Spider
New Romance, 1980
I always loved this song and had no idea the video even existed. Pity the audio isn’t so hot.
In the midst of all last week’s Woodstock rhapsodizing, this article stood out for me, but maybe that’s just because I’m another one of those who thinks Max’s farm was one of the most unpleasant places I could have imagined being in August, 1969:
All of a sudden people that fall were wearing Woodstock T-shirts and talking about how it had changed everything. Despite the fact men had landed on the Moon that year, the war in Vietnam was taking the lives of hundreds of American boys each week, there were civil rights riots in the cities, this singular event began to eclipse everything else — even to the extent that people would lie about being there.
Forty years on, I have no regrets that I took a pass on Woodstock and missed a chance to take part in the event that “defined a generation.” I feel no twinge of longing when I hear the song Woodstock, no urge to “get back to the garden.”
When I look at those pictures of young people blissfully swaying back and forth in a sea of mud, all I can do is shiver at the spectacle of it all and give thanks for having said no.
My aversion to Woodstock is probably not normal, but it is visceral. There was something about all those self-satisfied faces, glowing as if they had reached the pinnacle of human achievement by rolling around in the mud with thousands of like-minded individualists. When I think of Woodstock, I see a straight line from 1969 to today’s self-obsessed aging Boomers who continue to seek inner bliss and “growth” and will drive their BMWs anywhere, and spare no expense, to find it.
…is one of those points in my life from which I have very few pictures of myself. And I’m starting to see why.
I found this while pulling other yearbooks for an archival project at work. Once again, I am appalled to realize that my undergraduate years are now considered history.
For your amusement. The obligatory supermarket photos are here, by the way.
I’m way too tired, hot, sticky, and sunburned to compose actual sentences. At 11PM, it’s still 23° (although I saw 27° downtown) with 85% humidity. I would choose the nastiest heatwave of the summer for my visit, wouldn’t I?
Would it be an oversimplification to suggest that Canada is like the US with more attractive money and less bullshit?
But why is it that fresh produce in the supermarket is the only thing that isn’t metric and is still sold by the pound?
I could have this as the view from the parking deck every time I went to the grocery store:
The free wifi in my hotel hasn’t worked since I arrived, and per my conversations with other guests, the problem is apparently specific to my computer. But I noticed an ethernet port under the desk, and scurried over to Wal-Mart and Best Buy in search of an ethernet cable. I was not, however, willing to shell out twenty bucks, be it Canadian or US funds. On a whim, I popped into a thrift store on Queen Street and found one for a dollar in a basket of miscellaneous and otherwise useless computer parts. I love thrift stores.
I love Toronto, too, but that’s another post entirely.
Off to Toronto in the morning. I’m not sure how my very new camera will interact with my very old laptop, so you maybe shouldn’t expect photos till I get back to Pittsburgh on Saturday.
Thanks to all for the birthday wishes. I was sort of downplaying this year’s birthday. It’s pretty much impossible to look at age 45 as anything other than middle age, and I have to admit that it’s been bugging me just a little the past few weeks. Several times, I’ve found myself whining tonight and thinking “I don’t want to be 45.”
But let’s take another look. Between the little cancer episode of 2006 and that scary heart/thyroid thing in 2001, there were a few times in the past ten years when I wasn’t 100% certain I was going to make it to this point. On the more positive side, in the past few years I have also gotten within shouting distance of a master’s degree and at least the prospect of a career I can actually be proud of, become the co-owner of a house I love in a city I like, as well as a house I like in a city I love, and (best of all) spent nearly eight years with a boy who’s made me happier than I’ve ever been before.
From this perspective, middle age looks pretty damned good, huh? I’ve decided that I’m happy as a clam being 45, thank you.