Hippie dictatorship

I have a job working for a political organization. The reason I took the job, which is quite low pay, was so that I could do work that is meaningful and helpful, so that I could work to change the world for the better—you know, the typical live-poor-but-feel-good-about-making-a-positive-impact type of thing. Unfortunately, as I've come to realize over the past few years, in actuality, my work consists mainly of dealing with the United States Postal Service, UPS and Greyhound; writing out checks; and, especially, filling out forms.

Of course, there are breaks from such drudgery: sometimes, when the mail comes, there is a package for me with a political magazine. Aside from that, though, I’m usually doing paperwork and filling out those forms (there’s a particularly exciting—and, I’m using the term “exciting” as a synonym for a term that would be a combination of both “boring” and “dreadful”—form that I have to fill out for the USPS pretty soon).

Given all of the above, I jumped at the chance to go out and do field work, to take a trip to the state of Maine. I was to attend a booth my organization had set up at the Maine Organic Farmers Association fair. A small town fair! How could that not be fun!

Unfortunately, my timeat the fair consisted mainly (get it?!) of sitting behind a table and listening to others talk (the people from my organization in Maine made a point of saying that it’s best if people from Maine have someone else from Maine to speak with…I guess I was just non-Maine backup), sitting in the cold, and listening to lots of stuff about Bolivia. Don’t get me wrong—Bolivia’s all nice and good, and Evo Morales is a stand up guy, but we do have some important things to talk about here in this country. You know… what is that thing that everyone’s doing on November 4? Oh, that’s it: the elections.

While there was some talk of this important event in our nation’s history (the Democratic Party of Maine had a table, as did Planned Parenthood and the League of Young Voters), I was listening to Bolivia-speak for hours, and was seated at a table next to a woman who seemed completely and totally obsessed with the Zapatistas in Mexico.

In any case, it was at this festival that I learned that the Dead Kennedys song, “California Uber Alles” is no joke. I always thought the idea of a hippie dictatorship was hilarious—until I spent a few days under the yoke of such a regime.

For those who don’t remember, here are the lyrics:

"California Uber Alles"
I am Governor Jerry Brown
My aura smilesAnd never frowns
Soon I will be president...
Carter Power will soon go away
I will be Fuhrer one day
I will command all of you
Your kids will meditate in school
Your kids will meditate in school

[Chorus:]California Uber Alles
California Uber Alles
Uber Alles California
Uber Alles California

Zen fascists will control you
100% natural
You will jog for the master race
And always wear the happy face
Close your eyes, can't happen here
Big Bro' on white horse is near
The hippies won't come back you say
Mellow out or you will pay
Mellow out or you will pay

[Chorus]

Now it is 1984
Knock-knock at your front door
It's the suede/denim secret police
They have come for your uncool niece
Come quietly to the camp
You'd look nice as a drawstring lamp
Don't you worry, it's only a shower
For your clothes here's a pretty flower.
DIE on organic poison gas... etc.

Sure, there was no suede/denim secret police, but they were pretty dictatorial. The banned smoking, alcohol and drugs. I understand banning illegal drugs and smoking. But a beer? You can’t drink a beer? It’s frickin’ organic! On top of that, they decided it was necessary to put a general ban on…coffee. Why? Who knows?

Reeling from the hippie-fascist rules, I quickly went for the ice-cream booth, so that I could get a chocolate covered ice-cream cone, or at least a chocolate shake. Since the other stuff was expensive, and the shake (which came in a Dixie cup) cost “only” six dollars, I decided to opt for a chocolate one.

“Sorry!” said the young woman at the counter. “No chocolate here!”

The Zen fascists gave me a maple shake—the closest thing they had to a regular flavor. “Just like vanilla,” she said.