On glorification

From: Laurence Shandy
To: Sen. Hillary Clinton, (D) New York
Re: Woodstock museum

Dear Sen. Clinton,

Laurence Shandy here. Normally I'm not one to agree with your colleague John McCain. I find his abrupt transformation from an Episcopalian to a Baptist both tasteless and pandering. Plus, I believe he may be an albino, and I've never trusted that thieving race. But I have to commend his condemnation of the Woodstock museum earmark you've tacked onto a health and education spending bill. Not that I'm against pork-barrel spending, mind you. How do you think I was able to get Ted Stevens to build me an Alaskan ice castle?

No, I'm simply against the idea of remembering Woodstock as anything other than a disgusting waste of time. Look, I know you're a former hippie. It's one of the things I like about you. You're a woman who's not afraid to wear a little bush. But it's time your generation came to its senses. I was there, you know. It was terrible. I still have a visceral gag reflex upon seeing the color brown. No one could tell you whether it was acid, mud, or a handful of some Grosse Pointe runaway's shit. Sure, I ate it anyway. And sure, I saw some things you wouldn't believe. But there is no amount of brain damage that could convince me a four hour guitar solo is a good idea.

I won't diminish the contributions of Mr. Hendrix or even Mr. Cocker, but please don't buy into the "seminal moment" marketing machine. That's the kind of revisionist history that sold us Woodstock '94. Aren't you forgetting that we also had to sit through acts like Sweetwater, The Incredible String Band, and Sha-Na-Na--the whole time with meningitis crawling all over our skin? And David Crosby? If I wanted to be taught the finer points of love from a mustachioed fat man, I'd rekindle my romance with Wilford Brimley. At least he could serve me up a bowl of warm oatmeal afterward, and I wouldn't have to fear the strips of cinnamon might actually be acid, mud, or poop.

Instead of spending a million of our taxpayer dollars on some tourist trap, why not just build a snowman out of your husband's fecal matter, wrap a headband around it, and plant a daisy in its head? Or, as Pete Townshend put it while beating Abbie Hoffman, fuck off.

Best wishes,
Laurence Shandy, gentleman