Woodstock in a Whirlwind ...page 4 "This is the kind of crap one expects in the local papers," Andrew might tell you. "I am reluctant to talk to local reporters about my tax work, for example, although the publicity would be great, but I'm afraid they'd get it so screwed up it would be worse than nothing. 'Cowboy' is just plain made up." Russ grew up in Philadelphia, worked in the South (U. S.) for a while. He heard about Woodstock as a groovy place, so he came over 7 years ago. "Where do you live?" "In a van." "How about in winter?" "I freeze." (He talked some about various orientations of van doors/windows to adjust for heat/ cold/ rain.) He was proud of being someone who "survived" there. And it paid: he got his picture featured in the media. Well, this is how journalists work. Preying on innocent people. Myself, among the first things I asked my hosts about were the weirdoes in town. Andrew said there always was a whole colony of artists. And yes, there were some colorful characters in Woodstock. Like Jogger John, who jogs all the time, or Tipi Bob, who lives by himself in a tiny cabin high in the mountains and doesn't have much to do with the townspeople. Or Rocky the Flamboyant who works here- and-there jobs. I felt a bit silly when Andrew commented to his wife, "She wants some colorful characters." "Oh!" Chloe said a bit weary. But what could a jetlagged journalist write about Woodstock when there is no "Woodstock" fever anymore? On top of it after finding there had actually been no Woodstock ever! My informed friends explained to me that the festival was to have originally taken place in this community that has long been an artist colony. The promoters had rented the area, printed tickets and begun promoting it, when local residents mounted a legal protest. And as a result Woodstock the festival never took place in Woodstock. The promoters ended up renting a field from a farmer named Max Yasgur in a community named White Lake, which was about 40 miles away from Woodstock. But they kept the name, maybe because they had already printed the poster, and as a result the festival, the records, the movie became known as Woodstock. So today, when the pilgrims go to touch the sacred ground of licentiousness, pulchritude, and rock and roll they come to this pleasant but quiet town which ended up with the best of all possible worlds. They avoided having their ground trampled by the 300,000 young people who lined up for hours at the port-a-johnies at White Lake, they avoided having their children exposed to the naked dancing liberated folk whirling in clouds of pot smoke. And at the same time they gained the Historical prestige of lending their name to the major consciousness shift of the 20th century, not to mention the opportunity to sell lots of T-shirts and coffee mugs. So I had come not to the site of Woodstock but to the place that had mistakenly become associated with the event, which in the era of virtual reality made a good deal of sense. A place discovered by children and invented by media. How wonderful. I didn't know what to write about a peaceful, quiet town where people go to work in shorts and slightly ironed shirts?! What new things could I tell?! Lucky for me my friend, Eminence Gris, dispelled my creative vacuum while I was whining about not finding the right angle on my story on Woodstock: "You should get away from reports and let your imagination loose. More gonzo, more bonzo. I am sure that will come. Ignore your audience. Write for yourself. But also remember, you are in a new universe: out there, just around the comer, there are follies and outrages and possibilities that lie beyond understanding. So take your time. Breathe slowly, but deeply. You are a machine that takes things in and gives things out. Sometimes you are trying to give things out faster than you take them in." So this is what I "gave out" of my whirlwind visit.