I often think of my Culture. The blending oddness of human events with the sameness of the sun rising and setting and trying to connect the dots toward a higher meaning in the dark night of the 3 AM soul.
Pot is quickly becoming the drug of choice in America. The Baby-Lipped Bogarter Generation has arrived. Biblical justice for the grandparents who were once hippy baby-boomers. A high for a high, without the civil disobedience that went along with it in prior generations.
I am sure the only difference now is these types of contemplations are more likely to take place at 4:20 in the afternoon than 3 AM. Unfortunately, I can’t write stoned but can drive a car magnificently at 15 miles per hour on the Beltway.
Feel free to partake, for you may enjoy reading me stoned. Have someone else read me aloud and throw a Frisbee around.
I am old enough to have heard the Beatles begin in mono, and I know they still would (come together, right now,) regardless of any decade or form of electronics. The sixties went from mono to stereophonic sound, black and white TV to color images, just as pimples left my face and met more faces that had the same advantage of Clearasil. Pot was there then, and faces were usually stoned, but many of the suburban crowd had good complexions.
It has been around longer than before any of this current bogarting, baby-lipped generation even inhaled their first breath of oxygen. My generation was far from the first. We just invented Head-Shops, and clothing boutiques so we could look hip while puffing on outrageous shaped bongs and colored flavored papers.
My older brother John had a shop in 1970 called Uncle Sam’s Boutique. The name reflected the era’s mixing of rebellious politics, red velvet pants, studded blue jeans, fringe vests, and blue shirts with stars on them, and a repressive Government sending the non-conforming youth off to war. During that time, you could get drafted by your government, kill a few Vietnamese, be killed in the uniform of the USA and still not vote till you were 21 years old. Uncle Sam wanted you, even in your red velvet pants.
I knew quadrophonic sound, but it quickly dissolved into what it was, stereo with four speakers.
Eight track tape to cassette, then disc and digital, only continuing the repurchasing of the same songs that became my personal life themes each and every decade with the advent of a new listening device. I think I’ve spent $190 dollars on the repurchase of “Light My Fire” by The Doors in my lifetime.
Could it get any worse listening to Gilbert O’Sullivan singing “Alone Again, Naturally?”
Yes, Disco was just around the corner and these Mod Colors from a Peter Max poster were about to change into avocado green kitchens, dull yellow bathrooms, and beige living room walls and floors with white shag carpets. Oh it got worse. Just look at the clothing and colors in re-runs of the 70’s classic, The Bob Newhart Show for reference. Big ties, Afro’s on white men and Leisure suits.
Rock and Roll or Motown produce more nostalgia to me than Disco or Rap and no matter the decade, Country still makes me drink a lot with redneck girls.
The bulky stationary phones became mobile during the eighties, and grew smaller and smaller as computers did the same through the nineties. All rolodexes of time and memory do not make us any different or more special than the generations that came before us. Doesn’t make our life any easier.
The toys of time do not change the destiny of what man, woman, or child is, or ever will be, except their teeth will get brighter, their skin clearer, and batteries cost more.
I watched this country’s rebellious hippie generation who used to smoke pot, laugh at episodes of Dragnet, enter politics, law enforcement, and become employed by the Federal Government. Well here are just the facts ma’am for all you baby-lipped bogarters at 4:20 in the afternoon. Find your generational outrage. Rage it all day against those in the pulpits of classrooms, universities, and your government who seek to lull you asleep, and make you part of the machine. Their collective.
Rage against them for their lies as an elite class who keeps the money flowing to them and not to you with phony scams. Learn to question and learn to think. Remember they created the titles, and letters behind their names only to separate you from them. Don’t let them tell you, “You are not.”
Tell them, “You are.”
Just the facts ma’am. You will not leave this rock alive. Not a flush of warm or cold can they control on your face. Be like a dog and put your hairy face out of the car window and feel the rush of air, but quit smelling other’s asses.
Rage against them and their national false grief for the icons and idols they created who couldn’t write a poem better than what is found on greeting cards. America is more than Free Verse. More than a rap rhyme. More than getting a cool drink of water ‘fore you die. Don’t put flowers at the door steps of their dead and act like their sorrow is your sorrow just to be a part of something you never really took the time to find out about. Never felt.
Don’t think you have to feel.
Don’t be a professional griever on social media sites.
Don’t think you need to inspire with inspirations they deem inspirational to be a part of their club initiations. Maybe being a better person is just accepting what a flawed human you are, forgiving yourself and moving on to eat fried pork rinds and banana splits alone.
Know what quality is.
Learn that “Fuck You” is perhaps the most inspirational words you will ever utter. Know when to say it.
Write your poems, your stories, and your words first, before 4:20. Rage your rage first before 4:20. Think your thoughts first. Love your love first. Live your life before it dies, or becomes too sick to move your body out of bed, for there will always be a 4:20.
Don’t be like ivy and crawl upwards where you cannot stand alone. Be in your own garden you call your own, even if a weed.
And know weeds die. Our only hope is to be smoked and inhaled by others so they may say; “My god, that was some good shit.”