Long Live the Sixties

The sixties, as I so fondly recall, were as much about about color as they were about love and peace and fairness. Color abounded on t-shirts that if not designed to, came to irritate the hell out of the checkout generation. It played center stage in the saga of civil rights unleashed on a Brooklyn baseball diamond years earlier by Branch Rickey and Jackie Robinson.

Unmistakably color played out in the bedrooms, dorm rooms, and party rooms of the flower child generation. It pulsated in flashing lights wired to new found pre-electronic contraptions designed unwittingly to petrify the most forgiving Fire Marshall. Black lights (more purple than black), strobe lights, lava lamps and more beckoned the young to question authority, celebrate youth, and desire change. Light responded to music, to sound, to mood in mysterious bursts and glows. The chain reaction of electrical innovation led ultimately, and not unsurprisingly, to the Clapper, the quintessential rescue device for hippies gone to pasture.

That which was not electrical was pharmaceutical. Color which did not emanate through a chord, did with the pop of a pill, a chemical, or a drug. It was life described through a rainbow of psychedelic rapture.

And now as those revolutionaries of fad and facsimile become the uber population of assisted living it returns - color incarnate. The Apple store devotes a whole shelf to LCD color replaced by LED spectra. A rudimentary switch steps to the background as wifi, iPhone, and Internet step in to offer lights of yellow for wake up, of blue for calm, and purple to set the mood for love and rapture. $199 buys what hours of amateur electrical engineering effort struggled to perfect fifty years ago with electronic precision and certainty; the generation that yearned for it left too befuddled to understand, much less appreciate.

To be sure, the legacy goes further into the night. Boeing, not to be outdone by a bunch of Apple geeks and Phillips engineers is hot on the trail of this magical sixties color resurrection. It beckons air travelers aboard the newest 737 with softly sculpted mood lights for boarding, take-off, flight, landing, and leaving. Unsuspecting revenue generators sit calmed by slowly changing hues that mesmerize their senses into calmed obedience. Quiet transcends the flying tube as it hurtles through the atmosphere delivering its unsuspecting charges to their destination.

And so a small piece of the revolution lives on if only in the hearts and minds of the few still coherent enough to notice and drug free enough to remember.

Long live the sixties!

Thanksgiving Travels

Wednesday has come. A yellow taxi waits quietly in the dark of Hilo Lane. The driver reads quietly. His charges scurry about behind closed doors and windows wondering if he will arrive. Inexperienced at such things, we know not that a text message has proclaimed his arrival seven minutes earlier. It awaits attention on a Droid buried warmly between sweaters and shirts in a tightly packed bag.

The airport slowly awakens to the chaotic pace of pre-holiday travel. TSA sparkles with an air of family warmth for the early few ahead of the hoards sure to follow. Starbucks commands attention and presence beyond all else. Dozens await macchiatos, lattes, and roasted beans of choice. Bagels, croissants, and egg sandwiches move swiftly from shelf to out stretched hand. Calories and carbohydrates are of no consequence in the early morning hour.

20C and 20D await our arrival. Two twenty-somethings venturing home to Mom in Texas to my right. A Mom in waiting between Joanie and a matronly spinster gobbling down MacDonald’s fare atop an open tray table to her left. Our 737 lurches from full stop to unapologetic roar as it hurtles skyward toward Dallas.

Lunch waits at DFW, with nearly three hours to while away between flights. A smidgen of space in one carry-on beckons a trinket from an airport gift shop. Not needed. Not necessary. Not likely to be left behind.

Terminal C exudes old. It breathes 60's culture. It screams modern gone by, futuristic turned historic. Sky Train rescues the senses transporting us with awkward speed past Terminal E to the modern, majestic splendor of D - only presumably for Dallas. Restaurants, shops, services await the plastic finances of each traveler’s personal budget.

We explore the intertwining hallways, passing through the music generating maze to find our way to the Auld Irish Pub known only figuratively for age. A perfectly prepared and proportioned salad for me; delightful fish and chips for Joanie. Free wi-fi, a table on the rail near travelers shuffling by. Service which starts with a flair of friendly efficiency quickly turns like the remnants of a Texas dust storm. In no rush to deplete our three hour layover, we leave behind American Greenbacks and return to the pull of our pioneering instincts.

Joanie tolerates my desire to load the AA app on her iPhone to access an electronic boarding pass. Her look belies her inner most desire to resist reminding me that paper from the home HP works fine; card stock from the terminal kiosk better. Unbelievably, our first guess at a password works. One step away from triumph and a newfound adventure into the world of technology, my satisfaction and her skepticism collide in the reality between great idea and actual use at the gateway. That barcode concept which works flawlessly at Starbucks struggles, burps, and collapses in the hands of Texas Ticket Agent anxious to send her charges off to out of sight and out of mind. Her colleague waits unknowingly, preparing to enjoy a Thanksgiving feast with an opportunity ahead to redeem the system come Monday.