Thirty years ago, you probably wouldn’t have liked me. I probably wouldn’t have liked you either, which is a bloody shame.
I was a smug, sanctimonious little cuss, which in itself probably isn’t remarkable for a 20-something. But I was an Abbie Hoffman wannabe growing up in the Vietnam War era. I read his book Woodstock Nation and totally bought into it. I had hair crawling down my back and I fancied myself an anti-war peace freak. (God always gets the last laugh – now I have hardly any hair to speak of.) Continue reading