Where have all the hippies gone, long time ago?
Gone to Beemmers every one.
When will they ever learn?
Where have all the Beemmers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the Beemmers gone, long time ago?
Gone to Woodstock every one.
When will they ever learn?
Where has my old Woodstock gone, long time passing?
Where has my old Woodstock gone, long time ago?
Gone to little shoppes every one.
When will they ever learn?
Where have all the shoppes gone, long time passing?
Where have all the shoppes gone, long time ago?
Run by old fat hippies every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever move on?
If you think I am kidding, go to Woodstock (15 miles from our cabin). If you were a Vietnam War protesting, mushroom snorting, free love making hippie from the sixties then one of two things happened to you, both in keeping with the egocentric attitude of the time. You either became the person you once disdained and bought into the whole capitalism, conspicuous consumption thing (I submit Dick Hayne, the founder of Urban Outfitters as exhibit A) or you are in total denial about growing up, yet the hair on your head has disappeared (except for the gray pony tail), you still wear tie dye and macrame, and the chronic munchies has caused your once concave stomach to now block your view of the Birkenstocks on your feet. If you are a cultural anthropologist studying the maturation of the flower power generation then Woodstock is your Rift Valley (where the Leakys made their discoveries). The evolution of the hippie into the suit is not unlike the evolution of the dinosaurs into the birds. It's the same brain, only in a more socially acceptable package. Sure, the song and mien are pretty, but believe me, don't get between Mrs. Goldfinch and the prettiest birdhouse on the block. And if there is only one worm left in the lawn, Mrs Robin-son isn't going to split it with you, she is taking it all for herself and her chicks.
Woodstock is where the sixties went not to die. There are undead hippies walking around everywhere. In fact, a hippie in his or her sixties is exactly like a zombie. You look at them and they kind of look familiar. Look past the thin gray hair, the bilious yellow eyes, the receded gums, saggy tits, and the fungus brown toenails, and you can just about make out the body of the hot hippie chick with long hair, pert breasts, pearly white smile, and loose morals that the brain once inhabited.
The other branch on the flower child evolutionary tree is the yippie variant. These are the women walking around Woodstock wearing $750.00 hand crafted batik dresses and $500.00 Luis Vuitton sandals. They kind of look bohemian and free flowing until you see them pull away in a BMW M6 sportster. They traded in the flip flops and VW Minibus a long time ago. The men, too, have the cool breezy look in a $95.00 Tommy Bahama shirt and $300.00 Mephisto walking shoes. Their new motto is "don't trust any stockbroker under 30".
Let's face it, if it wasn't for the mandatory draft, how many of those college bound kids would have been out there protesting the war? Turn on, tune in and drop out does not a socialist revolution make. I think that is why kids today are interested in happiness first and working hard second. They were raised by us (hippie=baby boomer), and we want their lives to be as easy as possible and free from heartache. Yet we, ourselves, were raised by depression era parents so there was at least some institutional memory of working hard to get what you want. So let's not complain about how entitled today's youth behave. Their station in life is simply a stop further down the line from our station.
Click on the title of this post for a more scholarly treatment of my thesis if you don't agree with me.
Oh, and the picture above is of an actual Woodstock resident circa 2009.
