weren’t a big part of the political revolution back in the day. But they sure as hell were part of the cultural revolution. But, no matter. I was a wanna-be, wished I was part of it all by the time it was dead.
Idealist. Dreamer. I followed my passion after Watergate by joining the worst career choice ever: journalism. The Man wasn’t having any of that hippie shit, as I learned even at the city council level as I fulminated against the bastards (with some success, because an angry young man with a pen).
There’s a point to this rambling.
We have one last chance. Brothers, sisters. We are golden. There are bonafide people here on dKos who were there, man. I was almost there, wanted to be there. Wanted to participate in the protests, to get, as Mick Jagger sang, my fair share of abuse (cover).
I marched once in Palm Springs for Occupy Wall Street. Just once. I helped stage a sit-in as a 5th grader against the Vietnam War. I’m a wanna-be.
I want to be more. I keep giving money to Bernie Sanders, but in my bones I know I need to realize that, This. Is. My. Last. Chance.
To become a real hippie.
I want to be there, man.