Fu>k Woodstock!

“The first word in this song is discorporate

It means to leave your body“--Francis Vincent Zappa

You know, if I have to see, hear or read much more about the 40th anniversary of Woodstock, in the true tradition of Woodstock, I’m going to drink a fifth of Southern Comfort, drop a couple of hits of purple micro-dot and pass out next to the latrine trench right after I projectile vomit on that underage girl I was groping in public. Peace and love, man.

Cut me a break with the revisionist history. The vast majority of those kids wallowing away in the mud at Woodstock were there to take in a concert, not join any fledgling protest movement or protest anything of note. In my opinion, this single event perfectly encapsulates an entire generation of self-absorbed people who did not appreciate what they were handed by their forbearers, the quote/unquote, Greatest Generation.

While that WWII generation gave us sweat equity, blood, tears and made unending sacrifices, their self-absorbed children gave us rampant drug use, an explosion of sexually transmitted diseases, shacking up or divorce after divorce in lieu of proper parenting, record numbers of abortions and living by way of excessive credit when self-restraint and common sense were giddily dismissed as being horribly old-fashioned.

Or as they once so proudly and defiantly put it, Sex, Drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll!

Peace and love and flowers and beads and sex and drugs and more sex and more drugs and even more…Whoa! It wasn’t about changing the world. It wasn’t about protesting a war you’d most likely never get to participate in. No, it was mostly about getting that underage girl with the tie-dyed T-shirt sitting next to you at the love-in stoned enough and just drunk enough to have her sign off on her own deflowering. Real Clinton-esque stuff.

Is that your bongo, baby? Groovy. Like, far out, man.

Most disturbingly, these sorts of sad sots are in Congress today. You know, the ones that somehow managed not to overdose long ago. Yes, despite their youthful worship of the use of narcotics and hallucinogens and model glue and dried banana peels as some sort of twisted right of passage, now they sit on their lofty, insolated perches and prosecute the, ahem, War on Drugs.


Ah, Woodstock. Those were the days, man. They look kindly on those heady and defiant days (at least, the days they can actually recall) and rumble forth to gather at the remote site of one of their 40-year-old transgressions against sanity and civility. But yet, they’ll legislate your kid into a lengthy prison stay for daring to do even half as much.

The father's a Nazi in Congress today

The mother's a hooker somehwere in L.A.--Francis Vincent Zappa

If Woodstock were to break out today, I’m thinking the official response from those aged hippies in places of power would probably rival what happened at Waco, Texas a while back. Remember? Remember when 80 or so innocent people were burned to death simply because the aged hippies in power had a beef with only one of them? Remember that?

“Peace, love and vegetables.”--WILK’s Steve Corbett, 8-14-2009

Yeah! Peace, love and vegetables. That’s one of the newer refrains of a entire generation that realizes it was probably lucky to have survived it’s copious amounts of unhealthy, unseemly and unproductive excesses. Too old for sex without pills, too old for drugs and too old to clearly recall what happened when last they massed to orgy. Hippies, they proudly called themselves. The drug-addled folks so oft-prone to “living in the now” that gave us Charles Manson, a legend direct from the hippie communes.

Dreaming on cushions of velvet & satin

To music by magic by people that happen

To enter the world of a strange purple Jello

The dreams as they live them are all mellow yellow

--Excerpted from “Absolutely Free” by the Mothers of Invention
　
And as far as the musical acts that appeared at Woodstock go, for the most part they were overrated, over hyped after Woodstock and over-drugged when they probably should have been closer to sober…while on stage. To single one out, Jefferson Airplane is a perfect example of a bunch of kids that probably should have stuck with the music lessons a tad longer. Sorry kiddies, but a promiscuous slut with a great voice surrounded by amateurish musicians does not a legend make.

Mountain? Country Joe? Joe Cocker screaming and straining and wailing like a dying hyena with a spike stuck through it’s underbelly? It’s a wonder he didn’t have a stroke. Hendrix? Do we honestly believe he even remembered being there afterwards? For that matter, how many of the drug-addled concert-goers remember much more than puking into one of the latrine trenches, or making it with a complete stranger under a muddied blanket? Would Hendrix be idolized today if he had not killed himself before his intended changeover to recording jazz? Methinks not.

“Flower Power sucks.”--Francis Vincent Zappa

Anyway, I have no tolerance for the folks that think making a drug-crazed spectacle of oneself on a grand scale and en masse should be recalled so reverently. I have no tolerance for the celebration of such an embarrassing spectacle by the aged slackers, while their children and grandchildren shrug their shoulders and look stumped when any mention of D-Day is made.

By the time we got to Woodstock we were half a million strong?

Yeah, just like dad and the boys were when they flocked to Omaha Beach to take in a sustained chorus, a high-velocity instrumental courtesy of the lead-laden artists of all artists at that time…the German military.

Gimme an F!
Gimme a U!
Gimme a C!
Gimme a K!

What does that spell for Markie?

Fu>k Woodstock!

Later