I would like to console poor ol’ Starkers, tell him it wasn’t really like that, but, hell, who am I kidding? Yep, we did it, Starkers! Us hairy radical hippies, we fucked in the mud, we screwed in the tree tops, we did it in the road. Sorry you missed it, but it was great! Hooo, doggies, we had ourselves one hell of a good time! And you know what happened next!
We paired off, picked the one we liked best, settled down and made babies. Dancing to a song that was a hit before your mother was born. We made babies, we raised them, they went to school. And you can’t tell the difference to save your soul. Our kids look just like everybody else’s, some are mathematicians, some are carpenter’s wives. Oh, and their music is terrible! Just a bunch of noise, if you ask me… And so it goes.
And there is a proof of the pudding. Because if what we did was as awful, disgusting and morally depraved as you claim, our kids ought to be wrecks, oughtn’t they? But they’re not. And you know how hippies dandle their grandchildren? On their knees. Biggest difference may be that if a grandaughter wants a Tonka truck for Christmas, she will most likely get it. But if what she really wants is a Barbie, well, OK.
Its about freedom and limitations, its about letting people try out the wierd to see if it fits them. Now, usually, it doesn’t, most folks aren’t like that. But they know! They don’t have to look at what might have been and fret over what they missed, they didn’t miss it, they tried it and left it where they found it.
Nothing wrong with normal if you choose normal, and most of us do. What’s wrong is not having any other option, wearing a face that doesn’t fit you, worshipping a God you don’t question, never knowing what might have been.
Sorry you missed out. But it was right there, all you had to do was do it. And if I were a better person, I wouldn’t make fun of you for it. But what the hell, I can always run out and do a couple of good deeds, balance my karma. So…neener neener! Just be glad I don’t tell you about the Oregon woods with 200 mikes of Sandoz acid and Whiplash Annie. You’d most likely shoot yourself.