Yored doros

A spot-on observation from the current Atlantic (in an article about Woodstock of all places) about how we mistreat our bodies.

Wadleigh’s Woodstock [film] begins with a kind of remote and Edenic eeriness: cool pulses of keyboard——the sound of Crosby, Stills & Nash’s “Long Time Gone”—as the camera roams the hazy pastures of Max Yasgur’s farm. We see the blameless cows, the soon-to-be-defiled meadows and lake, and then the paradise-dwellers themselves—the hippies, tanned and shirtless, chakras ablaze, starting to set the place up. In an instant, the scope of the dietary disaster that has since overtaken us is revealed. No high-fructose corn syrup in 1969, baby: the men are as lean as jaguars, the women firm-fleshed and passionate-looking. And no protein shakes, either—none of the congested muscularity of your 21st-century gym jockey. [emphasis mine]