Dennis, a graduate student in history, began to philosophize and analyze, a habit of his. “They represent the Anti-Beatles. They’re the throwback, the bastions of blue-collar music. Working class heroes; think of “Big Man in Town” versus “Sgt Pepper.”
“Cut the bullshit you sound like Professor Peabody on Rocky and Bullwinkle”
Music Defines Culture
He was right. Much more happened with the music; music defined the popular culture – the style leaders came from the music world, neither from the movies nor from the establishment. The Beatles got into eastern religion and mind-altering drugs and the popular culture followed: clothes, hair, and cars. Even us clueless geeks followed along. I have no idea of style but I knew enough to dress a little like everyone else and to grow my hair longer.
In that VW we didn’t realize that the zenith of the sixties music culture was occurring a hundred miles away in Woodstock. Sometimes I get angry because so many people remember being there. I want to shake some of them and say loudly, “Listen you were seven years old in 1969 and were living in Marlinville, Kansas. You were not, definitely not, at Woodstock!” I don’t do this though. I don’t want to destroy someone’s pleasant memories, even if they’re false.
Woodstock and Football
On that Sunday morning, people rolled in the mud, got high and made love at Woodstock while Country Joe and the Fish sang “Next Stop Vietnam.” Meanwhile, twelve of us, mostly Giant fans, drove in three cars from New York City to New Haven to watch the Giants regain the honor of the NFL. Broadway Joe Namath and his upstart Jets shocked the football world by upsetting the mighty Colts in Super Bowl III.
We arrived at the Yale Bowl and as per plan, we hooked up with our eight other friends, who had a bigger car and carried the coolers. We then had the requisite tailgating. Beer flowed freely in the parking lot. Inside the Yale Bowl, more beer, an absolute necessity because of the heat. The Jets proceeded to kick the Giants butts. Joe Namath was impeccable, hardly missing a pass; when the dust cleared the count was Jets 38 Giants 14 and we had to make the sad journey back to New York.
Journey Back to New York
Luckily our pain was anesthetized by the massive amounts of alcohol we consumed. Four of us piled back into Les’s VW Beatle. We returned to Route 95 which was a parking lot, no doubt overfilled by the sixty thousand fans leaving the Yale Bowl. We sat for an hour and I memorized the license plate in front of us, CT XFT1406.
In my impatience I said to Les, somewhat less inebriated than the rest of us “Get off here and go to the next exit, maybe it eases up there.”
“I don’t know New Haven, how will we find the next exit?” he answered, “Just keep the highway to our left – we’ll find it.”
New Haven Detour
We exited the highway and wandered around New Haven for the next forty-five minutes. We finally found a sign saying 95 South and turned onto the entrance ramp. It wasn’t until we were back on the highway and again sitting in nonmoving traffic that we realized we had entered at the same entrance that we had exited. Les weaved a bit through the traffic and then we sat again. Unfortunately, the license plate of the car in front of us was CT XFT1406. Forty-five minutes of wandering and we were in the same spot. Irwy, who was wavering in semi-consciousness, suggested, I guess fueled by the alcohol.
“Hey guys” he slurred, “the sun sets in the west and we’re heading west? We should get off the highway and follow the sun. Eventually, we’ll get home.”
“Follow the sun,” Les began in his somewhat less inebriated state. “That’s a really wonderful idea.” He then exited at the same exit we had taken an hour earlier and started to drive through New Haven following the sun. After passing many of the same homes we wound up on Route 34, moving at a reasonable clip. It was a beautiful ride, the sun in front of us and then the rustic Housatonic River wandering to the side of us. We were driving unimpeded, but unfortunately, Route 34 goes northwest rather than west and suddenly there was a sign “City Limits: Danbury, Connecticut”. Danbury is farther from New York than New Haven. “No problem,” I told Les “I know how to get home from here. Just get on I-84 and head west and we’ll take the Taconic Parkway.”
Taconic Parkway
Les did as he was told and we arrived at the Taconic. Entering the Taconic, the traffic came to a complete standstill. It was impossible to even exit the Parkway. Irwy woke up momentarily and in a semi-stupor asked “Hey what’s going on?”
‘We’re standing still in frigging traffic on the Taconic.” I told him.
“Hey, this must be the traffic.”
“What traffic?”
“I heard this morning that there’s some big rock concert upstate. Woodshole or something. They said there was going to be massive traffic delays.”
So we sat there, first listening to Dennis’ gloating about the Jets and then listening to the radio and arguing about music. Was “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” really about LSD? Who was better the Temptations or the Four Tops? Eventually, we slipped into exhaustion and silence and finally reached home after midnight, the usual one-hour ride from New Haven, taking seven hours.
