Once upon a time there were two little hippies named Helen and Jenny. They would write on my Facebook wall at 3 or 4 in the morning, after an evening (or two or three) of doing the hippie shuffle to the endless songs of their favorite jam bands, begging for a blog about them (the hippies, not the jam bands).
Well, fine, my little hippie dippies. This one is for you.
Hippie Helen and Hippie Jenny are what I would call "girlie" hippies in that they don't reek of patchouli and they are very familiar with razors. But when Widespread comes to town, all bets are off as they go tripping into the dark Georgia night. Or North Carolina night. Or Tennessee night. Wherever the jam band is, you will find them.
Jenny is my sister. She rang in the year 2000 camping in the Everglades for three days watching Phish. I welcomed Y2K in a fancy Charlotte hotel with Chris wondering where the hell room service was with our cheeseburger and Bloody Marys. Laugh if you want, but at 2 a.m., that combination sounded like a great idea! They never did show up either, those order-taking bastards…..But I digress..You see how we are different...
It was Helen’s birthday, and I went over to their apartment for dinner before we went out to celebrate. When I got there, Jenny proudly showed me the little birthday cake she had made. Little being the operative word, as it was barely the size of my hand.
Jenny: See the cake I made?
Me: Cute. Did you make that in your Easy Bake oven?
Jenny: You go to hell. (Apparently it was a just-add-water microwave cake.)
Ah, feel the love. That was September. December rolled around, and for Christmas I got Jenny, what else, an Easy Bake oven. Because, I said, my birthday was coming up and I too wanted a tiny cake. Again, I believe I was told to go to hell. I never did get my tiny cake...I think she still has the oven though. So there is still hope.
Helen was one of my first friends in Atlanta. She had played softball with Jenny in college, so I looked her up when I got to town. We used to hit LuLu’s Bait Shack hard. We had so many fishbowls, I am honestly surprised I don’t have any of the plastic alligators anymore. They used to be everywhere. Helen used to like to be me $1 to talk to random boys.
Helen: I’ll give you a dollar if you go talk to that boy over there.
Me: OK.
Me to random boy: You see that girl over there with the curly hair?
Random: yeah.
Me: She likes your sweater.
And then I would go collect my dollar from an irritated Helen. “That wasn’t what you were supposed to do.” She said talk to them, I talked to them. It didn’t stop her from handing over her dollar bills to me weekend after weekend.
And here is the story Helen insisted I include: I was living with Cindy and Trisha on Windy Hill, and we had a party. The layout of our apartment was such that you could only get to the back porch through my bedroom. So of course, people were through my room all night, hanging out on the porch. Helen came late, as there was some sort of Grateful Dead Jerry Garcia tribute hippie ho-down that she had to go to first. And when she showed up, she did not come alone. No, she brought a big fat hippie with her. And he had THOROUGHLY enjoyed the show.
Me: So was Jerry there?
Big Fat Hippie: No, he’s dead.
Me: But could you feel him there?
BFH: YES! The music was flying in my face.
Me: That’s great. Why don’t you step outside on the porch and get some air.. hey, wait, what are you doing? Helen!!! Get your big hippie friend off my bed!!!!
Served me right, I guess. I think I had to wash my pillowcase more than once to get the hippie stink out of it.
So there you go, my precious hippie dippies. A blog all your own. And thank you for the invite, Helen, but I will not be heading to Bonnaroo this year. Unless I missed a memo about hell freezing over that weekend. But take your laptop, and feel free to write on my Facebook wall anytime. If you can keep the music out of your face, that is……
