The summer of 1969 was by far the most memorable of my life. It was the first time we heard of Charles Manson, hippie cult leader to a murderous bunch. It was the summer of finding my first real love and this weekend marks the 45th anniversary of Woodstock, the mother of all music festivals that changed everything. Monterey Pop was a precursor and Altamont came in December of 1969, fraught with murder and violence, but Woodstock proved that a half a million people could peacefully be together under less than ideal circumstances without incident.
My friends Bill and Tim, (not their real names), had managed to score a bunch of tickets to Woodstock. I convinced myself that I would be able to tolerate a few days under the August sun and a roof made of stars. I would be brave sleeping on the ground in a borrowed sleeping bag and would not mind having to step over a football field of stoned hippies to get to the nearest bathroom. NOT. Give me a real bed, a private, clean bathroom and a TV. That’s my idea of roughing it. The dream of going to Woodstock entertained my imagination, but I knew, even back then, it would have been a virtual nightmare for me. I gave my ticket to history to Toni Ann. Besides, I had decided to spend that summer in Ship Bottom on Long Beach Island. The bass player in my band had a family home there and he invited me down to work and perform at a coffeehouse he and some friends opened just for the summer.
I was at the coffeehouse every night, playing my songs and dining on cream cheese and olive sandwiches. I didn’t have a license, so I had no car. My mode of transportation was hitchhiking back and forth every night. I was a fearless teenager, but then again every other passing vehicle was not driven by a serial killer or sexual predator. They seem to lurk around every corner today. The people that picked me up were mostly nice hippies in vans reeking of pot, blasting their speakers with Jimi Hendrix and Cream. Then there were the pretty girls. I’d always invite them down to the coffeehouse. More times than not, they showed up and I was in my glory. There were some presumed weirdos that I encountered on the road, but I tend to believe they were more afraid of me. It was a great summer until one night I offered to drive an exceptionally pretty thing home. Remember- no car, no license, but a friend let me use his car. All was well and thrilling until I returned to the coffeehouse. I inadvertently parked his car in a private parking lot next to the place and it was well past the curfew for those under age 18 . As I got out of the car, from the corner of my eye, I saw the police car. It turned the corner towards me and the next thing I knew I had flashlights blinding me and was bombarded with a thousand questions. That ended my summer because the police called my parents who drove down to LBI in the middle of the night and they were not happy about this at all, especially my old man. The apple does not fall far from the tree (for those of you who know me well). When he went into one of his tirades there was no stopping him. I prayed for deafness.
By the time I returned to my hometown, Woodstock was over. Bill, Tim and Toni Ann recounted their experience at the festival of peace and love to me. True, it was 3 days of that, but it was also hot, crowded, and muddy and everyone was starving. They said they were so far away that the music sounded like it was being piped through a transistor radio. It took them endless hours to get there and get home and although they were part of the ages now for being there, it was, as I suspected, not as much fun as one would think unless you were in a continuous state of being high. Not going was one of the few good decisions I made in my youth. Driving without a license to impress a girl was not. Even though that boneheaded move was explainable, making sure no cops were around was not.
Peace Out.
My friends Bill and Tim, (not their real names), had managed to score a bunch of tickets to Woodstock. I convinced myself that I would be able to tolerate a few days under the August sun and a roof made of stars. I would be brave sleeping on the ground in a borrowed sleeping bag and would not mind having to step over a football field of stoned hippies to get to the nearest bathroom. NOT. Give me a real bed, a private, clean bathroom and a TV. That’s my idea of roughing it. The dream of going to Woodstock entertained my imagination, but I knew, even back then, it would have been a virtual nightmare for me. I gave my ticket to history to Toni Ann. Besides, I had decided to spend that summer in Ship Bottom on Long Beach Island. The bass player in my band had a family home there and he invited me down to work and perform at a coffeehouse he and some friends opened just for the summer.
I was at the coffeehouse every night, playing my songs and dining on cream cheese and olive sandwiches. I didn’t have a license, so I had no car. My mode of transportation was hitchhiking back and forth every night. I was a fearless teenager, but then again every other passing vehicle was not driven by a serial killer or sexual predator. They seem to lurk around every corner today. The people that picked me up were mostly nice hippies in vans reeking of pot, blasting their speakers with Jimi Hendrix and Cream. Then there were the pretty girls. I’d always invite them down to the coffeehouse. More times than not, they showed up and I was in my glory. There were some presumed weirdos that I encountered on the road, but I tend to believe they were more afraid of me. It was a great summer until one night I offered to drive an exceptionally pretty thing home. Remember- no car, no license, but a friend let me use his car. All was well and thrilling until I returned to the coffeehouse. I inadvertently parked his car in a private parking lot next to the place and it was well past the curfew for those under age 18 . As I got out of the car, from the corner of my eye, I saw the police car. It turned the corner towards me and the next thing I knew I had flashlights blinding me and was bombarded with a thousand questions. That ended my summer because the police called my parents who drove down to LBI in the middle of the night and they were not happy about this at all, especially my old man. The apple does not fall far from the tree (for those of you who know me well). When he went into one of his tirades there was no stopping him. I prayed for deafness.
By the time I returned to my hometown, Woodstock was over. Bill, Tim and Toni Ann recounted their experience at the festival of peace and love to me. True, it was 3 days of that, but it was also hot, crowded, and muddy and everyone was starving. They said they were so far away that the music sounded like it was being piped through a transistor radio. It took them endless hours to get there and get home and although they were part of the ages now for being there, it was, as I suspected, not as much fun as one would think unless you were in a continuous state of being high. Not going was one of the few good decisions I made in my youth. Driving without a license to impress a girl was not. Even though that boneheaded move was explainable, making sure no cops were around was not.
Peace Out.