The film in my mind scrolls backward. A fast spin to those salad days. frames whiz by. Several months into the autumn of my freshman year at Briarcliff. 1969. A'blaze with color. Dazzling. Leafy, technicolor brilliance showcasing our blooming ingenuity. Fuchsia petals of our burgeoning sensuality fringed in shades of hot pink. Innocent. Expectant.
The evening sky turned purple as the cranberry colored Rolls Royce pulled into the circular drive outside Dow Hall. No heads turned. This was Briarcliff where long haired, nubile ingenues accessorized their Landlubber jeans with Capezio ballet flats, Pucci undies and Gucci belts circling slim hips.
Jorie and I walked gracefully onto the cockle shell driveway. Our Dior overnight bags carefully placed in the boot next to her uncle's Louis Vuitton luggage. We slid primly onto the back seat. Behind the glass partition. Sipping sparkling water from crystal flutes.
A sterling cigarette case slipped through the hinged pass-through. We smiled. Ten perfectly rolled joints sat neatly side by side. Carefully we lifted one and lit it with the silver lighter on the drop down mahogany tray. The sweet pungent blue grey smoke twined gracefully as we drew it deep into our lungs. Paused. Then exhaled. Our minds floated gently above the fray. Away from mid-terms and roommates and house mothers guarding our flowers with strictly enforced parietals. And rules upon rules defining staid and proper loco in parentis guidance.
The village beckoned. Greenwich Village. Where her uncle, Michael Butler, a tall tanned obscenely handsome polo playing producer from Oak Brook, Illinois awaited our arrival from our Westchester County college. His elegant, lanky girlfriend, the Vogue model Minnie Beard, prepared to introduce the young sophisticates to avant-garde, Studio 54, Andy Warhol New York.
The tribal love rock musical, the first of its genre, live on Broadway. A racially-integrated, counter-culture thumb to the nose aimed at ultra conservative industrial-military politicos wreaking havoc on our innocent, sybaritic selves. A societal revolution. My generation's multi-hued, irreverently staged hippie culture extravaganza replete with full frontal nudity, drug induced, anti-war, pot smoking, acid dropping not-trusting anyone over 30 effete intellectual snobs (to quote our illustrious Veep, Spiro). A psychedelic, theatrical be-in. No pigs allowed.