I went to a fantastic wedding in the Catskills a few weekends ago. It was autumny and beautiful and full of wonderful music, as befitting a union between two musicians. The bride and groom each played with their respective bands during the reception, which was great. (The best man joked that it was the first wedding reception that should have had a merch table.)

On our way up to the mountains, we got off the NY State Thruway at a certain exit. This exit immediately seemed familiar, in a very profound way, as if it played an important role in my life. Within seconds, it dawned on me: This was the same exit for the town of Woodstock. (My first clue was the big green road sign that said <– WOODSTOCK 12.)

Despite growing up not too far from this famous hamlet, I have been to Woodstock twice in my life. The first time was to see the Bad Brains play a tiny, tiny club as they embarked on a reunion tour; it turned out to be much better than when I saw them play Irving Plaza a few days later. The second time I went to Woodstock, I saw the best comedy show I ever saw.
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