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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 17 SATURDAY, JULY 11, 1970 continued
TOASTED, ROASTED & CHARRED... And so we waited as the canned music played on and the unrelenting sun beat down upon us. Curiously, three of us, Greg, Nelson, and I, should have known better. Just a few weeks before we had gone camping in Rhode Island. Maybe our misadventure was a curse, having something to do with Nelson's coining the term "pulling a Conliffe". Maybe Greg's loss of a joint out the Bus's window was merely a good indicator of our collective spaceiness. On our last day we collectively managed an unbroken chain of blunders. On that sweltering summer day, a day which we neglected to eat anything more than a token breakfast, we began to hike the mile or two along the long, curved, beach at Nappatree Point to explore the crumbling coastal artillery installation affectionately known as "The Fort". Aside from hiking on heat-reflecting, searing sand on which one must exert twice the effort to get but half as far, we smoked a joint or two rolled with the needlessly heavy, mouth-drying, wheat straw papers. Halfway to the Fort, and already burnt out, we gave up our quest and spent that entire afternoon soaking in the life-sapping sun. I still remember that day because it was then I got the worse sunburn of my life. True, smoking dope may not have been wise under the circumstances. But, what was really dumb was taking turns hyperventilating, trying to inflate a rather large one-man rubber boat. On the long trudge back even the thought of those delectable donuts we left back in the Bus couldn't motivate us to anything more than a painfully pathetic shuffle. We were past being merely wasted. In fact there is no term that can describe the experience. The only bright spot was that we'd survived at all to tell our tale, though obviously none the wiser for our ordeal. And so we waited... as dope got smoked and the wine got chugged. As the hours dragged on, even the pace of our wine consumption slowed as the Bali Hai turned from just annoyingly warm to sickly, steamy, hot. We had tried to keep the bottles in the shade beneath the blankets but for that sweet, fruity wine it was a bitter, fruitless effort.
Up on "stage" a new MC had taken over the mic... and he was a far cry from Woodstock's legendary Chip Monk, or was it Al Bum? His style, though within the bounds of political correctness for the time was tough to take for more than a few minutes at a time. He was just too gushing and syrupy. After what seemed like hours, our tolerance wore thin, and then ran out. Like just 18 hours before we were back to rolling our eyes and making snide, insulting comments as we did with Mr. B:. "I think I saw Jerry Lewis getting ready to come up next", said Greg. "Shit. I forgot my checkbook." Davey fired back. "You have a checkbook? Really?" Asked Bill? "Nah, said Davey, "Just a MasterCharge." "Think this guy graduated from Jerry's Telethon Institute?" I cut in. "Not unless they have a Hippie Division.,” said Davey. "Be weird if they had classes for the Black Panthers." As for what was going on behind the scenes, who knew. Seemingly, someone, somewhere, at this "People's Party" had assumed control, and was trying as best they to create an infrastructure for this impromptu gathering. Aside from the immense logistical problem of meeting just basic needs of untold thousands, they also had to be hard at work to meet our entertainment needs as well. This was a Party, after all. Towards this goal these de facto organizers decided that the quick and dirty way to get music was to invite local groups. But, they also wanted to aim higher... to strive to be a baby Woodstock. That meant raising money for better-known bands. And so between canned songs we were barraged by one appeal after another. Then the music ended all together. There was a knock on the microphone. "Can I have your attention! Now listen up, Brothers and Sisters. Listen up. Hey... it's a great day for a party, right?" There was a little response from the crowd. "I can't hear you. Anyway, if you want this Party to be a success, and I know you do, we're going to not only pitch in, but help each other out. If any of you have any spare cans of food it'd be cool if you brought them to the Free Kitchen. No fresh food, please. The Kitchen's right here, to the right of the stage." "Oh, listen up people. The technical crews have been up, hell, I don't know... since early morning, maybe all night, and it's going to be a long day. So, it'd be great if any of you have any extra uppers, dexies, meth, speed of any kind, it'd be appreciated. We want to make sure this Party comes off and we can't do it without them. And, before I forget. If any of you have any extra downers, we could certainly use them at the hospital tent. A number of your Brothers and Sisters are having bad trips; you know what a bummer those are. If you've got any extra, just drop them in the hat that's going around and it'll be groovy." (Oh God, he used the "g" word!) It was probably not what he was trying to accomplish that rubbed us the wrong was but how he said it... and I know my approximation is much less grating than what was actually said. It felt as if we were being forced to listen to our old friend Mr.B. for days on end. (Oh hell, what if he was here too?) The CIA, in all its ruthless, inhumane, sadistic glory couldn't have invented a worse torture. Also, there was an ideological difference. While some of us may have appreciated the Hippie "turn on, tune in, drop-out" tradition, others were really more steeped in the Counter Culture's rebellious, militant, anarchist tradition... the type that seriously planned breaking into the local Draft board to destroy records. For those of us, there was just so much we could take of this peace and love fluff. OK, maybe the MC was as nauseating as Mr. Bahama, but at least we did not suspect him of being a narc. But, could we put up with this for hours? In the mean time in the sky the sun wasn't getting any less intense. On the ground, we were becoming dreadfully bored; so much so bored that one of the greatest sources of entertainment was shaking up what was left of the Bali Hai... just to watch it foam. Hell, we almost got competitive. One of our neighbors, a little dwarf of a guy, did not seem to care about the fact the wine was not suitably chilled. He repeatedly paid us a visit. "Hey, you mind if I have 'nother hit off your wine? What's it called again?" He squinted to read the label. "Ya, Bali High... heh, heh. Get it? I'll have to remember that. It's great stuff! Wine of the Gods, man. Wine of the Gods." It was something Billy would say. Aside from the effects of the sun, there may have been a direct correlation between the number of his visits and the continued loss of appeal the foaming fruit froth held. "Feed your hungry Brothers and Sisters... " came another appeal from the MC or one of his minions.Soon we began to suspect we were suffering acute dehydration. Worst, our canteens were drained dry. At this point the wine bottles themselves were seen as more valuable than any wine they still might hold. For us this was almost a moral dilemma. True, some of us were raised by Old World, Depression/WWII-era parents who were always overly conscious of waste. I came from a home when the remnants old soap bars were routinely remelted into crude new bars of multi-colored soap. Under the circumstances I could almost hear my parents say: "You can't throw that away. There are refugee winos in Europe who could drink that wine." Despite their admonitions, or my gracious offers to send my plate full of liver and Brussels sprouts to these starving refugees, they were always short on specifics just how any wasted food would actually get to Europe. OK, maybe that kind of appeal to guilt wouldn't work any more. What really posed the moral dilemma was the thought of dumping WINE... and not just any wine, but the very first bottles we'd ever legally bought on our own. Davy shouted over to the little guy. "Hey, you want the rest of this wine?" He looked over and hesitated, obviously thinking about the growing foul taste in his mouth. Even for him the Bali Hai had long passed the point where it was still the Wine of the Gods. "Nah, that's OK. Thanks anyway." "Well, otherwise we're going to dump it." Our neighbor's eyes widened... "Well, in that case...." Seconds later he bounded over. Maybe he was one of those European refugees.
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