Back in my day, there was no interwebs to go lookin’ fer someone to watch you while you tripped balls. You had to go at it alone, and pray to Lord Jesus himSELF that you didn’t accidentally talk to a tree for three and a half hours or eat out of a trashcan or tell a police officer that his job “didn’t really matter that much when you really think about it.” There weren’t no such thing as a gol durn “babysitter” when we were trippin’ on acid in the middle of Central Park, that’s for DAMN sure.