Respectability: a lost art

My Honey, Sassy, and I were lounging about flipping channels on the television. It was hot out (shocking) and we were feeling very lazy (not so shocking). The boy was off doing something boyish that probably involved a mess somewhere. We were lamenting the lack of anything good to watch, which is sadly typical. How can we have 7,000 channels and there be nothing good to watch. Seems unfeasible.

My Honey paused on one of his favorite channels – Palladia. It’s a music channel that differentiates itself from the rabble by actually playing music. Concert footage, interviews, Storyteller-like shows, etc. I’ve seen all kinds of interesting stuff on there. This time they were playing Woodstock.

They were on a scene were two guys are sitting in the mud eating watermelon with their hands. They’re the only people visible in the frame – I guess most everyone was already heading out.  Jimi Hendrix was playing in the background and the guys were enjoying his set and their watermelon.

“Oh. My. God. That’s disgusting,” Sassy said with emphasis.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It got pretty muddy. There was a lot of rain.”

She made a puking noise. “They’re eating with their hands. And they’re filthy. Ugh.” I don’t know what she’s going on about. More than half the time I have to remind her to use a fork at dinner.

“We almost named your brother James Marshall after that guy.” My Honey pointed to the television while Hendrix was playing rather soulfully, his eyes closed in rapture.

“Until I came to my senses and realized what your father was trying to pull off.” I wasn’t naming my children after dead rock stars. My husband insists that we still did it – with a different guitar genius – but I know the truth.

“That guy?” Sassy is not impressed with Mr. Hendrix.

I perk up to defend him. I may not have wanted to name my child after him, but still. Show some respect. “Yeah. He’s arguably the most important guitarist in the history of music.”

“Hmmmmm.” She sounded doubtful.

Then they cut to more scenes of the clean up of Yasgur’s farm. Holy cow, what a freaking disaster. Sassy expresses sheer, unadulterated horror when a young man tries on a pair of abandoned tennis shoes. They don’t fit him, but his girl friend tries and they’re a winner.

For some reason, Sassy has always been fascinated with hippies and hobos – not that the two have anything to do with each other. Her father and I can’t fathom it. It’s an unexplained prejudice. This documentary does nothing to further a broader mind.

For lack of a better description, Sassy freaked the hell out during the next section. I had to crack up because at this point we were subjected to a stunning montage of naked, hairy men and women running amok. I suspect the famous brown acid was involved.

“They were having a good time,” was my weak defense.

Here’s the other Woodstock. Do we all feel better now?

“WITHOUT CLOTHES?!?”

By now, I was beside myself with hysteria.

“WHERE WERE THEIR MOTHERS?” She watched in horror, unable to look away at the hippy train wreck. “Well, that is disgusting. Absolutely disgusting.” She spoke as only the truly righteous can from a tower of respectability like a Duchess or a Republican.

I’d like it noted when she went in to take her shower this evening, there was streaking down the hall. Respectability indeed.