Like many of my generation, my first contact with Woodstock came, not from my parent's psychedelic stories, but from the Sunday comics. To me Woodstock was nothing more than Snoopy's birdie buddy that couldn't fly a straight line from his nest to the top of the doghouse if his life depended on it. Woodstock always managed to end up in the water dish after a few loopy attempts at aviation. Which came first the festival or the egg? I don't know, but would like to find out.
             Not too much later, I learned of the first Woodstock Festival that took place out in Max's field. When people spoke of it, it was always cloaked in a strange reverential mystique. As if it were the most unique experience ever shared by those who loved music, loved peace and loved everything that sat still long enough. A pure "moment of Zen" in an otherwise chaotic and turbulent time. I wonder how many Porta-Johns they had?
             To me, Woodstock was THE once in a lifetime gathering, comparable only to the Sermon on the Mount. It was as legendary as the Round Table, and spoken of in the hushed tones reserved only for truly awe-inspiring experiences. When the 25th Anniversary Festival was announced I was very apprehensive. How could they attempt to capture that experience again? It seemed disrespectful that they were trying to duplicate the first adventure. The lightning had left the bottle and they were trying to put it back in.
             I didn't let it get to me too much, because I had neither the desire nor inclination to attend. I was working out of state at the time and the list of performers didn't excite me all that much. After it had come and gone, I was happy with my restraint. Woodstock II proved to be nothing more than a larger scale Pallooza du jour that bore little, if any, resemblance to the original cultural icon that had been built up in my mind. It was just a way for the promoters to stir up some business by using a brand name that had excellent recognition q...