Fucking Hippie

One of the main things that allowed me my sanity at the salvation Army for the last eight months and nineteen or so days, was the fact that I was involved in, in charge of, really, the Praise Band. Now that I have checked out of the ARC motel, I have no venue to perform in. Grand Rapids being the second largest city in Michigan, and a college town to boot, means that there are several coffee houses and the like which gives a singer-songwriter such as myself the opportunity to perform. Unfortunately, the neighborhood in which I am temporarily residing has no such place, and the only way for me to get around is either by foot, or by city-bus, which I really do loathe. And as much as I love walking, it is rather cold and slushy for one to do so this time of year, so I again, must practice the one thing (out of many) that I am not very good at, which is patience.

On my way here, I spotted a fucking hippie. "What better person to ask about a coffee house than a fucking hippie", I said to myself as I walked in his general direction, trying not to be obvious in my attempt to make eye contact. "Excuse me, you wouldn't happen to know of any coffee houses around here, would you?", I asked. "There's a Burger King right there. I'm sure they have coffee", was his reply. I said thanks and walked away, muttering something to myself about how if I wanted coffee, I would have simply gone to B.K., you stupid fucking hippie! Now, as I think about that transaction of words, I see things from a different perspective. I somehow, sometimes, have the negative habit of grouping people together, much like the police do when they assume that if one is black, dressed like east L.A. Gangstas, driving west down I-94 out of Detroit, listening to violent rap 'music', which is blaring from their 1972 Lincoln-lowrider-town car that they might just have something to do with the illegal drug trade. I believe they call it 'profiling'. My assumption was that, simply because the fucking hippie had long hair, and probably smelled of patchouli and weed, that he, was indeed, an 'enlightened one', and being such, would surely know of all the head-shop's, coffee-houses, sit-in's, be-ins, love-in's and the like. My mistake. (No, not 'my bad'. For some reason, it simply bothers me when people over a certain age, say 3, use that term. Much like the phrase 'baby mama'. My God, it is one thing to actually be a sheep, but do people have to continually do the whole bayyyying thing in public, just to keep on proving the fact that they are so easily led. If one wanted to be 'cool' and 'hip' nowadays, all one would really have to do is watch one of the reality white trash-poor negro talk shows such as Springer and the like, to have the whole vernacular down pat, and just because it is socially acceptable to talk like you have no common knowledge of the English language, and books are something you have on a shelf to impress your Parole Officer, doesn't mean that I have to join the parade. Sorry for the rant).

But I digress. Back to the hippie. I finally found the library, and thought that I would write on my newly found, old blog, that I apparently started some time ago, but had forgotten all about 'til just the other day. I do miss writing so very much. I am at a point right now, where I feel as if I am doing nothing way too much(?), and when a man becomes lazy and complacent in his life, well, at least for me, it can be a bad thing. I am so very fortunate to have the talents that I have, but at the same time, if I am not creating, then I feel as if I am frozen. But, I am happy, and I am content. as much as I feel the need to keep people at bay, at arms length, I have extended my physical self, as well as my Heart, to a woman as of late, and so far, it is a good thing. a very good thing. and if that is all I have right now, I am a very rich man indeed.