Stuck In The '60s

After reading the Adventure in Concertland, 2000, I feel compelled to submit this tale of Rock Concerts circa 1968. The music-fest I attended was in Northridge (California). I think it was my first one; I know it was my last one. It was held in a huge field. Although it was not Woodstock or Altamont, all concerts were held in fields. (I believe the trend was begun by those 4 moptops from England, as they were sometimes called - not by me.)

Anyway, we had to park what seemed like 40 miles away, but given my lifelong aversion to exercise, it may have been only several blocks. We were guided unerringly in the right direction by the huge cloud of cannabis hovering over the area.

This place was ringed by a chain-link fence and a long line of police outside, obviously there to keep the animals contained without any ugly confrontations. (However, I believe they were becoming giddy from the smoke as they were definitely "laid back.")

Note: Throughout this narrative you might notice my fondness for parentheses.

The bands were playing on what looked like a flimsy structure made of wood and PVC pipe. There were huge speakers that amplified the sound clear to Santa Barbara (which was fine with us, since the naked eye could only detect the groups as specks on the horizon). I don't remember what bands were on the bill, but it didn't really matter as we were there for "the scene."

Note: I also am fond of "quotation marks."

The field was littered with "flower children," and although I was wearing my bell-bottom uniform, I felt extremely out of place among the headbands, feathers and flowers, granny dresses and in some cases, no clothes at all.

Undeterred, we wandered through the crowd and bullied ourselves two seats on the bleachers (also several miles from the bandstand). This gave us a perfect position to observe the antics of the crowd, which after all, was what we came for.

On our left were four young men sitting on a blanket - two of which were passed out and two who were vomiting into their laps. (Yes -- your generation does not have a lock on vomit.) With them was a boy about 12 - his head bobbing and weaving and lips red-stained from cheap jug wine. (He seemed to be the only one able to hold his liquor.)

On our right was a first-aid tent and throughout the afternoon, semi-comatose (or dead) bodies were hauled in there due to some apparently ill effects from lysergic acid, or red, green, yellow, black or purple pills. (By the way, in those days - God, I promised myself I would not use that phrase - the drugs weren't named, but just identified with colors.) Now, you would think the police would be interested in this phenomenon, but they were still outside, bopping and swaying to the music. (See above.)

For the record, my participation in these activities was minimal - if you don't count my jug of cheap red wine.

Which brings up another unhappy aspect to my experience. About an hour after our arrival, I found myself seriously seeking respite from a rapidly filling bladder. Luckily, my bladder control was a lot better then, than now. (But I'm saving that story for an article for AARP.)

My search began. I left my highly sought-after perch and began wandering, ever more uncomfortable as time went on, through the crowd. Finally, I saw them. You guessed it - three porta-potties with a line that looked endless. Momentarily I forgot my pain with a rage against the stupid idiots that would only provide three - with a crowd of thousands. Maybe they didn't expect the turnout? Maybe more were ordered, but were needed for road construction? Or maybe it was some evil joke to be played on "those hippies." Well, since I wasn't even close to a hippie - just a music lover - I didn't get the joke.

I made the best of a bad situation, only occasionally skipping ahead of a bombed-out group ahead of me. I managed to make my way to within about 100 yards of the potties and even from that distance, I could smell the smell. Forthrightly, I carried on, trying to take my mind off my plight by watching girls and boys freely dancing to the speaker music and occasionally flinging off their clothes. Then, of course (as nature would have it), some of them were "doing it" on the grass. (Match that, Concert Boy!) But at that time, due to my situation, I couldn't have cared less. (In retrospect, I couldn't care less anyway.)

After what seemed like hours, it was finally my turn. I walked in - gagged - and walked out.


You're probably expecting a big finish and wondering at what point I wet my pants, or how many children were conceived that day, depending on your interests. Well, I made it back, pulled my friend away, and managed to shove my way through the gate. The constabulary were openly dancing with each other at this point. We found a gas station with a hand-painted sign: "Rest Rooms Only With Purchase Of Gas." I grabbed the attendant by the throat, forced him to give me the key (the little wimp), and relieved myself (inside the rest room). Then we went to Westwood to see the exclusive engagement of "Easy Rider." I enjoyed that.

I might write later on how I hate packaging that you can't open without a variety of tools; people who stand in front of you in check-out lines seemingly surprised that they might have to pay for this stuff at the last moment and then search for the exact change; folks who take up the whole aisle, moving at a snail's pace when you have 10 minutes to get this done and get to work; telemarketers; people who leave recorded messages on your answering machine; junk mail; people who solicit your money after the envelope says you have won something; pathetic Salvation Army Santas; TV commercials; anorexic movie stars; movie plots with 70-year-old men alluring 20-year-old girls; Wal-Mart greeters; movies that stop any semblance of a plot with a gratuitous sex act that has nothing to do with anything; magazines that tell you to go to page 33 - and you can't find page 33 because of the ads -- or I might not.