It was on an Oregon Beach like this that I, as a young longhair, came across a bearded hipster baking bread on sticks over an open fire.  I was 14 at the time.  1971.  He offered me some bread.  It was warm and moist and tasted faintly of salt.  He then offered me a joint.  I declined, and gradually drifted back to the motel, where the screaming disaster of my father’s 3rd marriage awaited me.  The trip itself ended in disaster, with a terrible scene in Yellowstone, but that’s a different story.  Anyway, I’ve always remember that kind hippie. 

Roaming Oregon for the last several days, I’ve come across many such hippies; stopped and talked with them.  Now of course they’re all gray-haired; some use canes; some seem eternally young; some have gone senile; some own nursing homes for the senile. 

My generation is aging.  I’ve known this for a long time, but only in Oregon did it really sink in.  Sure, I still think of myself as 25, but that’s only because I’ve always lived in a state of self-delusion–a carefully maintained one.

Still, it was charming to talk with so many aging hipsters.  Their warmth hasn’t changed in 36 years, and the state is still a wonder.  But now it’s back to KC, where I’ve got a new gallery to open, an abundance of new projects to launch, a screenplay to push further up the line, and a fine family to love.  Damn, I am one lucky man.  And no, I ain’t using a cane for a long freaking time–if ever.  Of course, that might wind up being another one of my delusions.