Acid Rain Isn’t Always What You Think It Is
What’s That, Up in the Sky? No, Can’t Be!
Much was made of Woodstock’s 50th anniversary a couple of years ago: it was a milestone in a tumultuous time, an anarchic cultural gathering that managed, despite many slips in the mud, to reflect essential goodwill between assembled members of a broad, colorful tribe.
I fretted, fussed, and plotted about Woodstock, frustrated that at 15, I didn’t have the means or the gumption to get there. I had to wait to buy the albums, hear the stories, and understand the significance. I had to wait a bit longer before I got to go to what some people dubbed the “West Coast Woodstock.” The 1970 “Christmas Happening” in Laguna Beach didn’t have the thronging masses or the heralded music, or the dynamics to make it more than a scribble in the history books. But it was in my neighborhood.
And it did have LSD dropped from an airplane in the sky.
I’ll get to acid rain in a bit, but first, let me describe my accelerated development. Or regression. My year between 15 and 16 was a “you forgot to get your brakes checked, but what the hell” year. In that period I went from smoking my first pot to taking psychedelic mushrooms to dropping acid. My mild interest in shoplifting turned into an actual business of selling purloined goods to my pals and high school cronies. At 16, I…
