I spent the better part of my day prepping myself for what had the potential to be the best day of my life so far.
It was payday, there was fall baseball, and more importantly, I had the whole evening off. Feeling kind of famished, I decided to head to a new BBQ spot nearby called Woodstock, which is apparently where everyone’s dad hangs out. In the spot formerly known as Trio’s and under new ownership, it is located on the corner of Madison and Chesterland, easily spotted by its front patio.
Since I have an irrational distaste for classic rock, checking it out was a gamble, but it was a move I was willing to make because I felt confident my good mood could help me overcome my disdain for classic rock as well as a strong aversion to the idea of Woodstock in general, which might have something to do with Limp Bizkit performing at the last Woodstock in 1999.
I wasn’t here for the tunes though. I was here for the meats and the sauce. The inside is pretty comfortable, and there is an upside to having a patio as well. It seemed a lot less hepatitis-y, than I remembered Trio’s being, a different kind of charm if you will. The service was speedy as I got my beer and my food order taken quickly. I ordered the beef brisket sandwich, which is nothing all that special, but I generally enjoy the simpler meals on a menu.
When it arrived, my sandwich looked impressive, but I went on to realize that it was actually pretty lame. It was lukewarm and though the sauce was good, I generally am not hyped on a sandwich being room temp unless I’m getting it with some cold cuts and deli meats. You feel me? It was really nothing special, at all. I paid my bill and left feeling bummed.
My whole mood had shifted now. Apathy became grief and then grief became anger. Why would you even name it Woodstock? There was no drugs. I mean aside from having the lame music there, I really didn’t see anything outside of it that would resemble the legendary status Woodstock had maintained up until its involvement with Fred Durst and his anthems about non-consensual advances on women.
I needed something, some form of explanation as to how everything was going to be all right. I figured a nice shower could clear my head, so I did just that when I returned home. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, gathering my gear I entered the shower. After about two minutes, I began to hear what sounded like a faint guitar solo. The lights flickered and the wind crashed, and from a cloud of smoke emerged a man in a purple suit of sorts playing a guitar.
“Prince?” I asked cautiously.
“No man, I’m the ghost of Jimi Hendrix. You seem down, kid. What seems to be the problem?”
I was very confused. What purpose did Jimi’s ghost serve coming here? While I was showering nonetheless.
“Well, uh, the spirits of Woodstock tell me you don’t get its appeal. Why is that?”
“Well, I mean they probably don’t mean the actual Woodstock. I was just at this restaurant with the same name and you know, it was just not great. I guess I also feel the same way about, actual Woodstock too. I just don’t get it, man.”
He smiled, placed his hand on my shoulder, which was pretty awkward considering I was peering from my shower curtain. “Look kid, nothing was that great at Woodstock…we were all just really, really high.”
“Oh, yeah, you know what? You’re right. I guess everything in life is pretty meaningless, so people just drink beers and smoke joints to hide that harsh reality from themselves. Thanks, Jimi Hendrix!”
Jimi smiled and dissipated into the void. His work was done. I found solace in the fact that some things don’t exist for everyone’s enjoyment. Much like how some people enjoy the food and atmosphere at Woodstock and I don’t, doesn’t mean it’s bad—it’s just not for me. Realizing this, I could finally move on with my shower in peace.