Not long ago, I had a rather unfortunate audition for a major brand of chewing gum. I was being seen for the part of a falafel and, as I came to learn later, also a burrito. Confused? Yeah, I was too, but I figured I was okay because I was a half-hour early, a precaution I take in anticipation of just this sort of thing.
This is the 40th anniversary of Woodstock. 500,000 long-haired stoned members of my generation attended this three-day open air music festival. I was not one of them. While half a million rain soaked, bathroom deprived hippies grooved on three days of love and understanding, I was in LA bombarded by news updates on the Charles Manson murders.