My father was a hippie. A sex-crazed, baby-booming, stateless, transient, hippie. He was like this for a great many years. On the outside, this was all that anyone could see: the hippie with the huge beard that lived in the school-bus and occasionally got free food and drinks from the locals by impersonating Che Guevara.

The school-bus. Damn. I remember that fucking school bus. It sat in the driveway of my childhood home for years. Eventually a tree would fall on it, rendering it inoperable and practically useless. The school bus went straight to the dump after that.

Something you should probably know about that school bus and my father: he lived in it for twelve years. He traveled everywhere in that bus as well. Multiple excursions South of the border, California, Arizona. It was quite simply another time, in another place, on a practically different planet than the one in which I have come into fruition.

I was born in 1992. My father was born in 1946. I am a millennial, and my strongest childhood memory is of the terrorist attacks on 9/11. My father is a Baby Boomer, and his parallel experience was when this world lost its greatest: the assassinations of Kennedy and King.

I can't begin to imagine what it must have been like. My father, before his school-bus days, was a student at the University of California Berkley in 1962. The year of the shit. He tells me stories about the Student Union and the protestors and Joan Baez and eating soup at the cafe while a hundred thousand motorcycle policemen descended upon the campus...