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ONE CAN NOT LIVE ON PEANUT BUTTER AND WINE ALONE: ADVENTURES AT A CANCELED ROCK FESTIVAL copyright 1996-2006 Robb Strycharz part 11 FRIDAY July 10, 1970 continued The time was about 10:30-11:00 pm. As we neared downtown Gonkers, aka Mountaindale, traffic slowed to a crawl. Actually the term "downtown" implies a great deal more than what we actually found. The business district consisted a few dozen closed businesses and dilapidated houses which lined the main street. Gonkers was probably the type of town that, as my parents used to say, pulled in its sidewalks at 7:00 pm. It was clear why the Catskill Resort Association supported the series of concerts: this town desperately needed the economic shot in the arm. The shocked townsfolk stood out from the crowd of invaders like a sore thumb. Not even in their wildest dreams could the good people of Gonkers ever expect their town to come alive again, let alone to have it overrun by an army of disheveled, drugged-up Freaks. That nightlife ever existed was no doubt a dim, distant memory of days a decade or two before when the Catskills were still a popular vacation destination attracting nearly a million visitors a year. At one point there may have been close to 25 resorts just in Mountaindale alone! Here’s a brief history of the ebb and flow of Catskill culture. In the early 1900's the older Dutch communities eventually gave way to the NYC crowd who flocked to mountains for weekend and vacation getaways. Luxury hotels for the well-to-do were built and the region was so well-loved, many built their summer homes there. The cosmopolitan lifestyle, including summer theater, followed them. Many an actor got their start here. With the opening of rail lines to the south, the appeal of the Catskills faded. After WWII the region developed a diverse range of ethnic groups migrated into the region. These groups, which tended to remain in isolated pockets. Eventually the ethnic appeal of some of these towns, especially in Jewish areas, led to a second wave of popularity. More large luxury hotels were built and the region became known as the "Borscht Belt." after the famous Russian beet soup which was a staple on the menu's of many of the resorts. Another nickname for the region was the Jewish Alps. But this era of popularity ended in the early 60’s. Pete Sokolow, a klezmer musician who played at a hotel in Mountaindale once commented on the demise of the borscht belt hotels. “What killed the Catskills was the Boeing 707. All of a sudden, the second generation Americans of my age and younger- that's what I was, my parents were born in this country -- the second generation Americans of my age and younger could go to Aruba or Puerto Rico or Florida or California, or efsher Europe. Who wants to go to Mountaindale when you can go to Europe? …. The last year I played, 1961 we had only about 20 people the whole summer. It was a disaster. The whole thing was just folding up. It was hard”. Back to our heroes. Needless to say, we had no idea where to go yet we had to make a choice at the intersection. If we didn’t know where the actual festival site was, our best hope was go with the flow, and go in the direction most of the people and traffic were heading... not that anyone was heading anywhere fast. The going was snail-paced at best. So we took a left onto the main street then another immediate left at a fork in the road. Mountaindale Park Road, aka CR-55, proved to be a windy road, one that followed a small river called Sandburg Creek. A few rundown houses lined its edges. Concerned, possibly amused, residents sat on porches and front lawns to watch the unruly spectacle. Not that the townsfolk had much choice. Even if there was someplace to go in this backwater of a town, with the roads blocked, they couldn't have gone anywhere anyway. They were prisoners of the invasion... they were our prisoners. Nelson, hunched attentively over the wheel, drove on, continuing to inch his way through confused pedestrians, crowds, cars, rent-a-vans, and buses. From the back of the Bus all I could see was the back of the car in front of us... its red brake lights were usually on. Out the side windows was a more close-up blur of churning chaos, alit in the uneven yellow glow of a hundred headlights. Cars were carelessly parked, possibly abandoned, on both sides of the road. In between those parked cars and the ones still stuck on the road, flowed a endlessly aimless current of Freaks still foolish enough to believe they could get somewhere. Interspersing it all, distorted loud music blared and blended together coming from radios, 8-track stereos, and the occasional impromptu acoustic jam. We had no idea what to expect next. Along the street small primitive, but functional, plywood sheds had been constructed. Hawkers were busy selling pipes, pouches, posters, and Mountaindale tee shirts. I might have bought one but, being a notorious cheapskate, at $4.00 they were out of my league. Hell, $4.00 could buy almost seven Super Chefs at Burger Chef back home! A bit further down the road and across the creek was the remains of an old bridge abutment... probably from an old rail line. So, what was going on? Was the conquest of the town complete or was there a State Cop roadblock just around the next bend, stopping and searching cars, making busts? If so, we were trapped. Damn. There was no way we could ever make a speedy get away... even if Devil Bus was Greg's old '57 Chevy. Hell, we couldn't even turn around to avoid the cops if we tried. If worse came to worse we'd have to eat or dump the dope... as Mr.B. took notes. In our less paranoid moments we wished Devil Bus still had that AM radio that once filled the gaping hole in the dash. There had to be a town somewhere nearby big enough to warrant a station. At that very moment it might be broadcasting traffic bulletins... or survival tips for trapped town's folk. Our perfect Plan was falling apart. About 45 minutes and a mere 2000 feet later there was indeed a cop, a sole agent of order, the Lone Ranger of the Power Structure, trying in vain to organize the anarchy. He was yelling and wildly, flailing his arms. Not knowing what to expect, we assumed the worse. Was this how the bust would begin? However, as we got closer we realized the rather chubby, black cop was just desperately trying to get cars off the road... and he would do anything to accomplish his goal. As the Bus approached him he started yelling instructions to Nelson. "What the Hell does he want you to do?", Greg asked. "Shit if I know.", replied Nelson. "Damn, he's certainly a hyper son of a bitch. Ain't he?” observed Tom. "What? There's a cop out there?" asked Mr.B. feigning concern. We knew better. "Shit. What should we do with the..." Billy hesitated and glanced at Mr. B. "You know, the stuff?", he asked. Two joints were already hidden in his hand ready to be eaten at a moment's notice. Greg cleared his throat twice... a signal to Bill to shut up about the "stuff". I had my nickel bag in my pocket and readied myself. Eating it would be a miserable chore and a waste of good dope... but it beat being busted. Nelson soon realized the cop did not want to bust us, he just wanted him to do the impossible: to park the Bus in a tiny space between two other cars. Worse, it seemed to be a ditch, of all things. Nelson was incredulous. He poked his head out the window. "You want me to park this in there?" he shouted... not expecting the answer he got. "You got that straight. Now listen up..." the cop shouted back. Nelson was incredulous... but what else could he do? Following the cop's instructions and wild, animated gestures, the impossible was accomplished. Actually, we soon all agreed that for a cop, the guy was rather cool. Some of us still had fresh visions of warm, friendly cops as portrayed in the movie "Woodstock". Maybe there was some sort of Magic that took place at rock festivals after all. Then again, just because the cops were not enforcing drug laws did not mean that they were becoming closet sympathizers to the peace, love, and drug, Revolution. Most likely they were just so overwhelmed and spread so thin they were forced to practice a legalistic triage. But, hell... give us an inch and we'd gladly take a yard. WELL, WE’RE HERE! It must have been about midnight when the doors of the Bus finally swung open. Stiff-legged and still slightly stoned we emerged into the refreshing dewy, late night air. "Well, we're here!" Davey half-heartedly shouted. It was the Circus’s traditional arrival cry. “Everyone needs a ditch to call home” But just where was "here" anyway? Not only were we parked in a grassy ditch, but we were stuck on someone's overgrown front lawn... behind which was a large yellow and white house trailer. We could only hope whoever lived there was either friendly or not home. Along the ditch was a minimalist steel rail fence made up of sparse vertical supports and a sole horizontal pipe. That in turn was adorned with decorative arrowhead points... broken into 8", galvanized, sections. One part of the fence was curiously bent back... as if the fence was sacrificed in order to let something pass through. As for the trailer, no one seemed to be home. Great. Now what? Should we camp out on their lawn? We sure couldn't all sleep in the Bus. For a brief eternity it really seemed as if Mr.B planned to spend his weekend with us. After all, we were so cool, who could resist? Fortunately, nay mercifully, George and he finally split and we breathed a collective sigh of relief. Unfortunately, I soon discovered that Mr.B left his small diary behind in the Bus. My spirits sunk. Great. Now Mr.B was sure to be back. As a journal keeper myself I knew his diary was valuable to him. Despite the fact Mr.B. was irredeemable, we had to make some good faith effort to make sure he got it back. I walked out of the Bus to break the bad news to the others. "Hey, maybe we can track him down and just give back it to him. That way he won't to come back here!", I suggested. "How do you expect to find anyone here? What if you miss him? Davey asked. He'll come back here and decide to wait for you. No way." Davey was right... then he might want to stay with us for the night.
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