The Old Grey Mare

There were those of us who thought the 70’s criminally boring; lackluster, banal, inhibited, and balefully trite, remembering as I do the overall blandness of the country then, especially following the bare knuckled, psychedelic glory of the 60’s. We were young, strong and fearless, and the oppressiveness we faced -what little of it I remembered- could be manhandled and bamboozled, kept to a minimum with very little effort, a modicum of cunning, and a fair amount of I don’t give a shit. Bob Dylan said it best, “The times they are a-changin’." Taking stock in the here and now, I’m convinced we didn’t have a fucking clue then just how good we had it, but alas, unless you're H.G. Wells, time was never meant to be turned back, so what do you do with what you glean?
Hindsight is usually a bitch, but a refocusing with an educated, experienced eye can bring about some balance. Looking back on what actually took place during the darkest days of the disco revolution, I must admit there was some cowboy madness afoot, but not knowing where the times were gonna take us we gamely plowed through -what seemed- excessive monotony until Johnny Rotten kicked the world squarely in the nuts and sent society into a spiral from which it’s never recovered. So many more like Johnny emerged, kicking and screaming to find this new “voice”, this new means of expressing themselves in direct corelation to what they were being served, that over time I saw the folks who stand firmly on the prim and proper right grow more than a tad nervous and they began to squeak, overtly dictating a strangling, claustrophobic atmosphere over the course of many years, one that lately resembles nothing short of a fascist state, one ruled by marshal law, corporate monopolies, and kingfished by fear.
To illuminate the change that’s been wrought, to bring it home to my doorstep, I had a chance to fly domestically last week. It was the first time in many years after living on planes for the better part of my young adult life. I was shocked by the effervescent hysteria that boiled in every aspect of the flying experience; from the baggage handlers, to the agents, to the security personnel, to the food vendors, to the gate agents, the stewardesses, to the passengers themselves, a most hair trigger, knee jerk reaction lay in wait for anything short of complete and utter compliance to their every demand and strong-armed rule, to the point many aspects of air travel resemble a mock prisoner/guard relationship. A mania in the power grid has everyone well over the edge and ready for the worst, fangs bared and claws extended, the brutal authority and exigent psychosis in full throttle, designed to make our existence less than desirable should we think, smell, look, or walk differently. A highly charged, caustic atmosphere at best for any and all who are intent upon being free, retaining their own identity which may or may not be universally acceptable by the not so silent majority.
After being fucked with to the point of ridiculousness while checking in for my flight, I had a quiet chuckle to myself remembering days of yore, those cowboy, halcyon days of the 70’s. Given the laws in place that govern air travel these days I cannot fathom what would transpire if my behavior hadn’t grown a tad more discretionary. I must say I still don’t give a flip what anyone thinks, but I do manage to camouflage myself so as not to be detected and scrutinized by the shits and weasels in power who would love nothing better than to pound me into submission.
I recalled a fabulous weekend in New Orleans circa 1979. One of many I’ve had there, but this one stood out from all the others for its sheer outrageousness. The band, Toto, were friends of mine and they were just beginning their voyage, tapped to play the CBS convention there in the Crescent City to unveil and showcase their wares for the corporate honchos who’d just shelled out several million to snag these guys for an album or three. The keyboardists in Toto had specially designed instruments that hung around their necks like guitars, aptly named, “Totars”, and given I had jack shit to do in Los Angeles that particular weekend they’d asked if I’d mule the instruments to New Orleans for them, stay for the weekend and trip the light fantastic under their aegis. Fuck me! a vacation in New Orleans where I could debauch and twist to the point of epiphinal meltdown, and on CBS’s nickel?! Count me in...
The weekend, like I said, was a roaring success. Every excess excavated in sterling fashion, getting rather used to -as I was- the perks afforded musicians who create their own waves. I was besotted with jubilation as I made my way to the airport, not quite ready to jump off the merry-go-round that I’d been riding; perfectly distorted and content was I.
As it turned out I was flying back to Los Angeles with Bif, a young studly accountant that Toto had entrusted with their nouveau riches. Bif, like me, wasn’t ready to turn the knob to “off” just yet, and he, like I, had noticed the two girls sitting in the front row of the back cabin; two leggy, long haired hippy types who were wearing next to nothing and appeared to not yet be filled to the brim -like us- and as Bif so succinctly put it, “Who are we to deny them?”
As the captain notified us we’d reached our cruising altitude the cabin’s lights dimmed. While drinks were being served Bif and I took the matter into our own hands, making our move on the hippie chicks. With fresh, stiff highballs in hand -ones that only cost us a buck each- Bif and I wasted no time in getting down to business. Shortly -it didn’t take long- I noticed Biff’s Southern Californian member well out of his pants and one of the girl’s had a firm grasp on it, while the other had lit a joint and she and I were smack dab in the middle of adjusting our attitudes. All was progressing nicely, if I must say so myself. The grooveathon was reaching critical mass when the head stewardess paid us a neighborly visit. The four of us stopped just long enough for her to admonish us -only slightly- asking us to please keep our seatbelts buckled and our genitalia under wraps, but should we desire some up close and personal contact with the other could we please adjourn to the back restrooms where we could unleash the beast in us? And, she added, if we thought it necessary to blow our minds, too, then we should also adjourn to the back restroom and by all means, help ourselves, but contact her before we do so she can meet us and clandestinely take a hit or two herself. ...Damn...
Needless to say, a performance of that caliber has long since been outlawed. There are some very specific rules that govern such illicit behavior in these days of teeth grinding angst and general Aryan uptightness. The sort of lascivious behavior and wanton disregard for family values we displayed then will land your ass in the pokey but quick these days, and thousands upon thousands of dollars will magically disappear from your accounts as you try your damnedest to stop the hemorrhaging, a massive bloodletting without end that will bring you to ruin’s doorstep, the ogre of doom laughing in your face as you cower and wail, seeking repentance for your tawdry sins.
Cowboy days were good. Fine. We were free and unfettered. Individuality was de rigeur, applauded to a degree. This land was our land. We didn’t know how good we had it, nor did we fully appreciate it then. Only in the last few years have I become much more aware and enlightened, watching in horror as our freedoms have been taken away one by one, the totalitarian whip steadily ripping my shirt, bloodying my back. Now, freedom is damn near shackled. Now it’s toe the line! wipe that smile off your face! let us brainwash you so you too can become a diligent little comrade! and don’t dare say anything contrary to the iron thumb that’s pressing shamelessly on our back, or prepare to suffer the consequences for being contrary, the machine all too ready to grind you into an unrecognizable bloody pulp should you swim upstream, against the grain.
The decadence which seemed so laissez faire and righteous back in the day is sorely missed now. ...Damn! I actually said it! Just like the old timers used to say when I was a kid! I can still hear them, remembering those wrinkled farts who’d shake their heads and say, “Those were the days, those were the good old days.” As soon as I’d hear that old timer shit I’d quickly scoff and sneer, and now here I am saying that same tired shit?! Am I that wistful? That old? Or...
William Burroughs said it best when he uttered these words, “A paranoid is someone who at the least knows a little bit of what’s going on.”
“Those were the days, my friend, we’d thought they’d never end. Those were the days, oh yes, those were the days.”
I will eventually burn out, but I won’t fade away. Until the end when my candle is finally snuffed, I will shine bright, bright enough to blind any who get too close, blind all who are unprepared and unwilling. Shining bright for yet others who are lost and hoodwinked, lobotomized and drooling. A beacon in any storm.
Convexing the current of the slipstream and jamming full bore in the whitewater, I am happy and undaunted.
The noose burns. The horizon is wide and inviting. Rust never sleeps.