More "Summer of Love" crapola. I tell you, we're going to be absolutely sick and tired of this before all the boomer geezers get this out of their system:
The hippie movement bloomed like a kaleidoscopic flower during the Summer of Love.
To be young and part of the counterculture in 1967 was to be tuned in to a revolution that called for you to drop out of the conventional world.
It was a gloomy day in early June, with the kind of lazy, drizzling rain that lasts forever. The perfect day for a murder, and that poor sap Jerry wouldn't even see it coming.
The drive-through was crowded, so I put the wipers on intermittent, the better to watch Jerry hand out sacks of fast food and collect money, giving each patron a phony smile. He looked bored out of his mind, probably wondering if his day could possibly get worse. Days can always get worse, Jerry.
The "Summer of Love" was just a media-created fantasy that lasted but a few months, followed by decades of baby boomer nostalgia for what could have been. Now that the 40th anniversary is upon us, the drivel will start really piling up:
Yes, dear, I am intoxicated by that strong perfume. No, dear, that tight red dress and the fish-net stockings don't make you look tacky. I love the nine-inch heels. Oh, absolutely, the liberal use of hair spray only adds to your charm, and I am utterly fascinated by your grasp of the English language. No, of course not, I don't think $100 is too much. -- patronizing a prostitute
Perhaps I should send that to Patrick Knight:
Your may now pay homage to me as the genius you always knew I was. Back in October, I wrote about Ray Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451":
I knew sooner or later the rest of the country would catch up with me:
Advice for graduating college seniors: If you decide what you love to do, instead of looking for the most monetarily rewarding "career path," you'll never work a day in your life:
I once started a book so bad that I stopped reading after the first chapter, went outside and threw it in the garbage can. Then, about 2 in the morning, I felt such pangs that I found myself rooting through coffee grounds, egg shells and used cat litter to retrieve the damn thing. That's how I feel about books. So I can't do a funny post about how sillly this man's book-burning "protest" is. It's a sacrilege:
Leo Morris, saving humanity one date at a time:
In a recent study, sociologist Diane Felmee found only a third of women said looks were the first thing that attracted them to a man. Most preferred a sense of humour or financial and career success.
Researchers at Newcastle University also believe ugly men exist as a way of repairing our gene pool. Women would rather date men with good genes, who can fight disease easily, than a classically beautiful man.
Try to live your life as if it contains no strangers -- just people you don't like whom you haven't met yet.
