All of the recent hoopla about the 40th anniversary of the Woodstock music festival in 1969 (if everyone who claimed to have been there were actually there, it would have required the entire state of New York to accommodate them) had me thinking about where I was in the “Summer of Love.” I don’t remember, except that I do remember feeling sad when Judy Garland died that summer (and unbeknownst to me, Gay Liberation’s “Bunker Hill”–the Stonewall riots–followed within days). The only person whom I
Go here to read the rest:
I Was Not at Woodstock


