I am house sitting for two hippies who are now, even now, 10 years younger than my own parents. He's a Harley man, she's a guitar player and sings too high for me. They are like a surrogate set of parents, and like my parents,
they love me even though they really don't know me.
I make myself a sandwich and pop a beer, spread out on the pull out couch and watch the Woodstock documentary, a two tape set. The first time I had seen it, I was in college and tripping. And now, I'm staring into a 30 year old fragment of American history, one my own parents missed out on.
I think the only performances I liked were Richie Havens and Jimi Hendrix. They were entranced by their guitars, almost possessed by them. Watching Jimi's face contort to the human sound of his guitar and Richie's stomping, leather-clad foot on the bare wood stage. The grain of the footage makes me think I'm watching Jonestown without the Kool-Aid.
The interviews with the kids were the weirdest part. OH yeah, well I'm balling him and all, but we're not a couple or anything. Hail to the revolution. People using the words cat, groovy, can you dig it, and you know. It seemed that the language of the young was just as vacuous then as it is now.
27, the magic age to die in 1969, I believe. The age of Joplin, Hendrix, and Morrison. Looking at these images now, they look a lot older than 27. They're ruddy, red faced and gruff, vintage. I wonder if I will look like that in 3 years. I doubt it.