C O M M E N T S
From: Vladimir Sovetov
Here is amazon.com short review of the book
Fourteen young women who are daughters of self-styled counterculture
parents--commonly referred to as hippies--who "dropped out" of
society relate their yearnings and attempts to now fit in. The
writers' hope is not particularly to be conventional, but to
cultivate and live according to values different from those held by
their parents. Elizabeth She's piece is titled Free Love Ain't. In
it, she writes, "The cost of 'free love'? Self-esteem. Happiness."
Most of the pieces are no so regretful, however. Most of the authors
have mixed emotions--mainly distaste for their parents' values and
fond, or at least tender, memories and aspects of their childhood.
Occasionally an author has a comical perspective on the hippie life.
Easy reading, with barely any attempt at analysis or even mere
reflection, with the lively minds and honesty of the authors, the
pieces offer an often-fetching portrayal of a generational divide in
And review of the amazon.com visitor
Reviewer: supersurlygirl (see more about me) from
Plantation, FL United States
While the stories within the pages of Wild Child are absorbing and
often funny, I was slightly disappointed that the main focus was
growing up with hippie parents, instead of a broader range of
alternative lifestyles including punk parents and rock and roll
parents (like I had). The foreword by Moon Zappa is slightly
misleading in that regard (although I found it the most interesting
segment of the book!).
Don't get me wrong, though - it IS a fascinating read, and really
does offer every angle of growing up in a counterculture family -
sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bad. Just like every other
family, but goat's milk and your papa's band playing in the garage.
And now at last me, Vladimir, myself (Dec, 2000)
Thanks to generous Doctor John I've got the copy of the book and even read
one third of it once and Moon's foreword four times. So I think it's
enough to review it for you, fellow zappa-heads.
Listen. The book itself is a collection of memoirs of girls that were
born while they parents were on an acid trip or just blew marines by
platoons in a free-love anti-war frenzy. (You know, all these pot-heads
never gave birth to boys, so feminist editor shouldn't really bother about
opposite sex experience. God save the Queen).
Anyway, all these young and sublime creatures with pies instead of
pencils were without their written consent (which as we know is a
pre-requisite for baptizing or circumcision) brought up on natural-food
only diet in grass-reach Pennsylvania wilderness. Don't smile, you
misogynistic pigs, it's really traumatic.
And that's the main reason why Moon Zappa wrote a foreword to this
collection of a 'Calvin'-next-two-hitch-hikers' progeny' life stories.
She just feels like being the same helpless little one evilly used as a
pavlov's-dog in an unhappy anthropological experiment of her vanguard
but selfish parents. Take a five, sister.
Despite even the fact that "Were we hippies? My dad hated granola and
tofu. In fact, he willfully ate Hormeli chili from the can and
plump-when-you-cook-em' meat hot dogs, which he skewered on a fork and
cooked over an open gas burner on our kitchen stove, like a home-owning
hobo. No one was Oming in my house and pachouli and drugs were forbidden.
The pure hit of reality was the high we were riding."
But unrestricted life stream in and out Laurel Canyon had its own
"The men who visited us had patchy beards and bad posture and smelled
like B.O. Crouching in the nude near by playthings, they melted brightly
colored crayons and made candles out of old milk cartons. Everyone
seemed to be unwashed, musky and recently fucked. If they wore clothes,
they were flamboyant, mismatched garments with bright colors and crazy
patterns that clashed. On the men clothing always clung to the fleshy
parts of their bodies, and drooped and flared where there was hardly
any meat on their bones. The women wore tissue paper-thin kerchiefs or
dyed, crocheted, doilyesque halters that left nothing to imagination.
I have a vague memory of woman attempting to conceal large areolas with
black masking tape and colored Magic Marker."
So the impending revolt of the "rat-lab" daughter of barechest Frank and
barefoot Gail was sort of backward. She really craved for curfews and
strictly enforced family meals. She prayed for brown shoes and TV dinner
by the pool so to say. The regular suit with a pieces that match became
a life goal. Mother people me gotta go! Fuck off, pervert!
At first you are amazed by this turn! The Moon Unit of Uncle Frank, she is
just a typical tip-top member of modern polit correct condominium
of life writing foreword to a collection of the stale farts produced by
chicken-brains' indigestion of fishy ideas, you know, "I'm a dyke who
wants a children" or "The Beatles are still gods", etc. But giving it
a second thought you suddenly understand that Frank would be proud of
her. He definitely wanted his daughter to become "another person". And
she really is. And who gives the fuck if she is on Janis Joplin rather
then on Stravinsky as long as she is happy!
followed by Dr. John feedback
From: "John V. Scialli"
Subject: Re: Moon Zappa's foreword to Wild Child book
Yes, I saw it [Vlad's review:-] and thought it was
very good writing and quite true about
the book. I too have ambivalence
about all the whining going on
but see the book, perhaps, as a step
in the right direction to get finished with