I almost got kicked out of a diner once for trying to order a Jim Beam milkshake with my breakfast. The waitress said it violated “company policy.” I said it violated my taste buds to drink anything without a little rebellion in it. We settled on a root beer float and a mutual understanding that rules are only flexible when the manager’s on break.
Which brings me to Alaska.
Whoever is running this country must be on a break. This Friday, two men—one a convicted felon, and one wanted in 125 countries for war crimes—will meet at a Hotel in Alaska to discuss peace, war, and possibly who gets custody of Crimea. Donald Trump, who is the only U.S. President with felony convictions, will host Vladimir Putin, a man wanted by the International Criminal Court for abducting Ukrainian children. He is wanted in 125 Countries, while Donald Trump is unwanted everywhere he goes.
Now, before you ask, “How is this legal?”—let me remind you: the United States isn’t part of the ICC. We opted out, presumably to keep our own war crimes tidy and domestic. So while 125 countries would slap cuffs on Putin faster than you can say “borscht,” Alaska rolls out the welcome mat. Probably one with a bear on it.
I imagine the summit will be held in a Bail and Breakfast place, with moose jerky appetizers and a ceremonial exchange of MAGA hats and Kremlin lapel pins. Trump will declare peace in our time, Putin will drink Vodka and nod solemnly, and somewhere in The Hague, a judge will throw a gavel at the wall. Or maybe one of Putin’s political opponents will vigorously protest by “accidentally” throwing himself off a 30th-floor balcony.
This is not diplomacy. It’s dinner theater.
And yet, there’s something heartbreakingly American about it. We love a good outlaw. Jesse James. Al Capone. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, not to mention the guy who invented the McRib. We don’t mind criminality as long as it comes with a slogan and a side of fries. Trump and Putin are just the latest duo in our long tradition of “bad boys with branding.”
But here’s the rub: this isn’t a sitcom. It’s real. Ukraine is bleeding. Children have been taken. Democracy is being bartered like a used snowmobile. And while the rest of the world tightens its grip on justice, we’re hosting a summit meeting between two known criminals. The only result anyone expects is for Putin and Trump to issue a joint nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize—submitted in black Sharpie and sealed with a vodka stain.
I woke up not on a cushiony cloud of air but with a hardwood frame pressing against my arthritic hip. That’s to be expected occasionally from air beds, though, so I just rolled out of bed and looked for my air bed repair kit. While I wandered around the house looking for my repair kit, I recalled a fond memory.
It was 1980, and my marriage was on the rocks. We had been separated for three years, and Ginny wanted a divorce. I hesitated, and she sweetened the deal: “Sign the divorce papers, and I’ll take you on vacation to Jamaica.” I asked only one question: “Does the hotel have a pool?” She said yes. I signed.
Now, this wasn’t just about tropical leisure. I had a mission. The king-sized airbed I slept on back then had recently sprung a leak, and every morning I woke up on hardwood instead of a heavenly cushion of air. I’d tried everything—soap bubbles, flashlight tests, even listening for whispers of escaping air. Nothing worked. I couldn’t find the leak, and if I couldn’t find it, I couldn’t fix it. But I had a plan: if I could get that bed into a pool, I could find the leak.
So I stuffed the deflated bed and a bathing suit into my suitcase and flew it to the Caribbean with Ginny.
Once we arrived, I inflated the beast and floated it in the hotel pool like a proud inventor testing his prototype. And there it was: the elusive leak, bubbling up like a confession. I patched it, let it dry, and suddenly we had a giant floating mattress perfect for ocean paddling. We spent the entire week drifting, laughing, and—somehow—rediscovering a spark. We even had sex regularly, which was more than we managed during the actual marriage.
We didn’t reconcile, but we did become friendly again. Divorce papers were still signed, but now we had a shared fresh memory of good times.
We were staying at a resort in Ocho Rios, the kind with orange rooftops, endless rum punch, and a view of a tiny offshore island crowned with a stone turret and three cabanas that looked like they’d been designed by a romantic pirate. Tower Isle, they called it. Clothing optional, they whispered.
We didn’t have a boat, but we had a big red airbed—tufted like a Victorian fainting couch and twice as ridiculous. We launched from the beach with the grace of two determined manatees, paddling with our hands and a sense of purpose that bordered on delusional.
The water was warm, the sun forgiving, and the raft surprisingly cooperative. Locals waved. Somewhere along the way, we invented synchronized paddling and declared ourselves the champions at it. We laughed so hard we nearly capsized.
Tower Isle loomed closer. The cabanas stood like sentinels. The tower watched us approach, unimpressed. We didn’t storm the beach so much as gently bump into it, while waving sheepishly at a couple who were decidedly less clothed than we were.
We didn’t stay long. Just long enough to say we’d been there, to feel the thrill of the forbidden, and to paddle back with sun-kissed shoulders and a story that would make us laugh for years.
Then came the airport.
Customs took one look at my deflated bed and raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?” “An airbed,” I said. “I brought it here to fix a leak.” They weren’t buying it. They wanted me to cut it open. “No way,” I said. “This bed and I have been through too much.” They insisted. I refused. I suggested drug-sniffing dogs. That’s when I felt a kick.
My ex-wife, now nervously jabbing me in the shin, whispered, “Just let them have it.” “No,” I said. “This is my bed. I love it. It’s finally not leaking. I’m not leaving it.” She kicked harder.
Eventually, customs gave up. They felt the bed, deemed it empty, and let us board. On the plane, I turned to her and asked, “Why were you kicking me?” She confessed that she had two ounces of pot tucked into her bra and was terrified the dogs would sniff her out. I was defending my mattress like a knight guarding a castle, while she was praying the hounds wouldn’t sniff her stash.
I laughed. She didn’t.
And that, dear reader, was my divorceamoon in Jamaica: a week of patching things—beds and relationships. I came home with a fixed airbed, a friendlier ex-wife, and a story that’s been floating around ever since.
Her birthday was last week, but I didn’t send her a card, because I don’t know where she lives. I haven’t heard from her in over a decade, but I still remember that the best vacation of my life was on our Divorceamoon.
We were taught to respect him. He wore a tie to breakfast. He had opinions on everything from foreign policy to potato salad. He shook his head at protests, praised moderation, and told stories where he was always the hero.
He was The Adult in the Room.
He built systems that favored the seasoned and the serious. He spoke in spreadsheets and nostalgia, mistaking legacy for wisdom. He said youth should “wait their turn,” even as the clock ticked toward irreversible climate change, social fracture, and another news cycle full of grief.
When the world caught fire, The Adult offered a lecture. When the oceans rose, he proposed a committee. When children cried out in fear or fury, he complimented their passion… and resumed business as usual.
But then something shifted.
It started small—barely audible under the weight of legacy. A 14-year-old refused to buy another plastic bottle. A class of 10-year-olds planted trees where asphalt had smothered their playground. Teens organized online, flooding streets not with rage, but with resolve. No party lines. No lobbyists. Just clarity.
They didn’t shout down The Adult. They simply stopped listening. They acted instead.
And it wasn’t the first time.
Youth had moved mountains before:
In the 1960s, college students rode buses into segregated towns and risked their lives to register voters.
In Soweto, 1976, students stood up to apartheid and faced down bullets so future generations might breathe freer air.
During the Arab Spring, youth ignited democratic sparks with nothing but hope and handheld devices.
After Parkland, high schoolers led marches that rattled Capitol steps and dinner table conversations across America.
Greta Thunberg sat alone—then inspired millions.
And in Uganda, young community reporters taught us that poverty isn’t hopeless if you let voices rise from the ground up.
They weren’t waiting for the world to be better. They were making it so.
The Adult in the room realized that if the world were a house on fire, youth weren’t fleeing through the exits—they were grabbing the hoses. They weren’t reckless; they were relentless. They weren’t naïve; they were awake. Where others saw smoke and chaos, they saw a chance to rebuild. They didn’t wait for permission to act—they became the response.
In boardrooms and parliaments, The Adult kept raising his hand. But votes no longer waited for him. In classrooms and studios, youth painted visions that didn’t center on him. On social media and city squares, they chanted not for power, but for possibility. They didn’t ask permission. They asked what’s next.
And gradually, The Adult in the Room grew quieter.
Not out of defeat, but recognition.
One day, at a summit meant to “restore order,” the Adult arrived early. He sat, tie knotted, notes prepped. But when the session began, something was different.
The chairs were filled with young voices. The agenda had changed. And for once… He chose to listen.
The Adult in the Room saw business opportunities, but not the damage those businesses brought to society. A fresh, altruistic approach is the only way forward—and that must come from the youth. It was young protesters who helped end the war in Vietnam. It is youth who helped end apartheid, who demanded civil rights, who called out for justice from Tunisia to Tallahassee. Now, youth movements can get us back on track to saving the planet, and saving ourselves.
“Come mothers and fathers Throughout the land And don’t criticize What you can’t understand Your sons and your daughters Are beyond your command Your old road is rapidly agin’ Please get out of the new one If you can’t lend your hand For the times they are a-changin'” – Bob Dylan
There’s a certain kind of courage that doesn’t come with a cape or a podium. It comes quietly, in the form of a resignation letter and a warning. Sarah Matthews didn’t shout. On January 6th, 2021, she simply stepped away—and pointed toward the storm.
Back in the waning days of the Trump administration, Matthews, then deputy press secretary, made a prediction that many dismissed as dramatic. She warned that if Trump returned to power, the second term wouldn’t be staffed by seasoned professionals or principled dissenters. It would be a loyalty test. And the only passing grade would be blind devotion.
Fast forward, and her forecast reads like a script. Cabinet picks with résumés built on cable news appearances. Health officials who treat science like a suggestion. Intelligence leaders who think nuance is for the weak. Matthews didn’t name names—but the names filled themselves in.
And now, the Epstein files have cracked open a new chapter. Trump’s name, redacted and then revealed, has stirred unease even among his most ardent supporters. The man who once promised transparency now finds himself dodging questions about flights, friendships, and fallout. The MAGA faithful—some of them—are beginning to ask: What did we miss?
Here’s where the story takes a turn. Not into mockery. Not into smugness. But into grace.
To those who are seeing the light—not because they were forced, but because they chose to look—we say: Welcome. It’s not easy to admit you were wrong. It’s even harder to change course when the crowd is still marching. But history doesn’t reward stubbornness. It rewards reflection.
Matthews didn’t just leave the room. She lit a lantern on the way out. And now, as more people follow that glow, we have a chance to do something rare in politics: forgive.
Not forget. Not excuse. But forgive.
Because if democracy is to survive the storms, it needs more than warnings. It needs bridges. And if those bridges are built by former MAGA supporters who now stand for truth, then let’s walk across them together.
Matthews saw the storm coming. She told us. And now, as the clouds begin to part, maybe we can all agree: it’s time to build something better.
The time has come to stop mocking the victims—whether young lives scarred by abuse or loyal souls deceived by false hope—and start healing the wounds left by a leader who never deserved their trust. Take a pass on the Kool-Aid, and enjoy a refreshing drink from the fountain of truth. Cheers!
When Brother X—known in legal circles as Donald—turned 75, he didn’t ask for much: just a day at the ballpark with 50 people who mattered. For a man whose influence spreads through family trees, Lions Club meetings, and neighborhood barbecue debates, this was no ordinary birthday. This was a coronation.
But before the crown and sash came the journey. Since his family frowns on him taking long road trips alone, Donald and his daughter Beth arrived in Lancaster Thursday night so they could pick me up Friday morning and avoid a round-trip marathon in one day. Beth, a cop, rode up front. I climbed into the back—on the right side. I stand facing the road and back into the seat. Then I push myself as far into the vehicle as possible with my good right leg. I hit an obstruction, an arm rest, so I raised it and pushed again. Success, so, I swiveled to adjust myself into the seat and I was ready to go.
“Where’s that coffee you promised?” I asked.
“In the armrest,” he said.
Oops. I pulled the arm rest down, only to discover that half the cup had already christened the upholstery. Auspicious beginnings as Jack Nicholson said in the movie Five Easy Pieces. Brother X cleaned up the mess, and I laughed and ate the bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, which he also provided. We took the slow but scenic route out of town and had clear sailing until we got to New York—specifically, the Belt Parkway, which transformed into a parking lot with signage.
Beth, ever the navigator, detoured us through Flatlands, where she had worked when she first joined the N.Y.P.D. Traffic still crawled, but at least it was scenic. We finally reached Seaford just shy of 3 p.m.
With our concert plans for the evening canceled, Donald asked me what I wanted to do. I’d never seen Ted Lasso but had heard enough to know it might be the perfect show to binge-watch in whiskey-soaked solidarity. Donald had already seen all three seasons—but gladly rewatched them with me.
We binged season one. We cracked open the Jack Daniels he bought for my birthday in August. It was classic Paulson bonding.
Saturday was Game Day. Brother X removed the baby seat from the car, added his late wife’s rollator for me, and Kathleen (his girlfriend, who he met in Iceland in January) and Beth joined us for the ride to Commack. That ballpark is special to him because one year when he was named one of the six Seaford Patriots, for his work in the community, one of the perks was throwing out the first ball at the Commack stadium. At the ballpark, we joined 47 of Donald’s friends and family. (One missed due to illness.) They handed him a sash: “Happy 75th Birthday” and crowned him with a metal tiara marked with a bold 75. When it looked like a thunderstorm might pass by, I encouraged him to take off the metal crown he was wearing and hold it up high in the air. Sarcasm is also part of the classic Paulson bonding.
Many of his friends were also turning 75, so Donald paid for their names to appear on the jumbotron after the second inning. It was festive, chaotic, and beautiful—even if the Ducks lost 7–2 to the Dirty Birds.
For Sunday, Donald had arranged a memorial mass for our late brother Kevin, a gay police captain and columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, who would have been celebrating his 67th birthday that day. Kevin wrote eloquently about his life with partner Brian and their adopted sons—Zane, who danced too close to the law, and Aidan, a shy, quiet soul now making his way through college. Kevin once said he took inspiration from former Chronicle columnist Mark Twain, who warned, “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.” I think Kevin held a higher rank than Captain, but I, too, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
As an atheist, I was lovingly excused from church. Instead, I slept in and later, X and I taught Kathleen how to play pinochle. After she took all our money, we went back to our Ted Lasso marathon.
Kathleen bought me two big bottles of Moscato Sangria. On Monday, we drank wine, ate Chinese takeout, played more cards, and finished season two of Lasso. It was comforting, light, and full of laughter.
On Tuesday, Don and I visited my best friend John, now undergoing chemotherapy. His body had shrunk, but his wit hadn’t. We joked, talked Yankees, and filled his “recovery room” with laughter. It was the kind of visit that sticks to your ribs, even more than the sauerbraten we ate later at Das Bierstube, which I call “Das Digs” combining the old and new names of the bar/restaurant.
My mother’s sauerbraten was the stuff of legend, even outshining what I once tasted in Germany. So we go out for sauerbraten not for flavor, but for ritual: to remember her, to compare notes, and to declare—again and again—that no chef measures up.
That evening, we had hibachi at D.J.’s house. I was too full to eat but not too full to drink. We sipped beers while Cooper and Chloe ran wild in the backyard, turning it into a small summer paradise.
Back in Seaford, Donald and Kathleen went to bed, but I stayed up until 4 a.m. finishing Ted Lasso. I needed that final episode. I needed to feel what Coach Lasso felt when the journalist handed him the book: The Lasso Way.
But Ted had it right. He renamed it The Richmond Way. Because it wasn’t about him. It was about all of them.
We left Seaford at 10 a.m. and arrived in Lancaster by 2. Kathleen treated us to cheesesteaks and a hamburger from the shop across from my house. Then she and Donald went to their hotel for a swim and some sleep before heading back to New York.
The Seaford Way is not about Donald alone. It’s about Beth, with her grit and grace. It’s about Kathleen, who learns card games and brings sangria and cheesesteaks. It’s about Kevin, who kept stories alive, even beyond truth. It’s about John and DJ, Stacy and Cooper, Chloe and sauerbraten—and yes, it’s about me, too.
But mostly, it’s about the people who show up. It’s about how Coach Lasso said goodbye—not with ego, but with love.
When the Guadalupe River swallowed Camp Mystic whole, it wasn’t just water that filled the cabins. It was silence. A Christian summer camp for girls, nestled in Texas Hill Country, where faith was supposed to be a shield—and where 27 young lives were lost while sleeping. The sirens never came. Because Kerr County didn’t have them.
This wasn’t an act of God. It was an act of neglect.
This camp, this tragedy, didn’t happen in a marginalized zip code. The girls were mostly white. Likely the daughters of conservative parents who voted for the very administration that defunded meteorologists, weakened FEMA, and redirected public safety funds toward border detention projects with crocodilian nicknames.
It’s cruel irony. But it’s also consequence.
When a government dismisses science, cuts funding to NOAA, lays off weather experts, and calls climate change a hoax, nature doesn’t discriminate. It strikes, and when our infrastructure is hollowed out, even the privileged suffer. The floodwaters in Kerr County didn’t pause to ask political affiliation. But the policies that failed to prevent this disaster were built by one.
Meanwhile, in Chicago, flash floods inundated Black and Latino neighborhoods with decades-old drainage systems. In New Mexico, monsoons cascaded over wildfire burn scars, catching children in rivers that weren’t supposed to rise. The message? Climate doesn’t care who you vote for. But our response does.
Republican lawmakers continue to fight climate legislation while oil lobbyists write their fundraising checks. Denial isn’t just ideological—it’s lethal. Especially for the young, the poor, and yes, even for those who believe they’re protected by faith or legacy.
We’re all up the creek. But only some of us were handed a paddle.
I debated with myself whether I should write this article or not. It’s not a pleasant subject, but it does contain a valuable lesson, so I’m going to write it. I’ll try not to be too crude and I’ll keep it as brief as possible.
Several months ago I watched a show about Fascism under Mussolini. He would round up his enemies and opponents and have them marched across town. Then he would make them drink a cup of castor bean oil and march them back across town. Invariable the laxative effect of the castor oil would make them soil their pants as they walked, and they had to walk all the way across town like that. I got two things out of this video. One, dictators are sadistic and cruel. Two, Castor Bean Oil is a powerful laxative.
Since I occasionally suffer from constipation. I decided to order a bottle of it. To qualify for free shipping, I ordered 2 bottles and a rechargeable portable hand-held mini bidet. I figured the two products could both come in handy if I ever needed them.
I realized today that I hadn’t had a bowel movement in days. I was worried and I decided it was finally time to try the Castor Bean Oil treatment. I took a big gulp of it and 15 minutes later the blockage was easily eliminated without the moaning and groaning, grunting, and rapid breathing that usually accompany multi-day bowel movements. Mission Accomplished.
But, similar to George W. Bush’s mission, it was not yet complete. I had to hover in or near the bathroom for the next five hours in what I can only describe as a Colonoscopy prep without the green Gatorade.
So, what did I learn? First, I learned that the next time I am in this situation, start with just a half-teaspoon of Castor Bean oil, and secondly, I learned to make sure to charge the batteries of the hand-held portable bidet, before taking the Castor Bean Oil.
History has a way of repeating itself—not in the details, but in the echoes. As I watch the current administration deploy Marines and National Guard troops into American cities to confront protests over ICE raids and immigration policy, I can’t help but feel a chill. It’s not just the uniforms or the optics. It’s the precedent. And for me, that precedent begins not with Donald Trump—but with Abraham Lincoln.
Yes, Lincoln. The man most Americans revere as our greatest president. But I’ve long questioned that legacy. Lincoln, in my view, was a stubborn, hardheaded leader who plunged the nation into a war that cost over 650,000 lives. A war he believed would be over in months. A war he arguably provoked.
Let’s rewind to Fort Sumter. No one died in the initial bombardment. The only casualties came when a cannon exploded during the surrender ceremony—one Union soldier died. Yet Lincoln used that moment to summon 75,000 troops, escalating a regional standoff into a full-blown civil war. He suspended habeas corpus, jailed political opponents, and silenced dissent in border states like Maryland. All in the name of preserving the Union.
Fast forward to today. Trump, facing protests over immigration enforcement, has summoned federal troops into cities like Los Angeles—against the wishes of governors and mayors. He’s accepted a $400 million jet from Qatar, raising serious constitutional questions about foreign influence and the Emoluments Clause. He’s used executive power to reshape the judiciary, roll back civil rights protections, and stoke division at every turn.
And yet, like Lincoln, he claims to be saving the nation.
The parallels are uncomfortable. Both men faced divided nations. Both used federal power to suppress opposition. Both were hailed as heroes by some and tyrants by others. When John Wilkes Booth shot Lincoln, he shouted “Sic semper tyrannis”—thus always to tyrants. That wasn’t just a madman’s cry. It was a sentiment shared by many in the South who saw Lincoln not as a liberator, but as a despot.
Today, many Americans—especially those on the political left—see Trump in the same light. A man willing to tear the country apart to preserve his own power. A man who, like Lincoln, may be remembered not just for what he did, but for what he destroyed in the process.
This isn’t a defense of Booth, or of violence. It’s a plea for perspective. We must stop mythologizing our leaders and start scrutinizing them. Lincoln’s war may have ended slavery, but it also ended hundreds of thousands of lives. Trump’s war—if it comes—may not be fought with muskets and bayonets, but with executive orders, surveillance, and militarized streets.
History doesn’t repeat, but it rhymes. And right now, the tune sounds all too familiar.
On July 20th, 1969, the world watched as the United States did something that seemed impossible—we landed a man on the moon. It was the birthday of my little brother, Kevin, who’s no longer with us. I was serving in the U.S. Navy, stationed at a small communications base in Todendorf, Germany, not far from the Danish border. That moon landing was more than just a scientific milestone. For me—and for millions of people—it marked the end of one war and the beginning of something radically hopeful.
After World War I, Germany was occupied by the French. After World War II, they were occupied by the Americans. Germans resented being second-class citizens in their own land. I know; I lived it. German parents warned their children not to associate with us. German girls who dated American servicemen faced sharp social backlash. There were three bars near our base and the neighboring German army camp—each one was a nightly battleground of bruises and booze, Americans and Germans clashing like ghosts of wars we never fought.
Then the moon changed everything.
The man behind the Saturn V rocket that carried the Apollo 11 crew to the moon was a German scientist named Wernher von Braun—formerly of the Nazi regime, yes, but now repurposed for peace. America and Germany, once locked in mortal combat, had collaborated to do the impossible. On July 20, 1969, two old enemies became pioneers—the hostilities of World War II ended, and something shifted. Almost overnight, we went from occupiers to honored guests. German fathers who once wouldn’t let their daughters near us were now shaking our hands and offering schnapps as we drank toasts to the American/German achievement. Things just got really good, really fast.
It helped that the Summer of Love was going strong —and not just in San Francisco. Europe was catching the fever. The British Invasion had brought music across the Atlantic to America earlier in the decade, but now American artists were reclaiming center stage. Multi-day concerts like Woodstock were turning music into a communal ritual. Europe wanted its own Woodstock.
England hosted the now-legendary Isle of Wight Festival in late August 1970. Hendrix. The Doors. The Who. Sly & the Family Stone. Joni Mitchell. Over half a million people filled the cliffs of Afton Down and tore down the fences in protest. It was glorious madness.
Germany followed suit.
That September, the Love and Peace Festival was held on the island of Fehmarn, near the town of Putgarten. It was a short drive from our base—maybe 20 or 30 kilometers. A few of us rock n rollers who were known for public drinking and private hash smoking got our tickets early. It was going to be our Woodstock. We had no tent, no gear—just youthful optimism and a plan to get as high as possible and see Jimi Hendrix.
Friday, September 4th, 1970: we arrived cold and wet. The rain came in sheets. We pushed in close to the stage and parked ourselves in the open, surrounded by tents and strangers. The picture of Jimi performing shows the crowd and the tents. We had no cover, no shelter, just mud and music. The crowd thickened. The lights faded. We sat shivering and soaked, waiting for Jimi Hendrix, who we were told would perform that night.
A stage announcement told us otherwise—he wouldn’t go on due to the weather. He was “rescheduled” for Saturday afternoon. (Years later I found out that this was all a lie. He wasn’t actually scheduled to perform until Sunday. He was performing two shows in Munich that Friday and Saturday.)
Disappointed but too cold and stoned to argue, we sat dejected in the mud. Finally at three A.M. we were roused out of our sluggishness by Mungo Jerry singing his happy little ditty, In the Summertime. Listening to bubble gum music while we sat shivering in the mud was the last straw. We trudged through the mud, “found” a hole in the fence, located our car, and went back to base where we took long hot showers and then slept.
By late morning, we were back in the muddy field, but with raincoats and a few supplies this time. The lineup that day included The Faces with Rod Stewart and Canned Heat, among other acts, but the crowd was tired. The mud was deeper, and the promises fewer.
Another announcement: Hendrix had been moved to Saturday night. We stayed. More bands played. More rain came.
Later: Another rain delay was announced. Jimi Hendrix would play Sunday morning instead.
We were miserable. Wet. Angry. Doubting.
And then came Sly and the Family Stone came onto the stage.
Sly emerged in the cold and the drizzle, standing there like a priest before a congregation in despair.
“Is anybody out there gettin’ wet?” We all groaned back at him. “Could you be any wetter?” he inquired. “No!” we yelled back at him.
“Well, if you’re already soaking wet and you can’t get any wetter” he shouted, “you’ve got nothing to lose. Get up, and dance to the funky music.”
The band exploded into “Dance to the Music,” and the crowd surged into life. We stomped, shimmied, and slipped in the muck, grinning like lunatics. For a moment, we weren’t miserable. We were in it—just as much as anyone in Max Yasgur’s field a year earlier. That was our Woodstock.
Unfortunately, their set eventually ended, and we catapulted back to grim reality. We didn’t go back to base, though. We slept in the mud. We weren’t taking any chances on missing Hendrix.
Sunday morning: more announcements. Hendrix wasn’t coming out until the sun did. In for a penny, in for a pound. We waited.
And then, the sun appeared. And the moment we’d waited for arrived:
“Ladies and gentlemen, The Jimi Hendrix Experience.”
The crowd booed. They had waited in the mud for two days, and they took out their frustration on the band.
Six hundred thousand cold, wet, burned-out souls let out the anger that had grown larger with each stage announcement that Jimi wasn’t going to play in the rain. But, now, Jimi just stood there in the sunshine, took it all in, and casually said:
“We don’t give a fuck if you boo. Just boo in key. Give us a second to tune up.”
He struck a single, sharp chord. It echoed like a thunderclap across the island.
And then the spell began.
What followed was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Jimi’s hands weren’t playing guitar—they were conjuring it. Notes bent like light in a prism. Sounds came from corners of the sky I didn’t even know existed. The audience fell into a trance. When Jimi Hendrix ended his set and walked offstage with a simple “Thank you,” there was silence.
Actual silence. No one clapped. We were all dazed, slack-jawed, staring at the stage. Did we just see what we just saw, or are we tripping? When we realize that what we saw was real, the dam broke, and we roared and cheered for 10 minutes. Then 600,000 people got up to leave.
A voice from the stage: “Wait, wait! We still have six more bands! Procol Harum is next!”
No one cared. No one could follow what we had just seen. We walked away in silence, with mud on our boots and stars in our eyes.
Four days later, we got the news that Jimi Hendrix was gone, found dead in London. And now, this week, Sly Stone has joined him.
They’re headlining tonight in Rock ‘n’ Roll Heaven. And you better believe that when I hear them play, I’ll be getting up and dancing to the funky music.
earlthepearl137 