Woodstock Revisited

In the Post today, I read about the new cultural center on old Yazgur's farm (or what was Yazgur's farm in 1969).

With the 40th anniversary of the Woodstock Festival on the horizon, I'm figuring that the townspeople of Bethel, NY, are making plans to "get it right" by this time next year when 60-year-olds like me show up for music, biblical rains, and c-rations dropped by helicopter onto our frayed blankets . . .

My thing, as it turns out, is Hendrix and that Monday morning anthem in the wee hours before we packed up, dug our VW squareback out of the mud, and got back on the road looking for a hot shower. It's always Hendrix. I want to set my computer on fire the way he incinerated his guitar. How fun would that be for a 60-year-old?

My friends and I drove all the way to Woodstock from Tucson, Arizona, where we spent a few weeks babysitting a monkey whose mom and dad were on vacation in the Canadian Rockies.

By the time they got back, the monkey was out of diapers and spent most of its time perched on the curtain rod whimpering like a baby left on a church doorstep. We tried to be loving and even fed "Maurice" miniature marshmallows one by one.

In all these years, I've never been back to Tucson. It's not the monkey, poor thing. You've heard people say, "Well, yes it's hot, but it's a dry heat." When it's 115 degrees, it's everything you imagined of hell, especially if you were raised Catholic.

One time it rained. Maybe the first week of August. A deluge that brought hundreds and hundreds of frogs out from the dusty riverbeds and up the driveway and around the perimeter of the house. If Hitchcock were around, he'd have another horror movie to make. Me, I'm scared enough as it is . . .