Author's Note:  What follows is part fact and part fictionalized fact, all based on either the best recollection of my personal memories, dreams, and reflections; fictionalized dialogue and story representing a composite of hearsay--primarily oral narratives told to me by persons alleging to have witnessed or experienced these squares within the quilt of what I have attempted to present as a cohesive macro-narrative or illustration drawn from discrete yet essentially corroborative accounts; and to some small degree, third person accounts that like mental post-it notes, hang yellowed, yet still legible, to walls lined like retainers within my mind.  What follows, then, is essay.  Readers please feel free to comment or discuss the sense and experience of that which I freely offer here.  Note, I reserve the right to delete any comment or discussion I judge to be out of harmony with the message of this essay.  That message, in it's simplest form, is a call to alarm over that part of the National Defense Authorization Act (NDAA) of 2012 which was passed in the US Senate on 12/01/2011 by a bipartisan majority of 97 to 3 with no abstentions and is on course for ratification by President Obama.  The offending language which will become law, unless the bill is vetoed, declares USA soil a battleground in the war on terror, thereby eliminating the Posse Comitatus Act and the domestic right of USA citizens to Due Process (most notably, Miranda Rights, right to legal counsel, right to a fair and speedy civil trial, right to appeal the decision of a military tribunal in lieu of a civil trial).  Having established the forgoing terms and exclusions, in its present form, the offending sections give the military the police powers in matters of "national defense" which include apprehension and indefinite detention of US citizens on US soil without warrant, without requirement of probable cause, without legal representation, without trial, any damned place they choose, conceivably for the rest of the "detainee's" life.

I myself, like so many other "baby boomers,"  fell for it--hook, line, and sinker.  We bought the Phil Ochs albums, sang along with Pete, quoted Dylan, like good little hippies and yippies, actually paid full retail for a frigging book by a self-proclaimed revolutionary that said right on the frakking cover, "Steal This Book."  We marched for peace and civil rights, got spat on by, of all people, union guys waving small America flags, their beer guts hanging over their belts, and their pickled egg farts blowing in the wind.  We chanted our asses off, got our heads busted, kicked, bruised, cussed, psychologically intimidated, some martyred for "the cause."  More than a few were busted, some harassed and told that if their hearts weren't in America, to get our sorry asses out--starting at the county line. 

"And don't you ever come back around these parts, you hear, cause if'n you do, they's a lot of folks round here--good, decent, law abiding, tax paying, God fearin', church goin', Americans--that'd just as soon see you agitators thrown in jail and pitch the key out with the garbage.  That doesn't even count those of us who belong to certain organizations that feel strongly that yer kinda filth and worth lockin' up, if you catch my drift."

SDS, SSOC, SNCC, and all the other three and four letter groups that sprang up back then, a percentage of us sat around tables and "rapped" about how "a change is gonna come," and  scheming up ways to "stick it to the man."  But the man wasn't as dumb as the squat bulldog of a transvestite who ruled over the establishment's primary TLA (3 letter agency)-- the FB of I.  Cheeky buggers dressed like business men, which makes perfect sense when you stop and think about whose interests they were actually paid to look after.  Sneaky bastards, taking notes, writing reports, devastating entire forests tree by tree to keep a written record of every pinko subversive out there, who s/he knows, where s/he goes, who s/he meets, what s/he eats, every miniscule thing said and or done. 

"Subject engaged in illegal sexual  activities with Harold A. from Akron, Ohio, four times during the 17 hours they were together in subject's rented apartment.  The first act took place at 17:34 and lasted for 8 minutes and 12 seconds.  subject and Mr, A. mutually gratified each other by taking turns performing a crime against nature, prohibited under tile 32, section 12, part 7b. of the state code as a first class felony, identified in same as fellatio.  SAIC Ben Pruitt assigned the Cleveland field office, informed this agent that Mr. A. resides at 1234 Pine Street in Akron, a one story duplex he shares with his legal spouse, Jenifer Louise (Padgett) A. and their twin daughters Elizabeth Taylor A. and Judy Garland A."  And on and on and on. . . only by the time Harold A. is released from prison 30 years later (tax fraud, naturally), when he finally does gain possession of the files he requested through the FIOA, his files, the pages are so heavily redacted that it is impossible to determine what the surveillance notes originally contained, thus making them worthless, except for the guy who owns the biggest chunk of the profit on the 4 reams of paper, and 3 toner cartridges consumed in making the previously classified documents available on hardcopy to the fella who had no clue whatsoever that his 7th grade sweetheart had been under surveillance for joking to an undercover FBI agent in 1970 that she was in regular contact with the main "dude" who prepped and personally instructed every draft dodger crossing out of the USA into Canada.  Since there was no law against knowingly misleading an  undercover federal law enforcement agent, the "subject" never so much as saw the inside of a cell.  But not to worry, even though there was no probable cause to warrant investigation of Harold A.'s person, belongings, or business holdings, coupled with the issue of poison fruit, the government was able to build and successfully prosecute their case against Harold A., ending Harold's marriage, ruining his business, putting 300 of his former employees out of a job, in the middle of winter, causing lifelong psychiatric and substance abuse issues with Liz and Jude, especially after Jenifer  Louise lost the house when the business failed, and consumed by shame and despair drove her car into an oncoming long haul tractor trailer while traveling, according some witnesses, in excess of 80 miles per hour.

Yesirree.  Those were the good old days.  Then the sun can out from behind the clouds, and we thought we had actually overcome, and that Dylan's ship had come in, and as the late Dr. King had framed the proposition, that, great God a'mighty, we had reached the top of the mountain and were finally, and indisputably "free at last."  The war was over; Nixon and his thugs were no longer running the show; African-Americans could sit wherever they wanted on the bus; the "Whites Only" signs were taken down; folks were dancing in the streets; rock and roll just kept on getting better and better; sexual liberty in the 70's and 80's exceeded everyone's wettest dreams; the standard of living kept growing in leaps and bounds; we had men--AND women--in space; pills, pot and booze, an abundant supply.  The war between the generations was over, and, we subconsciously reckoned, the Age of Aquarius sweepstakes drawing was held, and the lucky winning ticket-holder was . . . Woodstock Nation.  Or so we were duped into believing.  Who's to say for sure, maybe we just let all the drugs and endorphins facilitate our duping ourselves away from the discipline of critical evaluation, and into the valley of the shadow of listening to elevator music covers of "Like a Rolling Stone" and "Born to Be Wild" while engaged in the Grail Quest for "everyday low prices."

A lot of things happened, over an incredibly short period of time.  A quarter of a century.  Twenty-four years:  from 1968 to 1993.  From the arrest and open public trial of the Chicago 7 to the inauguration of William Jefferson Clinton, partying outside in a rock festival atmosphere to the driving beat of "Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow."

Next:  The Sky Has Always Been Falling, Part Two:  Boom Baby Boom