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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 21 SATURDAY, JULY 11, 1970 continued
IF WINE HAS A CORK; IT’S GOT TO BE GOOD! Billy picked up on the topic of wine. "If we're staying... we need to get some more alcohol." Bill was right, of course. We stopped back in at the package store that had served us just 6 long hours before. Though our natural inclination was towards the cheap, sweet, pop wines... we knew that Bali Hai was off the short list. With vivid memories of its steamy rankness still fresh in our minds, it might be off our list for months! It might be akin to trying Scotch again after one had puked up on the vile stuff. Ok, maybe the Bali Hai wouldn't be that bad. After my one and only experience with a stolen bottle of Cutty Sark Scotch, which any connoisseur already knows has a distinct vomit-like flavor note, I was convinced Scotch wasn't actually bonafide liquor, but a secret Pavlovian conditioning agent with the power to discourage one's drinking for life. As we scanned the shelves for alternatives Greg and I returned to some distinctive bottles that had caught our eye earlier that day. Now, here was a wine with class. This was not cheap American soda-pop wine. It tastefully colored; pale green bottle was wrapped in delicate white plastic netting. "Man, check out the net!" I pointed out.Greg respectfully picked up a bottle of white wine to read the labels... yes there were two... the second neck label had printed upon it the vintage year, 1967. I read the Tytell Europa label. "Whoa, the stuff's 3 years old. We might be out of our league."
What's more, the bottle held other clues to its distinguished pedigree. Greg squinted to decode the tiny printing on the two sets of medals. "Looks like it won some award back in 1929. Where’s Barcelona? Spain, right?" "Sounds right. Nelson would know. And we know ‘29 was a good year." "Just not for the stock market. But, is white wine appropriate for peanut butter sandwiches?" "White bread, white wine? Sorry, didn't bring Emily Post." My parents’ 1944 edition of Post's "Book of Etiquette" had proven as hilarious as it was infuriating. That humans could subject themselves to such ridiculously arbitrary "rules" was only more proof that the unquestioning conformity society required was actually a form of psychosis. In a world where hundreds of thousands were dying in Vietnam, where Lake Erie was dead, did humanity really need rules governing what color suit a boy going to boarding school should wear on a train? But, back to the wine. What really reveled the wine's true worth was carefully hidden beneath the plastic neck wrap. "Oh, incredible! Charlzo, this bottle's got a real cork!" "Wow, man. Guess that means it's got to be good. "Ya, and it's imported! Says it's from Spain." "So, what is Rioja, anyway?" Greg read further... "It Spanish... Chab-lis?" "Never heard of it. But, it's got to be good!" We were, however, put off by the steep price. It went for $1.05, a considerable amount over the 69-79 cents we were used to paying for The Ripples, Boone's Farm, and Bali Hais of the day. The stronger, less forgiving, Wild Irish Rose went for a pricey 89 cents. Yet, this import seemed an incredible bargain considering all the trappings. On an aside, it seems the number 105 permeated the trip. The original festival ad said Mountaindale was 105 miles from NYC. The bag of pot was auctioned for $105. Now the wine. Synchronous events? What were the odds? Were we again experiencing the reality-warping Catskills? Greg and I decided it was too good a deal to pass up. We didn't split on a bottle but splurged, getting one apiece. Davey and Bill could get whatever cheap, Amerikan rotgut they wanted... but when it came to party time, it would be our superior sense of good taste that would become the stuff of which stories are told. Once again the guy behind the counter graciously grabbed our money without asking for any ID. Now this was our sort of town. I bet he, for one, was grateful the Freak Show had come to town. We headed back to the Bus... hoping to find some sign that Nelson had come back. But, he was neither there nor did he break into the Bus to get his canteen. If any of us had any secret hopes about heading home that night, our fate was now sealed: we had no alternative but to go back up to the Summit Hotel. That was OK by me. Before I could make the hike I needed to do something about my lack of a practical pack. It was then I had a brainstorm. I took a spare pair of brown bell bottoms, tied knots as low on the legs as I could, fastened the fly, and ran a piece of rope through the belt loops. The make shift duffel bag became even more hideously perverted once filed with my stuff. But, it did work and that's what ultimately mattered. By 7:30 pm we were back at the Summit Hotel. Nelson and Tom were still there and, needless to say, we were the last people they expected to see... and no, Nelson did not leave his canteen in the Bus on purpose. Not much had changed Party-wise. Some local group was playing back at the stage/sound truck. But there were no startling new developments on the Dead or Richie Havens. Since nothing on stage seemed worth our while, we did not consider moving back. So, with the sun setting in the west we began to settle in to our new home. There was a large stone that beckoned we make our campfire on. Having a fire was a given, but it also meant we had to gather firewood. Fortunately, the woods were but 30' away. Soon we had enough wood for the night. It's somewhat amazing we remember anything about that night. What we did recall is probably due more to piecing together our individual fragments into a collective memory than what any one of us remembered on our own. After a few joints, or years, it's easy to believe we remembered such things on our own.
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