Hippies: An Ethnography

In the spring of 2009, anthropologist Marshall Friedman journeyed to the remote mountain city of Asheville, North Carolina to study the unique, mysterious peoples known to civilized man solely as “hippies”, living as one of them for several months. The following are excerpts from his field notes.

May 22, 4:00 PM
It is apparent that no regulated economy exists among the hippie people. Rather, hippies generally deal in an informal barter system, as shown through an anecdote I witnessed recently. A young hippie named Darius proposed a trade to another, a dreadlocked female named Clover: “Hey man [this greeting seems to have little regard for gender within the hippie lexicon], you still got that roach clip left? My parents are taking me out to Macaroni Grill in a few hours and I could like bring you back some leftovers or something if you let me hit that.” Both parties agreed to the terms set forth. When I encountered Clover the following day, I asked her if Darius had made good on his promise of leftovers. She could not recall.

May 24, 9:00 AM
Though hygiene is wholly lacking by civilized standards, one hippie named Barry stands out as being particularly malodorous. Perhaps this is a sign of leadership within the community? More research necessary.

May 28, 7:00 PM
Hippie residency is entirely unlike that of normal people. While a large number of hippies live in regular houses, such houses are generally occupied by up to a dozen hippies. Though some have standard beds, it seems that most sleeping places are created much like birds’ nests: Small items such as socks, empty cigarette wrappers and beer bottles accumulate en masse in living spaces (hippies do not seem to mind the proliferation of garbage within their homes), creating a “trash bed” of sorts for the hippies to rest on.

Other hippies are more nomadic, traveling from trash bed to trash bed within the city. In line with the aforementioned barter system, nomadic hippies generally offer goods and services in exchange for a place to sleep, such as a 40-ounce malt liquor beverage or a slightly out-of-tune guitar performance. In order to better know the hippie people, I allowed one such nomad to rest in my home. He opted to sleep under my dining room table, despite the availability of a futon. Whether this was out of humility or drug-addled confusion, I cannot say.

May 30, 12:00 PM
It is clear that the hippie people are quite spiritual, despite the lack of traditional religious beliefs among them. Most hippies practice animism, believing that all things contain a spirit of their own. This was made clear when I accidentally kicked a small rock as I walked down the street, causing one hippie to exclaim, “Watch it man! Rocks are people too!” Afterwards, she picked up the rock, caressed it gently against her bosom, and whispered some words of compassion before carefully placing it back down. A wistful gaze overtook her, and a solitary tear rolled down her cheek.

This is not to say that there are no deities within the hippie belief system. In fact, I have observed a couple of parallels to Western religion. Comparable to Allah or Yahweh, hippies worship the late musician Jerry Garcia as the one true god, the holiest of holies. Though there are no churches or temples, hippies are quite fervent in their worship of Jerry Garcia, proclaiming him as 'So Sweet' or
describing his music as 'A Flaxseed Boner Penetrating My Ears And Ejaculating Easygoingness Straight Into My Brain" several times a day, often in a meditative state." Much like the seraphim found in Christianity, the hippie people worship Jerry Garcia’s most faithful followers: a legion of brightly colored, illustrated bears.

June 2, 1:00 PM
Just as the Anasazi clans of antiquity would unite for a festival of the fall harvest, so too do the hippie people band together for several days, as we have traversed to Rothbury, Michigan for a festival of music. We are joined by thousands of members of the hippie tribe. And just as the Anasazi would ingest peyote as a spiritual rite, the hippies at Rothbury experiment with a motley assortment of hallucinogens. Naturally, it is proper ethnographic technique to completely immerse myself within the culture of those I am studying in order to understand them fully. As such, I have just taken several “hits” of “acid”, along with a large handful of fungi that had been procured from bovine feces. A jovial, elderly man named Corn Blossom then offered me a small pill called GX-83. Though my dear Martha would surely frown upon my taking an unknown pill, Corn Blossom assured me that a couple in Sacramento creates them within their home. As a supporter of small business, I decided to take six of them.

June 2, 1:15 PM
It’s like, how can they keep spinning and just float up there? That’s God, you know? That’s like his word, holding the frisbee up there. It’s like, instead of the Bible, it’s the Frisbee. Instead of guns, I think we should give soldiers frisbees. Frisbees are like love guns. Love bible guns. Tiiiiiiiiiiiiime. Tiiiimeeeeeeeeeee.
People think Corn Blossom is crazy, but he’s a really smart guy. He’s working on a way to make computers out of hemp. Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiime. He said they’ll run like eighty times faster than regular computers or something. The government knows all about it, but it will put all the greedy execs out of business and they’re the ones with the oil. Who do they think they are? Who do they think I am? Like, who am I to study these people like they’re mice in a cage? We’re all people, you know? Or maybe we’re all rocks?

Marshall Freidman’s last contact with his publisher was the day before attending Rothbury. These excerpts, found in a port-o-potty at the festival, are all that is known of his whereabouts. If you have any information regarding Marshall Freidman’s location, please contact the American Anthropological Society.

Grover Cleveland

I Gotta Feeling... (Alternative)

I Gotta Feeling...

Joke Retirement Center: The Ol' Win-Win

I’m a big fan of jokes. Take, for instance, this little gem (answer at the end of the article):

How many ants live in an apartment?

But, just like everything besides socks and juice boxes, there can be too much of a good thing when it comes to jokes. Sadly, some jokes have overstayed their welcome and need to be shipped off to a home, which is why I have created the Joke Retirement Center.

The Joke Retirement Center is a place where old, stale, overused jokes can be taken care of far, far away from our vernacular. In order to get the ball rolling, our very first joke has been committed to the Joke Retirement Center:

The Ol’ Win-Win

The scenario is a lovely Saturday afternoon in early autumn, with family and friends enjoying a nice barbecue. The men, being men and all, make their way into the den to watch some college football. Who’s playing, you ask? Why, none other than the Clemson Tigers and the Memphis Tigers! Seeing as there are over 300 schools in NCAA’s Division I, and that wild, ferocious animals are a common team moniker, it’s no surprise that both teams are called the Tigers. Nevertheless, this doesn’t stop Larry from making that classic comment, “I bet the Tigers win!” Everybody gives a hearty laugh while Larry smiles and scoops up some salsa.

You know what I hope Larry does? I hope he puts his money where his mouth is. Go on, Larry. March on down to your bookie and tell him you want to put two large on the Tigers. What Larry doesn’t know is that his bookie, though formerly a fan of such a stupid little joke, has become a hardened, frank man after years in such a cutthroat industry. He also has a mean temper and a tire iron. Now I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out for you, but let’s just say the bookie gets a bit bludgeony. And when that happens, I’ll be next in line asking the bookie for the over-under on Larry’s blood loss.

You may be thinking, “Why don’t the college teams just change their names so that they’re all unique?” I agree wholeheartedly, especially since it’s high time teams got a bit more inventive with team names, straying beyond big cats and predatory birds. Perhaps Larry would still be able to wipe himself had the Clemson Spoons squared off against the Memphis Sega Dreamcast Controllers that day. But that wouldn’t end all facets of the Ol’ Win-Win. Here’s another scenario:

My roommate challenges me to some Mortal Kombat Trilogy. He picks Sub-Zero for the ice projectiles. I pick Sub-Zero for the nasty combo and the polar bear animality (back, back, forward, down, high punch!). Then roommate number three comes and sits down to watch, since there’s nothing else to do (This is how we live). After eyeing the screen, he’s quick to point out, “My money’s on Sub-Zero!” We all LOL for a while, and then I punch him in the face.

Perhaps you’re upset at the prospect of losing these jokes to retirement. If that’s the case, just think of it as a joke Hall of Fame of sorts! The Joke Retirement Center is a magical place where legendary jokes like the Ol’ Win-Win are honored and fattened up. Then they’re turned into a nice, syrupy joke-glue.

Ten.

Ryon Howard