50 years ago, I missed Woodstock, as I was six and played with woodblocks. Tonight, to mark the festival’s 50th Anniversary, we are back in the garden. By the time we got to Woodstock, we were half a sandwich strong. If I was around then, I think I’d be the one yelling “Damn, dirty hippies,” as I cringed at a woman with 6 feet of dreadlocks hiding Jeffrey Epstein’s madam in her hair causing the geriatric crowd in attendance to use their inhalers to combat her overpowering patchouli aroma. No need to stay away from the brown acid, as orange juice is enough acid dropped to warrant dropping the purple pill, Nexium. We are front row center, so if this was the real Woodstock, I’m sure I’d be plucked from behind the barricade by Joe Cocker’s roadie for some backstage orgy. I’ll settle for being here 50 years later sitting comfortably with an unobstructed view rather than slathering in some mud pit with Sunshine, Rainbow, and Porcupine. The tie-dye remains here, but as opposed to when I was a kid with a package of RIT dye, some rubber bands, and a tub; Chinese children counterparts are making the $40 versions in a sweatshop. In 50 years, the bathroom situation here hasn’t improved much except no one is picking through the overflow looking for magic mushrooms. As Ringo sings, All you need is love. Peace, love, and music.
Rubber Chicken 