Scott R. : The Quillayute Cowboy: Those Good Ole Days

I was born in 1952…, so when I try to sum up my life in as few words as possible…, I say that I was born in the 50’s…., grew up in the 60’s…, came of age in the 70’s…, somehow survived the 80’s…, built a nest in the 90’s…, tried to feather the nest in in the 00’s…, and am sometimes wondering why in these 10’s?

Sometime in those 80’s I tried to pen the lyrics to a song about those 70’s…, a time that those of us around my age were trying to recreate the magic of the psychedelic 60’s that we were a little too young to experience firsthand. Why couldn’t we have our own Woodstock? We tried.

Those Good Ole Days

Been tunin’ up all day,

Now we’re feelin’ right.

Gonna head out for Tacoma,

In the middle of the night.

Jerry’s passed out in the backseat,

Got Bruce behind the wheel.

Goin’ mostly for the party,

But just might make a deal.

I still remember those good ole days,

Like they were yesterday.

I think about ‘em often,

But don’t have much to say.

You lit a fire in me girl,

That still smolders…, sometimes burns.

But somewhere along the road,

We took our separate turns.

Rock and roll all day long,

And halfway through the night.

There was no way baby,

I could let you out of sight.

That summer passed before us,

Just like a shooting star.

Just along for the ride,

We weren’t goin’ all that far.

I still remember those good ole days,

Like they were yesterday.

I think about ‘em often,

But don’t have much to say.

You lit a fire in me girl,

That still smolders…, sometimes burns.

But somewhere along the road,

We took our separate turns.

I wish all of the memories,

Were as sweet as those.

I can’t explain the reason,

We chose those separate roads.

But sometimes I still wake up,

In the middle of the night.

And wonder where we’d be right now,

If things had turned out right.

I still remember those good ole days,

Like they were yesterday.

I think about ‘em often,

But don’t have much to say.

You lit a fire in me girl,

That still smolders…, sometimes burns.

But somewhere along the road,

We took our separate turns.

There were a few things that brought that one back to mind. I have read Ron Jacobs, “Daydream Sunset: Sixties Counterculture in the Seventies” three times now. Yeah…, having a Kindle is like carrying around a library in your pocket. And nobody on the bus can tell that you are reading the same book for the third time. Jacobs tracks the decade through the music mostly…, and that’s the hook for me…, but the political commentary and analysis isn’t overbearing. He was also a big Grateful Dead fan…, but they just never caught on with me. But Bruce Springsteen and Jackson Browne had heavy influence and are a couple of my heavyweights…, “Daydream Sunset” isn’t far from a fourth reading. Here is the Amazon description of the book:

The 1960s are remembered for radical politics, explorations of sexuality, drug experimentation and rock and roll. All of these elements composed the 60s counterculture. Then things changed. Richard Nixon got elected president, and together with Congress, made the war on drugs a cultural and political crusade replete with lots of cops, guns and constitutional violations. Youthful protesters were murdered by authorities in Berkeley, Kent State and Jackson State. Divisions over tactics and politics combined with police repression to splinter and dissipate the left political movement. The Vietnam war finally ended and Abbie Hoffman went underground after a cocaine bust. Meanwhile, in one of its most manipulative moments, corporate America was quickly figuring out how to put sex, drugs and rock and roll up for sale. Hippies became freaks; Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and Pigpen died untimely deaths, but the rock show went on. The 1970s were the decade the Sixties spirit struggled to survive while becoming a shadow of its dreams. Daydream Sunset is the story Ron Jacobs tells in his colorful history of the 1970s. From the Fillmore East to Oakland Coliseum; from Berkeley's Telegraph Ave to the streets of Europe, this alternative history of this fraught time will make you feel like dancing in your seats and wondering what might have been. One part reminiscence and several parts cultural history, Jacobs has crafted a thrilling and intimate narrative that takes the reader on a trip through a crazy history some people don't remember and others want us to forget.

I really need to show some initiative and write a customer review on Amazon and email Jacobs and let him know how much I enjoyed his book…, but us Old Hippies are not that easy to get motivated.

Jacobs is a couple years younger than I was…, and one of the other nudges came from a writer a couple years older. I ran across John Eskow’s, My Generation: One Last Scream on the Way Out on the CounterPunch Blog the other day. It begins:

I was born the same year as Bonnie Raitt, Jeff Bridges, Pam Grier, and Bruce Springsteen—which, unless all the calendars have somehow been altered, makes us 66 years old. And if the actuarial tables remain consistent, that means that all of us—good and bad, kindhearted and creepy, George Foreman and Gene Simmons alike—we’re all due to be bundled up pretty soon and dropped off into that Great Recycling Bin of the Cosmos.

It’s a curious bunch. Hank Williams Jr—with whom, as a fledgling journalist, I stood in an Alabama field, firing rifles, machine-guns and his prize bazooka—unforgettable detonations! Even then, Hank Jr—with his deep bass voice and Oedipal backstory, his face scarred up from a terrible fall down a mountainside—seemed much older than me. “Well, Jawn,” he allowed, “I’ve just had a few more oil changes than you.” Great line. And the truly magical Phillipe Petit, with whom I used to play badminton inside a poet’s Soho loft–back in the ‘70s, when Soho lofts were dirt-cheap, because no one wanted to live there. Ann Romney, George’s wife, with whom I never did anything. Jessica Lange, still a major crush—though not as big a crush as Pam Grier; one kiss from Pam Grier could still power entire cities. Cool Sissy Spacek and sleazy Don Johnson. The always-underestimated Larry Holmes. Twiggy. Caitlyn Jenner, world-famous for being a creep in two different genders. Jeremy Corbyn. Rick Springfield.

The mulch-pit awaits us all. What traces will we leave behind?

And he sums it up:

Chelsea Clinton’s wedding cost $3,000,000– while the single mothers whose pitiful lifeline was cut off by Bill Clinton turn tricks behind dumpsters to feed their kids.

They say one good thing about getting old is you can speak your mind more freely. I really hope that’s true, because my generation still has a right, and a duty to speak—no, to scream. Now more than ever. Now louder than ever.