Is it Doomsday Already?

Read more about the article Is it Doomsday Already?

Heavens to Murgatroyd! According to the ancient Mayans, the world will end on Friday, and I have SO much left to do! I've had "doomsday" pencilled in on both my pocket calendar and the kitchen wall calendar for months. And, because I'm such a high tech kind of gal, I also listed it on my Google calendar (too bad I forgot to hit that "email reminder" button). Oh, I'm such a silly goose! I rarely bother to even LOOK at any of those calendars until it's too late! One day left on earth doesn't give me much time to do all those things I've been wanting to do for eons. Why do I ALWAYS procrastinate?

Continue ReadingIs it Doomsday Already?

We All Will Be Received in Graceland — Except for Bruce

Read more about the article We All Will Be Received in Graceland — Except for Bruce

All the king's men. That's a royal court that could include every seasoned rocker whose creative spark was first lit by the sight and sound of Elvis Presley. They started out wanting to be him, and spent their lives dying to meet him. Most artists had to wait till they were big league players before even contemplating a face-to-face with Elvis. And even then it wasn't easy to enter his well-guarded world. But one late night in 1976, a young musician on the cusp of superstardom had the chutzpah to drop by Elvis's Graceland mansion, and pay The King a personal visit.

Continue ReadingWe All Will Be Received in Graceland — Except for Bruce

Roll Up, Roll Up — for the Greyhound Bus Hippyland Tour!

Read more about the article Roll Up, Roll Up — for the Greyhound Bus Hippyland Tour!

So, you're trippin' with your blue-jean baby down a marijuana-scented street, wearing your tie-dyed shirt, love beads and huaraches, when you hear an announcement blaring from a packed tour bus: “Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you look to your left you'll see a hairy hippie passed out in front of the Phật Phúc Noodle Bar. Ahead on the right you’ll notice a parade of shaved-head Hare Krishnas -- such a happy lot, wrapped in their orange gauze! Oh, and do you see those scraggly kids carrying signs that say 'drop acid, not bombs'? They're the pinko-loving, un-American war protestors. Now, just up ahead on your left is a store where stoners buy things called zig-zag paper and roach clips. They call it a 'head shop'….don't ask me why!" Ah, what better way to take in the sights, sounds and aromas of the Summer of Love than to book a reservation on a Greyhound Bus Line "Hippyland Tour" of the famous Haight-Ashbury district!

Continue ReadingRoll Up, Roll Up — for the Greyhound Bus Hippyland Tour!

Motor City Mavericks: The Pleasure Seekers and Suzi Quatro

Read more about the article Motor City Mavericks: The Pleasure Seekers and Suzi Quatro

When a group of sisters got together in the early '60s to come up with a name for their rock and roll band, they turned to that greatest of reference guides -- the dictionary. Leafing through the large tome, they came across the word "hedonist." Definition: a pleasure seeker. Bingo! Formed in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, in 1964 by 17-year-old Patti Quatro, The Pleasure Seekers were born of Beatlemania and bred on Detroit muscle. They paid their dues in clubs and music festivals across the U.S., opened for a slew of big name rock stars, and became one of the first all-female bands to be signed by a major record label. But their biggest contribution to the world of rock came in the form of a 5-foot firecracker named Suzi Quatro.

Continue ReadingMotor City Mavericks: The Pleasure Seekers and Suzi Quatro

David Peel: The Dope-Smokin’ Pope of the New York City Hippies

Read more about the article David Peel: The Dope-Smokin’ Pope of the New York City Hippies

By the time the Age of Aquarius hit my little Pennsyltucky town, it was already the Age of Libra. For years we stared at our cabinet TVs with envy at the scenes of flower-children burning draft cards in Chicago, marching for peace in D.C., and dancing in hallucinogenic stupor in Golden Gate park. Just when we'd nearly given up hope that we'd ever be hip, God answered our prayers and gave us something to break the monotony of our boring, bourgeois lives: a bearded, long-haired, blurry-eyed, sandaled dude whom the town elders affectionately called "The Dirty Hippie." So touched was he by this moniker that he actually painted the nom de freak on the side of his psychedelically embellished pickup truck. What a treat to see him whiz by -- "Sunshine of your Love" and fragrant smoke wafting from his windows -- as we walked home from school. "Hey look! It's the Dirty Hippie!" we'd cry out as we waved. I have no idea whether our token tokin' rebel embraced the make-love-not-war ideology of the times, but he looked like he stepped right out of central casting for "Easy Rider." And that was good enough for us. We didn't want any trouble-making pinko types, anyway. We weren't ready for our small hamlet to become infested with the city-bred rodent variety of hippie -- like those personified by David Peel.

Continue ReadingDavid Peel: The Dope-Smokin’ Pope of the New York City Hippies