I do know what the word “psychedelic” means. Orange and lime green and in your face purple that was solid as a rock and yet flowed like a river, and you…wrapped your eyes in it and it all, like, fucking dripped and ran and bled down the wall. And it crawled right up into my fucking body and entered my eyes and, like, exploded out of my ears. Fuck! Black light posters and lava lamps and the music….that fucking music, man….“Inna Gadda De Vida, baby…that’s where I’m…somethin’…you…” No, man, don’t worry, I’m not going to go all Woodstock on your ass. “One, two, three…what are we fightin’ for…” Shit! Probably owe somebody five dollars nowadays, for singing a line of their song, but that was OUR song! It was ours! And we didn’t call it “denim” so much as “blue jeans”, like our blue jeans jacket with a big peace sign, POW! In psycho-delic colors covering the back. And the front all with the pins and badges: “Make Love, Not War.” “Make LOVE…not WAR.” And oh, we did make love and it was love even when you didn’t know her name. Pure love, Baby.