Today, Woodstock turns 40, which means that if it lives up to the stereotype, it’ll dump Mrs. Woodstock, buy a Corvette Convertible and start dating a music festival half its age.

I was barely three years old when Woodstock turned Max Yasgur’s farm in upstate New York into the world’s loudest, smelliest campground — as one Port-o-San for every 225,000 people is bound to do — but I probably have a better memory of the event than some of those in attendance.

The history of Woodstock was an inspiration to ACORN and Chicago politicians in general, in that a half million people actually showed up, but the final tally shows that tens of millions were there.

Incidentally, I blame “the brown acid” for many of the politicians we’ve ended up with subsequent to Woodstock.

Some of those in the crowd at Woodstock, now 60 or 70 years old, went on to shrug off a life of hippiedom and to be productive citizens — the rest went on to get elected to public office and/or ruin institutions of higher education.

Here’s one that sums it up: The Who performs “My Generation” while Pete Townshend’s eyes are glassier than the Crystal Cathedral:

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