Today, at the farmer’s market our village hippy-crank — who I will call “G” — moped around in his home-made clothes and satyr-like beard. B. said, “Either the clothes were homemade or he stole them from a stanky homeless guy.” G. makes earthen structures – straw bale homes, clay ovens, wood boilers. We’ve seen one of his buildings in action. It might be efficient – which we applaud – but it’s ugly. Just fuckin’ ugly. I would only live there if I was a Hobbit. G. also complains bitterly about those dairy farmers who are “too lazy” to convert their farms to organic status and also about the lack of community in our community. This is what I call “bad hippy.” His “vow of poverty” lasts only as long as his various business enterprises fail (and he secretly subscribes to Martha Stewart Living magazine).
But there are also good hippies. They tend to be lovely and wide-eyed. You worry about them. They love you without any good reason. They give a moment of thanks to the universe before harvesting the wild edibles in the woods, and they tend to be sincere. They’re like sweet, pious church girls, without the fear of hell.
The two groups serve two entirely different purposes. One reminds us what it’s like not to be hemmed in by convention — to be artless. And though they might eat all your food (including your favorite chocolate beer!) they really do appreciate it. The other, when they’re brainy (operative word: WHEN), serve to work certain kinds of legislative magic. They may be nasty but we need them. A bad hippy, when utilized properly, becomes an outstanding weapon. Get them off the street and into office — where they belong.
Good hippy, good hippy.
The Unknown Banana 