Love in the ‘70s

Love in the ‘70s

I saw a woman on the street today on my lunch break that reminded me of myself in the ‘70s. Pretty, stoned, with a look of desperate need for love in her eyes.

It wasn’t hard to get into the psychedelic “drug culture” as they call it now of the 1970s. What would have been hard was avoiding it.

Having become too famous for the passing laws on the West Coast in the 1960s (you know, free-love, Haight-Ashbury, communes, love-ins and the like) I was ordered by the bully among us (*cough*Athena*cough*) to relocate in 1969. I’d been adored very much like I used to be by the stoners, acidheads and other drug-using hippies in the ‘60s. I never encouraged it, but they simply saw something in me and loved me, each and every one of them. I’ll admit, I got drunk on the attention, but never partook of any drugs. Knowing it would take me ten times the amount it would take a mortal to get high, I simply said no or pretended to join in.

But when I was forced to move, I chose NYC and fell for the disco lifestyle. Beautiful women, confident men, all looking for love, even if just for a few minutes.

It only took a few weeks of clubbing for me to accept a line in the lady’s room. I saw the self-love in cocaine users’ eyes and wanted to feel that too. I wanted to love myself like no one else could – and I did. And I wanted to share that love – and I did that too, a lot.

That’s what I saw in this strung-out woman’s face – the desperation to fit in and the sad knowledge that whatever drug she’s hooked on is the very thing that keeps her from fitting in. Which depresses her and makes her want to do more.

Thank god I got out when I did.