The manic hype of a cocaine fueled ‘80s began to sputter about 1995. The crisp, gleaming, blow-dry polish was replaced by a meaner, uglier veneer as coke gave way to crystal and other synthetic potions. Acid washed jeans and big hair faded from memory, replaced with a new junkie chic compiled from Goodwill fashion bins and forged with self mutilation and the rise of the ubiquitous tramp stamp. For fifteen minutes gingers were actually hot, goths were still a disturbing social subtext and Disney, Inc. abandoned all pretext in their prodigious manufacture of pre-fab tartlets.
Somewhere within that surreal plane was sired the next generation to whom a torch of some kind will eventually be passed. Those little spores have matured now and walk among us, upright on two legs and speaking something which at times resembles our own language. Yet somewhere, deep down at a genetic level, their very DNA has somehow been altered. The American people have graduated from being frogs blithely dozing upon the hotplate to a parade of kittens being marched into a blender. It’s all the same clay between their ears, it’s just been reprogrammed. The poor bastards have been handed a boarding pass to a ship that has already sailed from the harbor. They mask their disappointment with scorn for the smoke rising from the ship’s engine. These sad dupes are being marshaled to man the ramparts against phantoms. They’ve fashioned their own nightmares from whole cloth: a fistful of solutions in search of a single problem.
They are tagged “the millennials”, but that has become a too convenient catch-all. It’s the new “me generation”, but with better skin, teeth and smooth shaved genitals. Smack is not just for skid row any more. Middle America has unwittingly embraced a new junkie ethic, on display in Walmart stores from Cranberry Township, PA to Decatur, IL. They kit up in restrooms of public libraries and then wander, dazed, into the streets; extemporizing upon the deep questions of the day. Things like gender identity and planetary doom, while listening to faux funk through their I-buds. Syrupy shit for people too young to get Coltrane or the Velvet Underground.
This is the rise, my friends, of the 21st Century Schizoid Man. We need to purge our blood of these poisons, all of them. Too much shitty music, too many shitty attitudes and definitely too much shitty dope. A high to die for. It’s tragic. Especially when you consider all of the other freaky head trips that this country has to offer. This is Alice’s Restaurant, man! You can get anything here. Unless drastic steps are taken (and very soon) to increase the supply of potent, organically cultivated hallucinogens, I fear that we are doomed. It may already be too late.