Sunday, May 13, 2007


I grew up in a very small town. The year I was in first grade my town's population was well below 500 people. Normally people have the idea that I grew up as a backwater hillbilly and while that is true to some degree, the town near my home was not a hick town.

My town had more art galleries than taverns and was often frequented by hippies. It's like after Woodstock many hippies moved off-the-grid into my dumb town. They were always flashing the peace sign and trying to hitch a ride. My dad was always tolerant of them but scorned them privately under his breath.

I always rooted for the hippy. I think somewhere in my mind I always saw them as victims. As if checking out mentally meant that they were running from something terrible in their lives. As a child I could never wrap my head around it except to muster pity. Their lifestyle seemed free but I could never bring myself to consider them to be an enlightened bunch. As an adult I see them much the same way but I have a quiet admiration for them anyway.

I remember picking up a hippy several years ago. It was a gal who was, as she described it, heading to a clothes optional campground to worship the moon. She invited me along though I politely declined. I know many of you are thinking that this paragraph should've begun with "Dear Penthouse" but there's nothing particularly sexy about hippies or moon worship.

I know for me the movie Forrest Gump became a favorite because of my connection to hippies. Next time you see this movie look at it again from my view: A total moron exposes these people for what they truly are --dirty, shameful idealist simpletons. But...I still root for them anyway.

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