I have an ambiguous relationship to hippie shit. On the one hand I think all this hippie-dippy fuzzy cozy love around the world stuff is incredibly lame and naive. Especially because, in case you haven’t noticed this yet, preachers of the ‘open mind’ have a very fucking closed mind themselves and it is this hypocrisy that makes me want to punch the Aquarians and all those flowerchildren in the testicles and what have you.
So maybe there is also some self-hate, because, man, I have a soft spot for this shit. Maybe I like the naivete and the enthusiasm. Maybe I want to run around dressed in nothing but a poncho and sandals, wear my hair open, have fifteen children and ten wives (or one big clusterfuck of a commune where nobody knows who’s with who) and let me freak flag fly. But then my German Über-ich kicks in — trust me, we Germans invented the fucking term, so I know what I’m talking about — and I start to worry. What if I grow old and get sick and don’t have any money? What if I get a toothache and all I have are some fucking Peruvian roots to chew on to numb the pain and wait until either the tooth falls out or I die from an infected abscess in my jawbone? And I don’t want to share all of my shit. I get attached to stuff. Like my coffee cup. And my red paring knife. Touch those things and I’ll cut you, asshole.
So, yeah, I’m of two minds.
But fuck, I mean, how can you not dig Ananda Shankar?