The Cowsills In Books

Critical mass : four decades of essays, reviews, hand grenades, and hurrahs
by James Wolcott
Doubleday - 2013


Page 251:
You babies make me sick. To you youngsters, the seventies were some kind of joke, one long Brady Bunch flashback where white people disgraced themselves and a once great nation by adopting flared jeans, leisure suits, glitter pumps, and Farrah flips, and black folks were no better, with their rain-forest Afros, ruffled shirts, and clanking medallion necklaces. You sit in a window seat at Starbucks, "journaling" into your laptop and daydreaming about that cute blouse Carrie wore on Sex and the City, confident that the seventies are just TV and movie nostalgia fodder, their ugly hand-me-downs and sappy cheer good for a chuckle. But to those of us who were there, the seventies were anything but a Cowsills medley. They were mean, scruffy, ratty, riddled with lost illusions, and embittered from the lies and failures of the Vietnam War. . . .

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