It was fifty years ago. Something happened in the universe. Jupiter got stupider or Saturn got smart, or Mars collided with some other stars, but whatever it was, it created a Cosmic Cowboy. A different kind of traveler. A storyteller that didn’t adhere to any established rules. An outcast, a societal misfit that just happened to gather with others cut from the same cloth. Drawn by cosmic energy focused on a specific spot on the globe. Like ants to a grain of sugar. Like bugs to a light bulb. Like cotton candy around the lips of the gods.

I don’t know all the facts and I refuse to be bound by the strict rules of journalistic integrity. I deal in rumor and folklore. Tales of the unknown and low class mystery. I’ll tell what I think I know, embellish for creative flair and glorify that which I know little about.

Because I wasn’t there, but I felt the energy as an infant. It affects me to this day. My mind was corrupted by the same big bang and has led me throughout my awkward life of waywardness. Searching for the collective of like minds in this vast world of round holes and square pegs.

I yearn for the type of comradery and shared intellectual being as they once had. A pack of wild wolves strangely drawn to the same pond. To drink from the same creative waters that would forge a new art form. Temporarily sustainable, legendary, and the power to shape a nation. Creating the seeds of sound and style that generations would feel forever in their souls. Souls that are sometimes completely unaware of its existence.

The Cowboys are still around, well, most of them anyway. They’ve agreed to get old and survive the chemicals and ignorance of their youth. Some used the popular drugs of their generation to experience expanded thought and consciousness while others kept their minds pure and un-enhanced, or unaltered. It was that social division that ultimately corrupted their world, causing the downfall of their temporary culture. The room was divided by users and non users, two different attitudes that didn’t mix. Unable to effectively communicate.

Like any spark of life, the creation must evolve by duplication and the original copy will eventually deteriorate, doomed to fade into cultural obscurity. It’s now only legend, with a few occasional elderly reunions in dimly lit rooms along the paths of its original trek. Giving new life to memories and memories giving new life.

The unofficial club of Cosmic Cowboys. There was never a membership jacket or dues to be paid. Membership only required some scribbles on random sheets and mindful floating ideas that became the anthems of a generation.

It was an original flame of creation that lasted as long as anything else of purity in a corrupt society. Giving birth to evolutionary marketing and fueling years of unchecked capitalism and greed. Branding a new, less friendly, but purely American ideal of badassery to blanket the nation with self indulgent worship for generations to follow. Even the icons were uncomfortable with the idea. It was a false identity. A farce. A delusion. It became the Outlaw era. And it’s influence is still corrupting our society and making tons of money.

But it’s important to note, the Outlaw craze was always just a marketing stunt that appealed to those who needed a self gratifying identity larger than their own life. To those that can grab on to a culture that makes them feel powerful. Like a pistol in hand or having a warning sticker on the back of a vehicle that seems to suggest their own vigilante justice is above the law. Proudly proclaimed that the vehicle is protected by Smith and Wesson. It isn’t true, but it’s empowering to pretend. A fantasy can create the same feeling of confidence as a flamboyant red sports jacket and a little hair gel.

Meanwhile the less aggressive original mantra of simply following your own path was mostly forgotten. It was less appealing for a mass frenzy. There were no poster boys. No gods of coolness to worship. They were just people. People that were a little odd. People whose intentions were never based on greed or wealth, but art. Simply art, in the form of music and words and a good time to be had.

I’m a straggler Cosmic Cowboy, lost in time. I’m not the only one. I can’t be.

I don’t have the resources to create a new generation of Cosmic Cowboys, and yes, it was financed. Someone had the space to create the universe. The dollars and clout to book the venue for experimental research. Motivated by just having a party and to see where it lead. To create a gathering of songwriter dorks and goofy artsy fartsies and push the record button to capture the moment in unlost time. It was a collaboration, unorganized and whimsical. Motivated by boredom and the desire to simply entertain themselves. I can only assume that some attempts were total flops, but surely led to successes. Eventually, the pot was stirred long enough and magic happened. The sugar caramelized. The dough rose.

I can only imagine what it was like to be there. To live in the moment of future nostalgia. I’ve had some relatable moments, but nothing that lasted. And nothing that was shared on such a massive scale. I assume they all were aware of what was happening when it was happening. I’m sure they knew they would be legends and revered as musical heroes. No, no they didn’t know.

The buildings that once provided the stages have all been torn down and replaced with corporate money generators. The music has been added to the vast ocean of noise on the internet, only to be discovered by a few curious cultural small town mindset historians. The lyrics have been integrated with our societal phrasing, the origin and actual meaning lost in the fuzziness of trend and now seems utterly meaningless. Cowboys, Hippies, Redneck Mothers?

But that creative spark still exists. There are places and gatherings that can be conducive to creating another wave of Cosmic Cowboys. The universe just has to align and focus on a specific spot on the globe. Again.

And I hope I’m there this time.