Today I have a large typed note on the inside of the lid that reads IF YOU'VE OPENED THIS AND I'M DEAD THEN BURN THE CONTENTS OR I WILL COME BACK AND HAUNT YOU AND THAT MEANS YOU MOM.
I was looking for something the other day. Some remnant of my past, a reminder of a life well-lived, a Best Of Suzy. In the process I found pieces of people I hadn't thought of in a long time.
I live-tweeted about the ex I found in one journal and what I found out about him on Google. I remembered him as the guy who rented a helicopter and flew me to Atlantic City, the guy who always tied me up with his neckties. Google remembered him much differently. And not as fondly.
Then I found this:
Jerry Rubin, founder of the Yippie Movement in the 60's and one of the infamous Chicago 8 was now legit and giving salons in New York City. I have no idea how we met but we obviously traveled in similar circles at some point in time. Whenever I was at one of his parties I would stare at him from across the room and think, "Holy crap, that guy WAS the 60's." I could never quite believe he was now the host of civil get-togethers for New Yorkers. He was and still is widely misquoted as the guy who said "Never trust anyone over 30."
Jerry died in 1994 after being hit by a car on Wilshire Blvd. here in Los Angeles.
I always thought what an unfitting death it was for someone who made such a large footprint within our counter-culture. In the days when people hit the barricades, walked the picket lines, cherry-bombed the police. He woke up the sleeping mediocrity that is suburbia and screamed Attention Must Be Paid. The Government Has It All Wrong. Stop The Madness We Want To Get Off.
And then he passed the hors d'oeuvres.