"It was fifty years ago today." I paraphrase them, but the Beatles weren't at Woodstock. But I was. A spry, music-loving eighteen-year-old from Western Kentucky. Even my hippy parents wanted to go, but being elderly and in their forties (how my perspective has changed) they stayed home on the commune. Music has always evoked my most treasured memories, along my souvenir panties collection.

I shelled out the $18 for a three-day pass for those glorious days of peace and love in upstate New York. Of course, in 1969, $18 could buy you a car and a luxurious double-wide. No event in my life captured my place in time like Woodstock. I still watch the documentary at least once each year and for those few hours, I feel reborn, alive with no help from a cane or meds. It's very bittersweet. Pete Townsend was right when he wrote about hoping to die before he gets old. If you've seen him lately you can easily understand his wishes.

Apparently, I took his lyrics to heart since dying young was my only retirement plan. That unfortunate decision led to my current all baloney and Pringles diet, although occasionally I splurge for generic saltines and Beanie Wienies. At least I'm keeping my weight down.

 It is said, "Music is the soundtrack of one's life." Woodstock has always been mine except for a brief dalliance with Nickleback. I've enjoyed the Woodstock soundtrack through every format: vinyl, 8-track, cassette, CD and now back to vinyl. Like me, all were eventually worn out from the rigors of life. The movie itself has gone from VHS  to DVD to now Blu Ray. Screw technology. 

It still amazes me how, with my failing memory from years of debauchery and drug abuse, I can still recall the most minute details of Woodstock. 1969 was an awesome year for memories, or so I'm told: the moon landing, Vietnam war, and its protests, bra-burning, which would never happen at 2019 prices, and that gargoyle, Nixon, in the White House. Also, Sharon Tate had been murdered by the infamous Manson family the week before the festival. I still remember vividly that August morning, climbing into a friend's VW van with epic Frank Frazzeta artwork front to back. My mother, Moonbeam,  had washed all my tie-dyed tee shirts using new Fab, now with lemon-fresh Borax. 

My four traveling companions and I were ecstatic for what surely lay ahead. With the sweet scent of Acapulco Gold wafting through the shag-carpeted van, we cranked the radio up and in succession heard Honky Tonk Women, Bad Moon Rising, Sweet Caroline ...bum bum bum... and Come Together. It was classic rock in real-time. While passing a joint and the time we went over the list of bands playing at our musical Valhalla: Jimi, the Who, Janis, CSN and the one I was desperate to see along with all music lovers, Sha Na Na. That Bowser, truly the voice of the Pepsi generation. I lamented that two of my favorites were not there: the Doors (even though I am a lesbian, I still found Jim Morrison dreamy) and the Archies. "Sugar Sugar" will always rank right up there with any crap Ludwig Van composed. So what if they're animated? So is Lucy Van Pelt and she's my role model.

We quenched our thirst with that new creation, Gatorade, and talked about the boob tube's most-watched programs like Laugh-In, Gunsmoke and Bonanza. Discussing Disney's Wonderful World of Color only depressed me since my household only had a twelve-inch black-and-white Zenith. Watching Hee Haw, Dolly's bodacious boobs overflowed the screen on all four sides. Impressive, actually. The movies of the day were also heavily western by nature; Wild Bunch, True Grit and Midnight Cowboy.

Finally, giddy with excitement and amphetamines, we pulled the overheating van into Bethel, New York, home of the festival. No, it wasn't really in Woodstock, NY. It was held at Max Yasgur's dairy farm in Bethel. Traffic was backed up for miles and moved at the pace of my grandmother on a Quaalude bender. The townspeople lined up, slack-jawed, to watch the freaks roll through, like a deleted scene from "Easy Rider." But they were wonderfully nice and welcoming to us, offering food and kindness to total strangers. I have never once forgotten that moment. After a long, long walk beneath threatening skies, we finally arrived at the site. Already cheap-ass hippies were tearing down chain-link fences for free admission. Assholes!

After milling about for an hour (during which I heard 127 "groovies" and only four "bummers"), the announcements began. The first being about some brown acid floating around that wasn't particularly good. I looked down at my recent purchase. Deciding it might not really be brown, more a burnt sienna, I took it happily. The opening Friday was primarily the most dreaded musicians of all, folk singers. Although Richie Havens did offer a rousing acoustic set. I tried to doze during the rest of the folkies but it's not easy to nap while tripping. I kept having visions of Spiro Agnew shaking his dick at me, saying, "It takes two hands to handle a Whopper," when actually it was more a White Castle slider.

When Ravi Shankar began playing the sitar I fled like the final girl in a slasher flick. The earth was a sea of mud. But, with 400,000 people here and only five Port-A-Potties, I could only hope it was mud. Arriving at my hillside tent as the heavy rain began, I noticed a lovely hippy chick drenched and shivering. Her brown perm by now hanging over her smooth, porcelain complexion, perky titties straining against her tie-dyed halter top and with a taut midriff I could eat a continental breakfast on. Her nipples were as hard as the rock that was to follow. Thinking only of her health and comfort, I invited her into my drooping tent.

Her name was Beansprout Lowenstern (a likely alias since what parents would name their daughter Lowenstern?) She quickly leaned in and began sucking on my neck like the lesbian daughter Dracula never mentions in public. "Oh, Beanie," I whimpered, the worst pillow talk ever. As her dainty hand squeezed my bra-less bosom boldly, she praised my alliteration before twisting my nipples as if looking for Zeppelin on the radio.  "Oh, Sproutie," I moaned, continuing my most impressive sweet talk. With my legs open and as inviting as a welcome mat, I came to my senses because seduction is my jam...or is it jelly? 

After quickly putting the "If the tent is a-reeking, don't come a-peeking" sign on the flap, we began chain-smoking reefer as if expecting Jerry Garcia to stop by for a hootenany. Then stripping her quickly, I lowered her Three Dog Night panties with the teeth I actually had back then,  revealing a bush hairier than Sly Stone's afro. Undeterred, I dove in through the undergrowth and began eating like the natives in "Cannibal Holocaust". She had a taste Gatorade could never reproduce...Damn it! She remained rather docile until my index finger slid between her clenched butt cheeks. At that point, she began to wail like Joe Cocker stepping on a nail. As my fingertip circled her rose, her wanton pleading caused our bumping and grinding to reach Biblical proportions. 

The tip of my tongue began to trace the alphabet over her clit. As I recall, I pinched a nerve while attempting "Q". But when I covered her gushing pussy with the mark of Zorro, all Hell broke loose. Her body began to buck as frenetic as a Keith Moon drum solo and I felt the Earth move, but not in a good way. Her gyrations had freed my tent from the mud. With her thighs gripping my face like hemostats locked onto a roach,  the tent, Beansprout and I began sliding through the muck like a redneck bobsled. She was screaming into the air. I was screaming into her pussy, mildly put off by the ensuing echo. Festival-goers were screaming in fright as they witnessed an out-of-control tent bearing down on them like a scene from a Corman B movie. 

Finally, our impromptu mode of transportation crashed into three slow-to-react potheads. Tossed aside, Beansprout and I staggered to our feet, naked and covered in mud, looking like an old-time minstrel act Trump enjoys so much. I was unscathed but she was so terrified she ran off with seven Hell's Angels and I never saw her again. I saved her panties but they have grown threadbare in 50 years. Much like my dreams. Tired from the budget flume ride I crawled into our still-steaming van and masturbated with a plastic replica of Nixon's nose. At least the SOB was good for something. He still looked like a crook but now a crook with a sinus condition.

Awakening Saturday morning, this was the day I had dreamed of! Rock and roll heaven. Today's lineup: Sly and the Family Stone, the Dead,  CCR, Janis, Santana and the Who, who played a 25-song set with the fierceness of a starving grizzly bear. I watched in awe at this perfect display of power rock that bordered on orgasmic. It was a magical day that I will carry to my awaiting grave. No one would forget it but, little did we realize what iconic moment was yet to come after many had surrendered to the weather and ran home like pussies. But first, I had to get through Sunday. 

Between thunderstorms, Joe Cocker claimed that day with his legendary cover of "With a Little From My Friends". The song was appropriate for obvious reasons: the festival was in no way prepared for such a huge crowd. There was no food, the sanitation literally stunk and traffic was still unbearable. But, the 400K pulled together and took care of one another. I am still as proud of that today as I was then. As Cocker staggered and twitched onstage I noticed many women of varying age, shape, and size began undressing. For some reason, the sight reminded me of the movie, "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly". With "ugly" deserving top billing.

Then came the surprise. Due to all the bad weather, bands were rescheduled for Monday morning. And not even Sha Na Na could compete with the Saint of the Stratocaster,  James Marshall Hendrix. I watched hypnotized as he played the iconic "Star-Spangled Banner" as it was never heard before or after. It was feral but cleansing. Truly a once-in-a-lifetime moment. Despite our unorthodox appearance and a fondness for cannabis, we were still as American as small-town USA. The Vietnam War and King and Kennedy assassinations had ripped this great land apart. Maybe, just maybe, music could heal it.

I later discovered that Hendrix was the highest-paid artist at a minuscule $18,000. Hell, now you couldn't watch Lady Gaga pee in the woods for that price...and believe me, I've tried.

As I ramble and recall my glory days, I spend too much time sadly reflecting on those artists who have preceded me into that rock and roll mortuary in the sky; Jimi, Janis, Jim, Keith, and Sonny. How in the Hell is Keith Richards not on that obituary page?  My optimism for music soothing our nation was very short-lived. The Altamont festival soon thereafter had a fan murdered by bikers serving as security. Probably Beansprout's beaus.
 
Will I live to see the fifty-first anniversary? I no longer care. Each day my loneliness surrounds me like a bitter, ghostly fog. I've outlived my usefulness much like Clint Howard. No complaints. I've had a good run. Relationships I thought would last...didn't. Ones I didn't want to last didn't either so here I sit alone with two cats named "Wood" and "Stock". All I have is the past. If I don't make it until next August ... well, maybe Jimi will give me guitar lessons behind the Pearly Gates. Or teach me how to play one with my dentures. 

Thanks to Vanessa and Anna for their encouragement as I wrote this.