Wow. Yet another spontaneous celebration last night. In lieu of live music we watched the 27 hours long Director’s orgy of Woodstock, followed by the concise Gimme Shelter. A whole night spent in the last months of the 1960s. Sure I’ve seen both a zillion times, but never as a sixty year old. Noticed: music was way loose back then. Way. Also, people were way thin back then. Way. And septuagenarians now were once beautiful hippies. Beautiful. And also: weed was less strong and people rolled enormous bombers. And also as well, fat naked people on LSD, though that was Gimme Shelter. (Note to self, avoid LSD, or least keep clothes on.) Thin gorgeous people on LSD in Woodstock, pulchritudinous even. (OK, you try spelling pulchritudinous on a hungover Sunday morning after a couple hours sleep.) And you can tell where all this paranoia came from, though people are infinitely more paranoid now than then. Still, the two dudes yelling about the government seeding the clouds, man, was perhaps the only part of either movie that seemed like today. Finally, the Jefferson Airplane were one awesome band in 1969. Seriously. The extended 98 hour cut of Woodstock gives them more songs than any other band, they were that good. Damn.

Off to loll about in the flowers. Acid, incense and balloons. Figuratively speaking. I can’t stand incense. Punk rockers, you know, we just don’t appreciate nothing.

Also, think I’ll stay away from red wine for a while.

If that cat don’t stop it man.

Lotta freaks.


Cisco Pike

Cisco Pike on TCM. The last time I saw this I was in a crowd full of hippies at the Wilshire Theatre in Fullerton, California. Weed smoke was in the air and Jerry Ford was in the White House. Kris Kristofferson is Cisco Pike. I believe Doug Sahm comes up somewhere, high as a kite. But then who wasn’t? He’s a poet, he’s a picker, Kris sings about Cisco, he’s a prophet and he’s a something, though what I can’t remember. That refrain has been going though my head since 1975, though that last something disappeared somewhere in the punk rock eighties. Three quarters of two couplets, hanging unresolved. Odd that it never bothered me enough to seek out that last he’s a. But it didn’t. As Kris sang it again on Turner Classic Movies I heard that final he’s a and thought a ha! Now I got it. But I didn’t. Within days it was he’s a something again. The three fourths quatrain has etched itself into my brain permanently. Let’s leave it. Kris has stopped singing now, instead is trying to sell a whole mess of marijuana. He’s not doing so well. He’s doing better that Harry Dean Stanton in the bath tub, though, who’s not looking so hot. And there’s Karen Black, Cisco’s old lady, who was in everything back then. Gene Hackman–it’s Gene Hackman Day on TCM, with this stuck between The Conversation and French Connection–is a cop gone bad, and he’s creepy and inexplicable and irritating all movie long.  Gene probably doesn’t watch this one a lot. There is a plot, one of those early seventies sort of plots full of hippies and rock’n’roll and jaded stoner wisdom, but far be it from me to give away the twists and turns. A cult picture, they call this. The hippies in the Wilshire Theatre snickered even then. I remember being thoroughly confused by the story. Let’s see if I still am.

Yup, I was.