Harshing my own mellow

[Author note: the following entry should be prefaced with the word "alledgedly."]

It has often been noted (by me, anyway) that the older we get, the more legal our vices become. With parenthood, a mortgage, and (oh the shame) a minivan, the last remnants of your youthful fantasies of carrying on your cool anti-establishment abandon go up in smoke. And it ain't the kind you spray over with your mom's air freshener either.

Now the drugs we take to make us happy are not only legal, they're pushed by the evil corporations that you once swore you'd never abide. While we once sought out the newest freak to free our mind from the drudgery we knew, deep down, was our unavoidable fate, we now cadge uppers and downers from our doctors in order to stay productive at work and keep pace in the soul-crushing rat race that sends digital money to our bank accounts so that we can transfer it to our credit card companies and bill collectors.

Yet, is there any better anti-drug ad than seeing a bunch of aging California hippies?

For some reason I'm often reminded of an old New Yorker cartoon. One guy says to another "The problem with living longer is that all the extra years come at the end, when you're old."