‎"If you are a child of the universe, how do you know who your father was?" -- Deepak, Jr.

 

I met a hippy, once.  She was all into free love, music of the spheres, macramé, patchouli oil, sort of greasy hair, bare feet with chipped nails, really hairy armpits and equally hairy legs, you know the really thick, black, hair, eating bean curd stuff with garbanzo beans and alfalfa sprouts, milking cantankerous goats, yoga, transcendental meditation, homemade candles in sand pots and the Grateful Dead.  Once, she looked up at the moon and said, “How does it put out all that light?”  It was then that I realized she was not a child of the universe, and I never did meet her father.