Well I hate to put the least great generation d-down, but I am now officially sick of Woodstock reminiscences. I now like Woodstock--or, rather, the idea of Woodstock--less than I did before, which was not at all.
Woodstock was a 3-day long gathering of slightly overgrown, spoiled adolescents who were members of the first g-g-generation of Americans to be excessively coddled by their parents, given too much money and comfort, and who, in what was undoubtedly one of their many attempts to escape responsibility, ran away from home for three days and then tried to justify their self indulgence by spouting platitudes about peace and love that were as sanctimonious as they were lacking in any real meaning.
In fact, I hold Dr. Spock personally responsible for the entire spectacle.
These people--as well as the rest of us--would have been better off back at home doing their chores, working hard, and being generally productive members of society.
And one of the worst things about it is that every ten years these now extremely overgrown adolescents, many of whom weren't even there (but somehow think they were), make a big s-s-sensation about it, and have somehow succeeded in convincing the most recent generation that it was some kind of great contribution to, ... well, something.
It's not quite clear.
Well, it's my generation too. And most of us not only weren't there, but don't particularly wish we were. So I'll be glad when the latest round of self-indulgent reminiscing just f-f-fades way.