SemiConscious Dot Org

I don’t know about all of you, but my most horrible, gut-wrenching thoughts—you know, those thoughts that, once they’ve infected your brainpan, remain there for weeks, popping up unbidden and ruining otherwise enjoyable moments, waking you up at 3:30am in the type of ice-cold sweat that can only be borne of sheer existential terror—for me, those thoughts often generate spontaneously, appropos of absolutely nothing.

Take tonight, for instance. I was sitting on my couch, reading a book, sipping slowly and respectfully on a Samuel Smith’s Imperial Stout... when suddenly, out of nowhere, it occured to me:

The fortieth anniversary of the Summer Of Love is only two years away.

Dear god, what a wretched, wretched thought. Given the fondness of my parents’ generation for endless bouts of egregious, excessive, entirely undeserved orgies of middle aged self-congratulation, this could get ugly.

If you don’t believe me, just think back to 1994-95. Ye gods, what a double-whammy that was: the 30th anniversary of the Beatles’ arrival on these shores, coupled with the 25th anniversary of Woodstock. And then, less than a year later, the retrospective news specials on “Baby Boomers Turn 50: What Does It All Mean?” Every time you turned on the tube, endless replays of grainy, black and footage; endless tv roundtables featuring old bald bearded guys in ponytails and granny glasses blathering on and on ad nauseum about the historical and sociopolitical “significance” of Flower Power.

We had to smile and nod politely when they waxed excruciating about their long-gone youth; we had to feign sympathy when they turned the national stage into a forum for wading through their self-pitying emotional molasses. Sure, we could’ve told them “Nobody fucking cares, Gramps,” but really, what good would it have done? They’d just have kept right on talking and talking and talking. They always do.

Yep, it’s a frightening prospect, people. And, of course, you realize that, Boomers being who they are, the “Summer of Love: Whither Us Now?” retrospectives will start at least a full year before the actual anniversary. Which means that we have barely a year to start stockpiling Dramamine and Pepto, folks.

I apologize for ruining your day in such a callous manner. I don’t have the foggiest idea what triggered such a terrifying train of thought, but I feel strongly that it’s better to be physically and emotionally prepared to face the horror. Consider yourselves warned.