Three days of hairy a-holes boring the t**s off of you.

Woodstock. Can we please stop fucking talking about Woodstock? When I was a teen in the 80s with a very murky but wistful sense of what the 60s were like (formed mostly by Time-Life Books, the Freedom Rock commercials, and stuff lying around in my parents’ attic), I thought it would have been sooo cool. But eventually I sorted the cultural wheat from the cultural chaff, and realized Woodstock was bullshit – everything I hate about festivals (and holy hungover bong-hitting SHATNER do I hate festivals), plus rain, acres of hair minus hair product, and a bunch of people who felt or came to feel that they were participating in something Rilly Rilly Important. It was a concert, people, with a couple of bright spots in a middling-to-terrible lineup, just like every other all-day outdoor music orgy ever in the history of ever, so can we please quit acting like it Changed The World, and just let it fucking GO?

Gleemonex fun fact: My parents tolerated my endless teenage fangirl prattling about the 60s – which they LIVED IN – quite gracefully. Then a couple of years before my dad died, the subject of Woodstock came up in conversation, and he goes, “Woodstock was for amateurs.”