I was too young to be a hippie. They were creatures featured in Life Magazine, persons seen in Chicago's Old Town neighborhood. My hair was long by the end of senior year in high school because the Dean of Students, Elbert Smith, told me I was expelled until it was cut and both my dad and me resented this enough to refuse compliance, my readmission facilitated by the fact that I'd been doing volunteer work for the ACLU and knew a lot of willing attorneys. My first pair of bell bottoms weren't acquired until after Dad had his first suit with flaired slacks, a time when they'd become pretty standard. Never had a fringed jacket, wore beads or other jewelry.
I was, however, at age sixteen, somehow, both an existentialist and a neo-Marxist, a precinct captain for Eugene McCarthy and a member of the SDS, an anarcho-syndicalist and a YPSL. I'd tried pot, even smoked heroin, and discovered LSD etc. by the end of high school--the psychedelics making the other stuff seem boring, unchallenging, uninteresting.
In Park Ridge, Illinois "the counterculture" was a disparate group which originally I thought of a three groups, in each of which I had friends. The first were the radical-intellectuals: Marxists, democratic socialists, anarcho-syndicalists, New Lefties and the odd libertarian. The second were the artists. They called themselves, for a summer at least, "the Meek". The third were the wanna-be hippies who affected the attire, listened to acid rock, smoked pot and dropped acid. In addition to what became "us" by virtue of the general community's rejection of what they thought we stood for was a penumbra of other oddballs: closeted gays, Jesus freaks, wanna-be hipsters and this one deaf guy.
The sense of three groups was strong in 1968/69. By 1969/70, however, we were pretty much one group, each with our diverse tendencies, but all with a family feeling towards this amorphous minority, a feeling which extended beyond the borders of our suburb and the time of our lives.
I saw the Whole Earth Catalog as a hippie, commune-living type of publication, as somewhat silly maybe, but then some of my older friends were going off to communes or trying to establish experimental living organizations in Chicago. It was, like Brautigan, like Vonnegut, like Ginsberg, like Ramparts Magazine and C. Wright Mills, something you knew about, looked at, maybe read, something that a bibliophile like me had to own. So I got it--four buck in Old Town's Piper's Alley.