By Marcel Theroux
I arrived in San Francisco bearing a certain generational antagonism to the whole idea of the Summer of Love. My parents came of age in the Sixties; I was born in 1968. I’ve grown tired of hearing what bliss is was to be alive then. You say epoch-defining cultural revolution; I say extended gap year for the baby boomers, the jammiest cohort in human history. Whenever the late Timothy Leary turns up on the radio or television – and since it’s the 50th anniversary of the events of 1967, I imagine he’ll be turning up a lot – my instinct is to turn over, tune out or drop off.
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