In 1970, one night I made up my mind in Laredo, Texas to cross the
U.S. border into Mexico, as an illegal immigrant. This is not
something I was doing for revenge against Mexico for all its illegal
immigration into the United States. No, my motives were nowhere near
so complicated or political, but merely so simple as not having the
dough to afford the 60 buck fee for a visa.
Like many another young madman of my generation, I was out, alone, on
the road, making my way around off the fat of the land, hitch-hiking,
pan-handling and hopping freights to get where I was going, But to
say I was 'alone' back in that day, as I reconsider the matter, is
really not the truth of it. Nobody going around with hair to their
shoulders in those times was alone, so long as others with hair to
their shoulders were out there to pick you up off the road, offer you
a fresh joint or hit of acid, a bit of stray nookie and a spare six by
three foot patch of living room carpet to crash on over-night.
Things were different back then when having hair to your shoulders
meant you could most likely be trusted as a man of peace, good vibes
and well-stoned judgment. But as this, in 1970, was post-Altamont and
post-Manson, the Turned On groove of the mid-Sixties had already got
badly gouged and scratched, as it degenerated from Acid rock to Disco,
and into other such-like abominations. You could only shake your head
and moan to watch as Western boots gave way to platform shoes and the
leather fringes were lost to the sleek ****ne of polyester leisure
suits.
It was getting to be hard times by the early Seventies, and yet it was
clear that things could get worse. But as foresight is one thing and
hindsight another, in this case both were the same, till now getting
on to forty years later,. its come to the point where I sometimes
wonder if perhaps the Sixties were only a dream, or as Phil Lesh then
enigmatically put it, "just a Box of Rain."
--
JM http://whosenose.blogspot.com
http://jesu***egesis.blogspot.com
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