The triumph and recent demise of the Doors Chat nudges a  bittersweet shadow from my memory banks...  It was sanctuary for me,  doubling as second home and vast unexplored wilderness.  Intriguing...

ASL... just because. Born: May 21, 1951. When my 19 year old son showed desperate, clueless mom how to break on through to the Doors Chat almost one year ago, I held my breath--  

I was a chatroom virgin (heheeee). My mind boggled, my eyes goggled! I had fallen down a cyber Rabbit Hole, cartwheeled backward in time, kerplopped into the nucleus of a combined Doors concert and Love-In... 

I had once yearned, but failed, to take part in the mass Haight-Ashbury exodus during the "Summer of Love" (1967), resigning myself to flourish on Flower Power within the pocket of hippies and beatniks inhabiting St. Louis' Gaslight Square. The tightly-knit neighborhood had long existed as a haven for writers, artists, and musicians, a self supporting community nurturing the creativity of Ginsberg and the like. 

Today, ghostly remnants remain, in the form of boarded-up buildings and decaying towers of dusty bricks. A reminder of the invasion of crime lords, pimps, and pushers... The ideals and fresh, boyant exhuberance of that decade had staled and brittled in my heart as well. But as I sat in front of my monitor in 1997, its virtual re-creation was literally at my fingertips-- 

Immediately, I was accosted by a CHEERing Typin Chimp66 and his poetic cohort, Cybermorrison. They fluffed my birdie feathers and invited me to break into song. Within minutes, I found myself opening up to a menagerie of imperfect strangers, just as I had so many years before... back when my boyfriend and I were known only as Jesus and Virgin (heheeee) Mary. Drinks, smokes, hugs, and kisses were being freely exchanged in this cyber 60s freakout, and I reeled in disbelief and deja-vous. An atmosphere of tranquil, childlike innocence prevailed, juxtaposed with an all out anarchy against regimentation, classification, and meeting "their" expectations... 

History was repeating! 

NEWS FLASH: January 14, 1967-- "The Gathering of the Tribes": 
The Human Be-In, Golden Gate Park, San Francisco. Be There! 

Most conspicuous and intoxicating was the 1997 presence of Jim Morrison. His essence permeated, weaving throughout the spontaneous electronic smatterings. He beckoned... and I was hooked, baby!  

Reunited, at last, with my tribal ghost disciple/shaman... He had serenaded the tender budding of my first love in '67, seared my soul with his fiery anguish at a concert in '68... and shattered my spirit when he said goodbye in '71. 

A "prophet" of his time, his attitude helped spawn yet another ceremony... taking place in San Francisco, on October 6, 1967 (the first anniversary of the illegalization of LSD). It was an "official" funeral, the "Death of Hippie Procession". The word symbolizing a beautiful movement toward free-thinking individuality and tolerance had gradually morphed into the ironic epitome of conformity and exploitation. 

But our heroes had not succumbed... Had they? Janis Joplin had proclaimed herself a beatnik from the start. Jimi Hendrix "waved his freak flag high". But, one by one, they fell... as mortals do.  

Yes, Jimmy-- We had become "a bunch of fucking slaves". Infiltrated by the plastic people... the MUTTS... we crumbled. 

Let us bow our heads... Then, let the ceremony begin--