Is there something wrong with me that I am not heartbroken that I did not spend my late teens and early twenties in a drug-addled stupor, covered in mud? It seems like not a good time.
And yet, we, as a culture, are gripped by this nostalgie, quite literally, de la boue. There are people who watch The Big Chill and are not nauseated. The media have, this weekend, engaged in a veritable love-in about the fortieth anniversary of Woodstock, and Ang Lee, never a stranger to the Zeitgeist impelling the self-hating bourgeoisie, has made a film about it. I don't remember the sixtieth anniversary of, say, D-Day getting this much press.
Look, it was a music festival. Big deal. It was also a symbol, but it was a symbol of something embarrassing--deliberate, extended, inane childishness, which has crippled at least two generations. Get over it, you daft bloody hippie.