I Hate the 70s

My son, Aidan, and I were walking to a nearby field to fly a kite. As we hiked I carried a folded delta wing close to my body. Aidan picked up that my head was on a swivel.

"What's the matter Dad?" He asked.

I soon realized my unfounded paranoia was causing him some concern. The reason I was on the lookout was because back in my day when I was walking somewhere to fly a kite if I encounter a long haired hippy type there was a good chance he would grab the kite from my hands and break it for no reason.

I grew up in the 70s not as a teenage participating in the drug fueled free love psychedelic tune in and drop out counterculture. I was a ten years old dealing with the aftermath of a society where most teenagers and many adults were routinely taking illicit recreational drugs. Having an older rebellious sister who was fully immersed into the whole 70s scene meant that all the sordid things of that decade were inside my house as well as prowling the streets outside. My other sister, Jeannine, and I huddled together in our kid world playing with Lincoln Logs and Hot Wheels surrounded by drugs, alcohol and satanic verses.

Whenever the music from the 70s comes on the radio, I overtly cringe. People think the music of that time was so far out, but I think of the many groovy beatings my friends and I took from the fun loving hippies of the time. Ozzy Osbourne, Alice Cooper, Frank Zappa were all the cultural icons of the day. Many of these guys were so artistically challenged that they incorporated carnival theatrics to take the focus away from their poor musicianship. All these bozos were succeeded by the band, Kiss.
 

Kiss

While I disliked the others, I hated Kiss. They were a band formed by four former high school teachers who at least where sober enough to realize that musically they stunk so badly that they had to come up with characters to be successful. Gene Simmons was a demon. Ace Frehley was a spaceman. Paul Stanley was the starchild. The drummer, Peter Criss, became a cat. I can just imagine what Simons must have said when this was being sorted out,

"Look Pete. I'm the demon. Ace is the alien. You have to pick something cool."

"Like a cat?" Criss asks.

"I don't think we're on the same page here. I said something cool. Why not be a ninja?" Simmons offers.

"I want to be a kitty."

Then Paul Stanely says, "I'm gonna be the starchild."

"Am I the only one who get's this? You can't be a starchild if Ace is gonna be a spaceman."

"Well, if Pete can be a kitty, I want to be a bunny," Stanely asserts.

"You're not gonna to be no fucking bunny!" Simmons decrees.



David Cassidy

The part I could never figure out was why so many kids from the 70s related to satanic themes. Ozzy Osborne was the lead singer for Black Sabbath. A British heavy metal band was called Judas Priest, and of course, Kiss was sometimes touted as an acronym for "Knights in Satan's Service," but I suspect it really meant "keep it simple stupid." They all had their demonic songs which my older sister played endlessly. She transitioned from David Cassidy and the Partridge Family to Alice Cooper and his sixth album, Billion Dollar Babies. I heard that record countless times. I still recall the lyrics,


Alice Cooper

If I'm too rough tell me

I'm so scared your little head will come off in my hands

Billion Dollar Baby

Back in the 70s, Alice Cooper said that he didn't want to live past thirty. My older sister thought that was way cool. My father used to say,

"Let's see if he says that when he's twenty-nine and a half."

Cooper, whose real name is Vincent Furnier, is pushing seventy-five and enjoys golf. My older sister used to put on eye makeup like Alice Cooper and wear a white tuxedo she sewed herself, including a white top hat she made out of paper mache. She wore this get up to school and insisted that everyone including her teachers call her "Alice" even though that wasn't her real name.

As a kid in the 70s our parents would let us roam the neighborhood which was great when we were up to mischief but not so great when the hippies were wandering about. They concentrated at the top of the street where the local drug dealer set up a small yellow trailer advertising flowers. He never had any actual plants in the trailer which was chained to a payphone. The dude just leaned against the rig and made drug sales all day. The hippies close to this area didn't have time to mess with us kids. Going in they had a wad of cash. Going out a stash of illegal narcotics. Either way they were usually strung out and on a mission. We learned quickly that the time to worry about hippies was when they were stoned and wandering around aimlessly. It was never near the drug dealer because he wouldn't tolerate that kind of attention close to his operation.

The presence of the sole drug dealer at the top of the street was great news for Alice. She began frequenting the plant stand. When I came home from school if she was sleeping on the couch my mother would say,

"Be quiet. Alice is sleeping."

Slumber meant she took downers. If she was buzzing about the house doing laundry or folding clothes, then she took uppers. Speed or something. Jeannine and I knew to always stay clear of Alice when she was awake and high.
 

Pot would make hippies anything from jovial to paranoid. Recognizing the signs was the difference between being beat up or escaping with your kite. If a hippy was smiling, it usually meant he smoked marijuana and was going to be generally friendly. If he was jittery and agitated, then he took some narcotic, and one of us was going to catch a beating. For some reason a beard usually meant a pot smoker and a cheesy mustache was likely a hard drug user. Both had long hair bell bottoms, a jean jacket and often a drug themed T-shirt or that stupid Rolling Stones lips and tongue logo.

Sometimes we would get detained by some drugged out bully. If we had our bikes there was a chance we could out run them. One time on Monterey Drive a druggy grabbed onto the sissy bar on my bike. I broke free and darted for Cowesett Avenue, a busy road to this day. The hippy chased me as I darted into the street. A driver in a car slammed on the brakes, just missing me. I made it to the other side, my "plat" as we used to called it. I owe my life to an attentive driver who stopped in time. The hippie turned and sauntered by the drug dealer who casually walked up to the dude then beat him senseless.

This guy violated the one unwritten rule, making a commotion around the plant stand. The hippie collapsed on the ground in the fetal position while the drug dealer kicked in his head. It was simultaneously horrible and satisfying. I'd like to think that the dope dealer had a sense that it was wrong to chase a kid on a bike into a busy street, but that wasn't the case. He just didn't want the disruption to his business which would've occurred if the cops had to scrape a body, however small, off the pavement.

One day I was walking to Kmart with my friend, Mark, when this hippy came up to us saying,

"I knew someday I would kick your ass Mark."

He proceeded to hit Mark in the head. I punched him in the kidney because that's all I could reach. I got mine next. Mark and I were resolved to start weightlifting so we would bulk up and protect ourselves from the long haired freaky hippy types. I lobbied for a 110 pound concrete filled vinyl weight set for my next birthday. I bought a bench with my paper route money. It was more puberty than exercise, but before long I was buying another weight set because one wasn't enough. One thing about taking a beating, you get used to being hit and that gives you an advantage. The next time we crossed path with a hippy bent on pushing us around things went a little different.

I wish I could tell you that my experiences made me a better person who stood up for the weakest in our community, that I led the fight against bullying long before it trended on social media, but that didn't happen. Victims of bulling often become the next bullies. While I doled out my share, all of which I deeply regret, I never did so with the same enthusiasm of my tormentors. I'm sure that is no consolation to the people I hurt so badly.

In middle school my son, Aidan, reported countless incidents of bullying both against him as well as others. The backlash was excessive and often physical. He's tall and has a good reach. I've taught him how to defend himself, but I warned him never to use it.

"Why do you teach me how to fight then tell me not to hit anyone?" he asks.

I've explained that striking another student, even in defense, makes it harder to make your case to school officials. Recently a friend of mine suggested that all this anti-bullying agendas might be "making kids incapable of handling conflict." I thought about this for days, and I've come to the conclusion that the bullies are the ones who can't deal with conflict, not my son, who certainly can defend himself but chooses not to.

We flew the kite that day. It soared across the sky. The sound of it's long plastic tail fluttering in the wind was familiar and comforting. We both wondered how far we could pay out the string, and if it was tied to the spindle. It was thankfully. On the way back Aidan asked,

"Dad, did you ever win a fight?"

I was reluctant to answer. Not because I lost many and wanted to come off as a tough guy to my son. I was trying to frame my experiences without reliving the abuse I experienced in my youth. Eventually I answered,

"You know, I used to make my own kites. Once I made a box kite. It took me a month."

"Did it fly good?" Aidan asked.

I never knew how well it would have flown because a drugged out hippy broke it on the way to the field. The late afternoon sun cast shadows across the empty meadow. The wind had dissipated leaving the sound of the frogs in a nearby pond.

"It flew beautifully," I said.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on April 18, 2017.