Rockin' the Peggy

When I was a gawky 13, Peggy Lipton was my idol. You remember Peggy, right? From Mod Squad, circa 1968? Yeah, her. Of course, her role as the perpetually stoic Julie Barnes taught me how to be completely aloof in the presence of boys and, yeah, girls too, and adults and, okay, everybody. Man, she was cool.

And back in 1968, I dreamed of coveting a suede fringe vest. If I could rock Peggy in suede fringe, I could be my own Mod Squad. Add some go-go boots and a little black light action, and I'm pretty sure Peggy would have been all verklempt with pride for her would-be stalker protégé.

You will therefore, my peeps, be quite distressed to learn that I never got my suede fringe vest. Or the go-go boots. And while I had a black light, what good is it if you can't rock the Peggy? Obviously, my childhood was fraught with deprivation. When a budding teen lacks her generation's grooviest pop culture paraphernalia, you just know mental scarring is inevitable. It's why I resorted to the ganja, Mom. You denied me my true Peggy.

To be entirely honest, remembering the Sixties is sort of complicated—and not because I don't actually remember them. Well, that's not entirely honest. Some of the Sixties, I did space for reasons of ganja. And other stuff. But today, recalling the Sixties is like having an acid flashback. I get a little paranoid while laughing and crying at the strange granny in a rocking chair floating above me, and I mumble, "Did I say that out loud?" Followed by, "Whoa, did I say THAT out loud?" It's all so trippy.

And let me just add that all the fried Spam, salmon patties, and macaroni and Velveeta my mother fed me played no small part in my photosensitivity to the Sixties. Not to mention my father's experimentation with "drunk bananas." Bananas drenched in rum and then set on fire and offered up to your unsuspecting, entranced children who idolize you, well, that's just a cruel parental prank. Is it any wonder I spent hours at a time in Tiger Beat?

(Did you see how I laid the entire gut-wrenching grip of my teen angst on my parents? Heh. I am the master. Dude, pass the bud. Whoa, did I just say that out loud? Oh man, did I just say THAT out loud?)

The ganja groove came and went with the Sixties, but the dream lived on. So this year, I am rockin' the Peggy. Black light, suede fringe, boots, and even a far-out headband. Oh yeah, baby, yeah! Hippie Chick rules!



Outasight, man.


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Wicked Red and the Wolf

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Grrrrr . . .

Hope y'all had as much fun as we did, traipsing through the dark, on the hunt for tricks and treats . . .

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