Turning Shit into Gold since 2006
This past weekend was the always dreaded Bob Marley Festival. The smell of sweaty patchouli hit me like a dirty laundry trunk as I passed a gaggle of teenage stoners at a cross walk on my way to work. Water bottles full of Kool-Aid mixed with vodka and an assortment of colorful frisbees protruded out from their mesh satchels. The incense cloud that trailed the pack stuck in my nostrils as I tried to gasp for clean air. This new generation of hippies has strong raver roots that make them even more annoying than their predecessors at Woodstock ’99.
Swaying in unison to outdated and overrated Reggae beats does not make you a free spirit, mon. These new age hippies were raised in internet chat rooms, so their approach to life moves at hyperspeed while their inner being tells them to chill out and save the planet.
Not to give hippies of the past a good name or anything, but at least they made love in the sunshine and ate potluck meals free of pesticides. The “hippies” I saw this weekend were pale introverts in Hot Topic raver beads, unable to communicate unless by text messaging.
If I have one word of advice for new parents: most definitely don’t let your babies grow up to be wannabe hippies. Nerd, jock, Columbine kid, bully, fag, band geek, delinquent, outcast—- all of these are better than raising your children to believe that Bob Marley was the only pothead with any talent.