The wayward wizards of Woodstock

The May morning emerges, cool and cloudy. Shopkeepers sweep the sidewalks in front of their humble but proudly run independent businesses, with names like "Not Fade Away" "Hip-e Living" and "Bingo". They sell to curious tourists, the NYC weary bankers, and well heeled locals who make up the freckled complexion of Tinker street in Woodstock, NY.

From alleys and darkened doorways emerge a group of men whose appearance makes even the jaded New Yorkers pause.They are relics of another time here, where lithe gypsy girls with dark eyes, long hair and Long Island accents roamed the streets along with busking musicians, face painted acid-test clowns and Ken Kesey devotees gathered in this artist's colony. Tuning in, turning on, and dropping out, they populated towns like this; Coos Bay, San Francisco, Austin, New Orleans and Las Vegas rolled into one giant traveling carnival show.The price of admission was a waft of patchouli oil, a peace sign or the sharing of hand rolled cigarettes which smelled of cloves, sandalwood and the promise of adventure.

Their stories are as diverse as their patched together blanket-costume-cloaks.Some went to Viet Nam and came back outcasts forever. Others came here as youngsters themselves, not sure of how one smoke filled dreamy day blended into another and than another until they walked into the harsh fluorescent light of a social services office, not certain what had happened to the years between then and now.