Backstage at Woodstock, 1969

[1handedtyper]

Parson falls back right onto his tailbone, winching a little, but not saying anything in particular, just looking at the woman in front of him.

"Parson's the name, and I'm here on business," he says, motioning in general towards the growing crowd. "Security, you see, and...some extra on the side. I brought my own vehicle though," he continued, thumbing toward his Harley, "so if you need a lift, just give me a hollar, I'm sure you'd rather not walk back again."

Parson examined her a little bit more closely, taking in this cute little acedimate, on the right women glasses can be so sexy...

"Of course, I've got time for a little bit of relaxing to, don't tell be that your going to spend three days interviewing me?"

OCC: I regret to inform everyone that I'll be away for a couple of weeks due to circumunstances quite beyond my control. Still, it won't be too long, so I hope you all can sit tight for a bit.

 

[Tornado]

The Who's Magic Bus

Bored out of my mind! "I'm going to get laid," I said to Pete Townsend. The words came out with the same nonchelance as if I had said I was going out for a beer. The outcomes were assured. I was Roger Daltrey.

"Eh, what you say?" Pete looked up and asked.

He was developing an annoying habit of pretending to be deaf. I gritted my teeth and I ignored him. Instead I walked out the bus, slamming the door.

I paused and looked out at the mobs of people and smiled. Already there was more pussy than at Monterey. Dressed in faded jeans and an equally faded denim jacket that opened revealed my tanned chest, I plunged into the crowd. I drank in the reaction of the women, of course, but I was looking for one special woman.