My generation: A red-faced admission

Age of Hooper

Photo and video documentation of the war protests in Washington this weekend. Like my father before me, I witness with shame and embarrassment the behavior of those labeled as my peers.

I did not choose to grow up in the same time period, in the same institutions, as these kooks and hooligans. Through college, I ran with a bohemian crew. The girls were cute and easy, and the buzz was never hard to find. But I kept my politics to myself, finding personal philosophy down traditional pathways. The haze and chatter that wafted above a loaded bong seemed a strange source of politic enlightenment.

But girls and ganja are hard to resist, and most young folks — the ones I went to college with and the ones currently matriculating — lack either the sense or dedication to examine the substance of the views they’re representing.

If the long-haired guy who’s getting all the chicks says “no war for oil” and “impeach Bush,” the freckled freshman sitting alone near the back is likely to join the radicals’ lockstep.

But only a few thousand attended those protests, you say, so there’s no need to worry about such an insignificant minority. That would be true, if the national media didn’t play up every protest as if Jenny and Forrest were embracing in the reflecting pool to the cheers of a million hippies.

The new radicals lack the numbers seen in the 1960s. But they have the world’s largest megaphone. Most college kids are more interested in cruising the frat parties, updating their Facebook page, and even studying to make the trip to DC.

But when they see Abbie Hoffman 2007 surrounded by a cadre of free-boobing freshmen girls, they know what the score is.

Maybe they can’t tell you why they oppose the war, or support affirmative action, or a woman’s right to choose, they can sure tell you why they want to hang out with the group that does.

The chicks are easy, and the buzzes are never far away.


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