Robert Bush 9 a.m., April 19
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Why I Don't Like Hippies
Or What I Drink and Where I Drink It
WHAT I DRINK AND WHERE I DRINK IT or Why I Don't Like Hippies
What I Drink: Kahlúa White Russian - 2 parts Kahlúa, 1 part vodka, 2 splashes of cream
Where I Drink It: Winstons,
Okay, let’s get one thing straight --- I don’t like hippies. Never had any use for them.
They don’t particularly offend me, other than maybe the ones who tend to reek of patchouli, bongwater, and Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap (“It makes my balls tingle”), but that’s usually just my nose taking offense.
I simply find hippies naïve, annoying, unproductive, grandiose, simpleminded, undereducated, overmedicated, out of touch with reality, and just generally useless.
That’s not even factoring in counterculture couture reminiscent of Sid and Marty Krofft after taking the brown acid at
So you can imagine how annoying it is to be mistaken for a hippie.
Yeah, I haven’t cut my hair since the Carter administration. And my sideburns are probably older than you.
But my reasons for cultivating a full-body beard – unrelated to the matter at hand – have nothing to do with Granola,
the I Ching,
the Strawberry Alarm Clock,
making a statement,
waving a freak flag,
giving it to “the Man,”
or Jerry Garcia’s effin half-finger.
So why do I keep finding my ass polishing the Pabst-soaked seats at Winstons in OB, surrounded by the very tie-dyed and squinty-eyed I nearly despise,
a pair of Italian loafers lost in a
an Izod amidst pajama tops?
It’s Winstons’ killer White Russians, with ‘tenders who almost always pour a stiff two-parts Kahlúa. A lot of places will plop a weak-ass chocolate milk down in front of you, mildly stirred with some dollar-store Kahlúa copycat like Kamora, Kapali, or some other Krap.
Winstons uses the real deal, and with real cream, mind you, not that gawdawful two percent, half-and-half, or (gag) skim milk they dump on you at airports and in Hell (and at airports IN Hell, which seem a near-certainly if one believes in eternal damnation).
Yeah, it’s kind of a foofoo drink. What can I say – I acquired a taste for it over the course of countless
(I once brought a visiting friend from rural New Hampshire to El Pato; as we made our way down the damp and uneven steps, past the doorman with one leg and two teeth, my friend asked me “Dude, am I on Scare Tactics?”)
Winstons is surely a far safer - and more hygienic - place to whet my furry whistle. In addition, I’ve picked up enough patron chatter at Winstons for at least two dozen Overheard in
“My dad thinks I stole his bong.”
“I want to invest in incense.”
“The only thing that matters is mind over matter.”
“Your poncho smells like lentils.”
“My other bike has a banana seat.”
“I only use organic douche.”
“It makes my balls tingle”
And the immortal “Dude! Trails!”
Plus, great bands play at Winstons, most every night. Well, as long as you avoid the Deadheads who live up to that deceptively descriptive term to a nearly forensic degree (is any head deader than a Deadhead’s?).
So that’s where – for now – you can usually find me, marinating in Kahlúa and avoiding some looming eleventh hour Reader deadline.
At least until the lure of TJ draws me back once again to the Zona Norte, to some gawdforsaken dungeon of the damned where I can almost guarantee my spent, abused, astonishingly scarred but nonetheless enviable corpse will someday be found ----
"Where Have All The Deadheads Gone?" Local flower children, after the head Deadhead was dead.
There are times, sometimes in the midst of otherwise polite conversation, when it comes out that I make my living writing for the Reader.... More
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