Woodstock: Revisited

In my ongoing quest to be more adventurous, I left my UWS haven this weekend and set off for my country home. Technically, the place isn't exactly mine alone. I have a few roommates, a lovely middle-aged couple, a Tibetan Terrier, and a college student who comes and goes. Some might also refer to these individuals as my parents, sister, and Simon, my dog. I prefer to think of them as my Savings and Loan, drycleaners, and restaurant, all rolled into one.

But I'm getting off track here. My roommates and I decided to take a trip up to a deeper part of the country, Woodstock, NY. home of peace, love, and music. We heard that the place was a quaint little town, a bit hippie, but much cleaner and quieter than those 3 days back in '69. When we rolled into town, the first thing I noticed was the tie-dyed clothing stands. Everywhere. There was also a flea market, manned entirely by the '60's holdovers that were never able to find their way back home after dropping all that acid. It's official, the baby boomers are well into their AARP days. Walking sticks have replaced buffalo sandals--I'm guessing walkers won't be too far behind--and green tea has replaced the ganja...well, maybe I'm pushing it there.

At the flea market, I ran into Carl, who fits the above description to a t. Wearing his "vintage" tie-dyed tee and jeans, he was selling belt buckles. Not just any belt buckles, these things were pimped out. He kept pushing the butterfly buckle on me because, “don't all females like pretty butterflies?” The variety of buckles was astounding. Any Texan would be convulsing with joy to find such an assortment. From monogrammed buckles to American flags, peace signs to snakes, and even a Yankees one encrusted in "diamonds,” which Carl kept telling me to "take into the sun and admire the bling on that baby." I suddenly felt like I was getting a used car.

Sadly, we left Carl behind and continued through the market stalls. It was better than Costco. From drain pipes, to clothing, vintage Ike pins, to bronzed baby shoes and inspirational records, these people really combed through the depths of their dugout basements and laid out their finest in the trunks of their VW wagons. I could still make out faded "Don't blame me..." stickers on the bumper.

Though no one rolled around naked in mud, I'm happy to report the 60's are still alive and well (though they might have a few aches and pains now) and grooving to the same old tunes, but maybe with brand new hip or two.