Nozick's Utopia was therefore NOT "one perfect place for all." On the contrary, he makes it pellucidly clear that his idea of Universal Happiness is one in which "birds of a feather flock together," and even where individuals are perfectly free to opt out of one and choose another, as often happens in "religious communities" and the like. One might have agreed to live inside of Gandhi's Sobermati Ashram - but then, one might just decide otherwise and split, "like a bat outta Hell," and head down the streets of Ahmedabad singin', "Show me the way to the next Whisky Bar."
Of course, the poor chap would have to walk not just out of Ahmedabad's "Nutbush City Limits"; he would have to walk right out of Gujarat's Nutbush State Limits! - to Daman or Diu, or even all the way to Bombay.
This is because the Gujarat legislature has decided to impose Gandhi's Utopia on the entire province, and not confine it to Gandhi's own, Private Property, which is Sobermati Ashram.
So let's raise a toast to the late Robert Nozick - and his excellent IDEA of Utopianism for All.
Cannabliss delivers "mild euphoria" - which is "happiness." Thus, those who love smoking this Holy Herb flock together - as in Amsterdam, the "Marijuana Capital of the Free World," which is verily Europe's "Mecca for the Stoned." I bought a lovely t-shirt there that showed a very stoned-looking Jesus H Christ with plumes of thick smoke coming out of his mouth and nostrils, bearing the slogan: "Jesus Was A Hippie: AMSTERDAM."
Yeah - who else sang "make love, not war" but the good ol' hippies, now another of those "lost white tribes," who also "flocked together" in this vast Indian sub-continent wherever good cannabliss was freely available, like Goa, and Kathmandu, of course.
When I first visited Kathmandu they had a "Freak Street" where the menu cards of each restaurant read thus:
Tea
Hash Tea
Coffee
Hash Coffee
Omelette
Hash Omelette
and so on...
Far better than Amsterdam, if you ask me, this old "Mecca of the Hippies" USED TO BE.
The US-UN War on Drugs - and the consequent passage by the Indian Parliament of the Narcotics & Psychotropic Substances Act of 1984 - changed everything.
In the early 70s, good Afghani hash was cheap in Delhi - and good hash was everywhere in the nearby hills: Simla, Mussoorie, ANYWHERE.
Today, sadhus in Haridwar and Rishikesh have complained to me about not being able to obtain good quality cannabliss.
There is no Freak Street in Kathmandu anymore.
And as for Afghani charas...
Indeed, it's no longer easy to get good hash or even grass in Goa.
Thus, I once holidayed there with these German friends who, knowing well what Goa is all about, smuggled good Moroccan hash in with them. And so we had a great time, much of it spent reminiscing the good ol' days when the hippies roamed free in this, India's "sunshine state."
Utopia is Utopianism - I trust ALL will now agree - and since "birds of a feather" will do what they do, this means REPUBLICANISM.
Someone once told me he shifted to Singapore "because it is a great place to bring up children."
But hippies bring up their children DIFFERENTLY!
So we need a Republic for those who love the mild euphoria of cannabliss.
And I propose we call the place FeliCITY.
I further propose that the FeliCity Anthem should be Dylan's "Everybody MUST Get Stoned" - and if any suspicious-looking, unstoned STRANGERS are seen loitering around our City Limits, then our cops MUST FORCE the Holy Smoke of Peace upon them, with a Big Spliff in one hand, and a Big Gun in the other.
Peace.
FeliCITY.
Utopianism - for me and my kind.
Feel perfectly free to do the same for yourself - and if YOU ALL want to live in a place like NUTBUSH, do feel perfectly free to do so, so here are the lyrics, especially for YOU ALL:
NUTBUSH CITY LIMITS
TINA TURNER
1973
A church house, gin house,
A school house, outhouse,
On highway number nineteen,
The people keep the city clean,
They call it Nutbush, oh Nutbush,
They call it Nutbush City Limits.
Twenty-five is the speed limit.
Motorcycles not allowed in it.
You go to store on Friday.
You go to church on Sunday.
They call it Nutbush, oh Nutbush,
They call it Nutbush City Limits.
You go to the fields on weekdays.
And have a picnic on Labor Day.
You go to town on Saturday.
And go to church every Sunday.
They call it Nutbush, oh Nutbush,
They call it Nutbush City Limits.
No whiskey for sale.
If you get drunk - no bail.
Salt pork and molasses,
Is all you get in jail.
They call it Nutbush, oh Nutbush,
They call it Nutbush City Limits.
A little old town in Tennessee.
A quiet little community.
A one-horse town.
You have to watch what you're putting down.
In old Nutbush, oh Nutbush.
A school house, outhouse,
On highway number nineteen,
The people keep the city clean,
They call it Nutbush, oh Nutbush,
They call it Nutbush City Limits.
Twenty-five is the speed limit.
Motorcycles not allowed in it.
You go to store on Friday.
You go to church on Sunday.
They call it Nutbush, oh Nutbush,
They call it Nutbush City Limits.
You go to the fields on weekdays.
And have a picnic on Labor Day.
You go to town on Saturday.
And go to church every Sunday.
They call it Nutbush, oh Nutbush,
They call it Nutbush City Limits.
No whiskey for sale.
If you get drunk - no bail.
Salt pork and molasses,
Is all you get in jail.
They call it Nutbush, oh Nutbush,
They call it Nutbush City Limits.
A little old town in Tennessee.
A quiet little community.
A one-horse town.
You have to watch what you're putting down.
In old Nutbush, oh Nutbush.
In old Nutbush City Limits.
