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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 12 FRIDAY, JULY 10, 1970 As the debate raged I guiltily thumbed through the diary, searching for clues that might tell us if his Bermuda story was true or if the diary started: "Day 1. A rough first day in Narc School. Everybody thinks I'm an obnoxious asshole." In the meantime, we soon learned that the Festival had been canceled... by whom, we knew not. Supposedly there was insufficient drinking water in the storage tanks at the site. To us that hardly seemed an insurmountable problem. We wondered if the Fest might be back on if the tanks were finally filled? After all, the Festival wasn't slated to actually start for another 12 hours. That seemed like plenty of time... unless it was like the painfully slow process of filling a backyard swimming pool with a garden hose. Just in case there would be a festival, or maybe just out of curiosity, some of us still wanted to know where the site actually was. We could not but notice that just a few hundred feet further down the road was an intersection guarded by a State Police roadblock. That had to be a clue of some significance. The actual site had to be somewhere nearby. At some point the word filtered through the Occupation Army that no one would be busted for spending the night wherever they happened to be stuck. We didn't see this as any beneficent act of Grace passed down from the powers that be. What else could the cops do? They were so hopelessly outnumbered and overwhelmed that they had no choice but to concede the fact that we ran the show. They also had their hands full just getting cars off the roads. After all, more people were still in the pipeline pouring into the area. Desperation was the mother of compromise. All their pretentious pronouncements were mere bravado. As for us the news meant we'd be spending the night on some stranger's front lawn. It was not something we were comfortable doing... but then a few of our neighbors were already beginning to bed down. Maybe it would be OK. It's not that there was anyone home in the trailer to complain. Davy and I decided to brave the madness and take a walk. We would scout out the area, collect what information we could, and report back. We'd check out the roadblock, and maybe even head back to town to get a better look at its occupation. It was sure to be a spectacle. We debated whether to bring the Mr.B's diary. Before we left I remembered a bit of unfinished business... I checked the Bus's odometer. They seemed odd. I rechecked the numbers, then the numbers scribbled on my Army Jacket. Baffled at an obvious discrepancy I rechecked the odometer "Hey Charlzo. Get over here" I called to Greg. "Guess how many miles we are from home." Greg saw the confusion in my eyes. He knew me well enough to know I wouldn't ask such an obvious question just to test his mileage estimation skills. He walked over. "What's up?” he asked. "You're not going to believe this but, the Bus is 10,000 miles younger now than when we left home!" Incredulous, Greg checked my numbers just to make sure I wasn't that stoned. Greg nodded his head in stunned disbelief. Indeed the odometer had somehow begun to run backwards. He knew Devil Bus was special and would live forever, but was there some other path to life eternal besides regular maintenance? Did the Devil succeed in the search for the Fountain of Youth where Ponce de Leon failed? If things didn't stop, soon the Devil would be brand new! Hmmmm, I suspected dirty work was afoot... and I knew the Catskills were to blame. The anomalous temporal distortions in the Catskills' space-time continuum were documented as far back as Mr. Rip Van Winkle... and maybe before. That is if there ever a "before". Glad I wasn't tripping. Down the road Davy and I checked out the roadblock. We could have questioned them to find out what was going on, but passed on the dubious pleasure. They were, after all, not mere cops... they were Staties... and we weren't clean. The black cop that was directing traffic, on the other hand, was brought in from NYC. As for the roadblock, it obviously was there to control access to a sensitive area... something had to be up the road to our left. The thought of just daring fate and just walking past the roadblock and up the road never really crossed our minds. So instead Davy and I headed back to town. It was soon evident that the situation in downtown Mountaindale was just as chaotic now as it had been when we pulled into town a few hours before. The road was still jammed with cars, buses, and rented U-Hauls, all going nowhere fast. We could only wonder how many thousands; hopefully tens of thousands, of people were already in the area. No doubt even more were on the way. The invasion of even more Freaks was like pouring gasoline on a fire. There had to be some breaking point where They... whoever They were, would have to let the Festival go on, right? If not, They risked the wrath of ten thousand Freaks, possibly tired that all the peace and love philosophy did nothing to prevent oppression. I felt an attack of Partisan Ranger Mountain Force coming on. Damn. I should have brought my slingshot. We walked on. From one 8-track stereo blared the latest Grand Funk album. Davy made some snide comment about their musical ineptitude. From another stereo, and more to Davy's taste, Jimi’s wild Woodstock rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. From another, some revolutionary fervor from Jefferson Airplane’s Volunteers album... “All your private property is target for your enemy... and your enemy is we.” As we walked, we passed groups of Freaks hanging around their cars and vans, smoking and gawking at the passers-by. We gawked back. A few had small, smoky, campfires. From one group we overheard the gas station in town had just run out of gas. Wow! Gas stations never ran out of gas... at least not in 1970. It was just another exciting indication that we were reaching critical mass. It was so exhilarating. At home we were outnumbered and constantly threatened by Straights our own age, and an army of disapproving, dour, adults: parents, cops, teachers, and other miscellaneous quasi-fascists. To protect ourselves and our lifestyle, we were forced to live secret lives, always either hiding or on the run. But here, we were in control and we had Them on the run! Because of our common culture, we Freaks could be instant friends with perfect strangers. Just add music, dope, and wine and the result was instant Brotherhood. About an hour later, Davy and I finally got back to our encampment. We were not happy with who we found. So much for the instant Brotherhood, but then, for every rule there's an exception. Mr.B., of course, was ours. He had realized that his diary was missing. Why did he come back? He was like the drunk who lost his keys one night. When asked why he only bothered to look for the keys beneath streetlights, the drunk explained if they were anywhere else he wouldn't find them anyway. Well, we and the Bus were Mr.B's street light. What a thrill. Maybe Mr.B finally picked up on our vibes because he soon scurried off, diary in hand. Damn, we were lucky. For a while he seemed all too ready to settle in with us. Then, I fear, we may have become, if not truly obnoxious, then possibly murderous. With Mr.B gone we finally felt comfortable enough to pull out the pot. For most of us it would prove to be the knockout punch of the long night, that is except for Bill. He went out to the road to watch the endless parade pass by the Bus. By this time I was past exhaustion. I dragged my gear from the Bus and spread my army blanket on the damp grass. My trusty Army Jacket would be my pillow, albeit a lumpy one given the vital junk that filled my pockets. Before we crashed we hid our stashes in the tall grass that grew at the base of a nearby maple tree. We may have taken over the town, but, as the song goes, “paranoia runs deep”... and with us it was Doctrine. Our numbers were impressive, but didn't guarantee any of us were really, really, safe. The thought of being busted anywhere, let alone New York, was bad enough. But, we could hardly imagine a worse experience than being busted in our sleep. As I began to drift into random thoughtlessness I heard a distant chant. As it drew closer I was finally able to lock on to the words from the background clutter. Soon I was able to decipher the woeful chant. It was a memorable mantra. But soon, all this and the montage of a million other sounds could no longer be grasped by the weary hands of consciousness. As the chanter passed by, his voice faded... as did I. He went on in a nasalized, Dylan-esque, voice: "Need Wine, Need Alcohol. Need wine. Need Alcohol. Need... " Indeed we did too... and tomorrow we'd have plenty of time to find that wine.
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