W is for water, as in rain, which was dripdripdroppifying all over the scalawags and reprobates and chickies at Woodstock, which is where this photo was taken.
O is for omelettes, which you couldn’t get because there was no food because it was just a fucking field with no amenities.
O is for opera, which is the plural of opus, which just means “work.” When you call something an opera, you’re literally saying “this thing someone made.” Lot less fancy when you know that.
D is for Dirty Dingus Magee. Sinatra was in it. He played a cowboy.
Because when you think “cowboy,” you think “Sinatra.” Blue-eyed Enthusiasts will note the luxurious toupee under the hat; Frank named all his hairpieces, and called that one Husky Boy.
S is for Sly Stone, or perhaps Sha Na Na, (PREDICTION: When the absurd “every single note of every single band” 38-disc Woodstock box set is released, Rock Nerds will all rediscover the Na’s brilliance. Pitchfork is already readying a thinkpiece on Bowser, I guarantee it.)
T is a drink with jam and bread, or crystal meth, or testosterone, or the mohawked muscle of the A-Team, or a square, or one of two events that stop play in a basketball game.
O is pissing me off, honestly. Three appearances in one word is too much, O. Let the other vowels get a chance to play.
C is for Country Joe and his Fish, and I’m gonna pass. Hard pass.
K is allowed to ask me about my business just this once, and also potassium.