As an English major, I thrive on definitions. So let’s take, “hippie.” My friend Webster says it means “1. any of the young people of the 1960s and 1970s who, in their alienation from conventional society, turned variously to mysticism, psychedelic drugs, communal living, etc., 2. any person having a similar lifestyle”. My friend The Hoya says it’s “Voice staff.”
Now, with my combined duties of English major and journalist, I feel it is my job to dispel this falsehood. Just let me put my roach in the clip, clear my room of distracting drug paraphenalia, switch on the fan and turn off that Grateful Dead album.
The smoke’s clearing and now I’m thinking clearly. My B.O. from not showering is pretty distracting, but hey, man, dig my vibe. My friends from the commune (i.e. Leavey 413, the black hole that is the Voice office) are coming in, and they’re ready to speak their minds too. Because that’s what we do, neighbors, we speak our liberal minds.
We also listen to “music no one’s heard of,” and yeah, we can be pretentious. Other people just don’t understand Jerry Garcia’s far out vision. And by Jerry Garcia, I mean we actually listen to Wilco, Ted Leo, and The Shins. A little “something indie” just isn’t enough for us.
Excuse me, I’m famished, need to go grab some carrots and wheatgrass to snack on. We grew it all in our communal farm, you know, after we protested the war, championed women’s rights, and performed some abortions (handy, those coat hangers). Well, it’s not good for my karma, man, to lie, so I’ll tell you that we actually just took the bus (diesel fuel!) up Wisconsin Ave. and got a Jamba Juice smoothie. But the protesting happened, I swear by Hendrix.
As for my hippie threads, I can tell you I recently traded in my flowing, floral-print skirt, sandals, and peace sign shirt for dark jeans, Converse high-tops, and a T-shirt from Good Will Fashions. The love beads I keep in my top drawer, next to my incense kit.
After all is said and done, feel free to discount me, because that’s what it’s all about—disenfranchised youth. The Man getting us down. As my friend The Hoya put it, I’m just “Weird Girl.”
