I'm Just Sayin'

The Rally to Restore Sanity was just like Woodstock. Except most of us remember the rally. And we didn’t get muddy. And it was three hours, not three days. But other than that …

I even said it, on the bus headed to Washington, DC. “Do you think this will be like Woodstock?” And one of my travelling companions said “Oh exactly.” I think she might have rolled her eyes, but I’m not sure. It was five-effin-o’clock in the morning, and it was dark on the bus. I couldn’t see her facial expression, but I did catch the tone of sarcasm. I kind of admire anyone who can muster up sarcasm at that hour. I can barely form a complete sentence, or a question in this case.

Some of my friends and relations are marveling at the fact I got on a bus at 4 am, fully and appropriately clothed, hair and makeup passably arranged. A neighbor quipped that when he stepped outside to walk his dog at 8 am on a Saturday and noticed my car gone, he was sure someone had stolen it. I don’t do early. But there I was, on a bus rolling along Interstate 85, on my way to Jon Stewart’s big event.

When the political comedian first announced his rally on the Daily Show, I thought, “that sounds like fun.” But I didn’t really consider going. Then a friend invited me to jump on a bus with a bunch of people I didn’t know, and I thought, “Hell yeah! Why not?!”

It must have been like that in 1969, when Moondoggie called Daddy-O and said “Hey, let’s hitch a ride up to New York and camp out in a cow pasture to see this rad concert.” And Daddy-O replied “Right on, brother.” And away they went in a VW bus, wearing beads, strumming guitars and passing joints.

My trip to DC was much like that. We piled into a charter bus, wearing bifocals, stroking our I-phones, and passing around a bag of Hershey’s Miniatures. Like the sojourners of 69, we were on our way to the event that defined the state of our culture. Like those who went to Woodstock, the tens of thousands of us who attended the rally were discontent, standing up to the establishment, saying to the man, “I’m mad as hell and I am not going to take it anymore.”

Of course, we are not going to dance naked in the rain anymore, either. While we chuckled over the protest signs we encountered, our activism is more likely to involve a letter to the editor, a small campaign contribution, or a FaceBook petition. We’re mad, all right. But we’re reasonable, and responsible, and we have mortgages and student loans, artificial hips and knees, advanced degrees and technology out the wazoo. We can connect with each other, argue and scream and express ourselves 24 hours a day in multi-media formats.

But for three hours in the autumn of 2010, we came from across the continent to squeeze onto a field and listen to some music and share a laugh. Our cell phones froze in gridlock, and we stood still long enough to listen and focus. Young and old, black, white and every color in between, Christian, Muslim, Jew and Atheist, we were connected by a shared understanding: we are more alike than we are different. Just like at Woodstock.

But we used porta-johns. I’m just sayin.