We here at my cousin’s website are marking the 50th-year, four-month, two-week anniversary of the Woodstock music festival.
He didn’t go. He was 11.
But I went. I was 17.
Now granted, few people are likely to be celebrating Woodstock this week, especially with Chanukah, Christmas, New Year’s and football going on. But if anybody is, we’re ready.
Speaking of football, Michigan (my dear alma mater) is going to play Alabama. It was bad enough that we lost to Ohio State and, a number of years ago, to Appalachian State, but now we’ve got to play Alabama. This is our reward? I’ll have to console myself with the thought that we have a better Art department, or something.
(Before I forget, please buy stuff from this website. My cousin could use a vacation. And he’ll be paying off the kid’s wedding for, at least, forever.)
But back to Woodstock.
I wrote a story that nobody wanted to publish about my many experiences sitting for several days or fewer in the middle of a crowd.
Yesterday, it occurred to me that the story would be perfect for this blog right now. I could just dump it here and who would be the wiser?
My wife sort of looked at me.
So, instead, let’s save some time: I’ll just give you the basics of every Woodstock story that’s ever been written.
Here they are:
- Everybody the writer knew was going.
- He or she left early enough to get there. (Remember, the traffic was lousy.)
- It rained.
- More people swam naked in the movie than in real life.
- There wasn’t much food.
- Santana was really good, especially the drummer.
- The writer didn’t stay for Hendrix.
That’s it.
Oh, and happy anniversary.