Lately, the most prevalent image is a coffeehouse here in St. Pete where my protagonist and his girlfriend frequent. Its run by two aging hippies, people I know all too well. Being born into Gen X (another term I fucking hate), the hippies are like any proceeding generation to the current brood: an archaic hindrance of eye rolling proportions.This is supposed to represent my pro's resentment of 1960's "originators" of rock. Oh yeah. I forgot to mention that he is a rock critic/journalist for a local indie music mag. Hippies probably feel the same way about me: utter contempt for disrespecting their inroads.
After all, rock n' roll (along with hippies and their parent's money) changed the world. You remember that, don't you? It was right about the time Nixon was reelected.
Anyhoo, since my pro is now a murder suspect (this is a pseudonoir story, mixed in with Nick Hornby male arrested development episodes) he has no interest in appearing in public, let alone in an establishment such as this, owned and operated by a couple who cannot wait to verbally savage him; more so for his album reviews than shroud of murder. Like I said, they are hippies. Murder is all relative if cultural criticism supersedes it.
I want to reveal more but this brief glimpse into the story bears the most fruit for me since I conjured up the novel over six months ago. Per my previous post, I just need to put it out there--even if no one reads this--just to confirm it exists. This post, and I guess the whole purpose of the blog for that matter, is analogous to the old "if a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it" parable. I just want this story to exist.
Even if it involves hippies.
"Mellow Yellow"-- Donovan
