Man on the moon

It was the height of the groovy-but-grim late ’60s, and the collective American consciousness seemed to have lapsed into a dizzy haze, like queasy riders on some psychedelic, psychotic merry-go-round.

In those days, war tore at the nation’s heart, its brutal images countered by flower-power armies. Our cultural aspirations seemed to soar on clouds of illicit smoke, even if miniskirts and music about magic carpet rides were as high as most people got. Everyone seemed eager to consider Timothy Leary’s advice to “turn on, tune in, drop out”—or at least watch wide-eyed as others did.

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