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Woodstock 99

Like many of my generation, my first contact with Woodstock came, not from my parent's psychedelic stories, but from the Sunday comics. To me Woodstock was nothing more than Snoopy's birdie buddy that couldn't fly a straight line from his nest to the top of the doghouse if his life depended on it. Woodstock always managed to end up in the water dish after a few loopy attempts at aviation. Which came first the festival or the egg? I don't know, but would like to find out.

Not too much later, I learned of the first Woodstock Festival that took place out in Max's field. When people spoke of it, it was always cloaked in a strange reverential mystique. As if it were the most unique experience ever shared by those who loved music, loved peace and loved everything that sat still long enough. A pure "moment of Zen" in an otherwise chaotic and turbulent time. I wonder how many Porta-Johns they had?

To me, Woodstock was THE once in a lifetime gathering, comparable only to the Sermon on the Mount. It was as legendary as the Round Table, and spoken of in the hushed tones reserved only for truly awe-inspiring experiences. When the 25th Anniversary Festival was announced I was very apprehensive. How could they attempt to capture that expe

. . .
I was immediately excited for two reasons. Meanwhile, I set about my course to find my own place in the World of Woodstock. So I arranged for the time off from my real job and waited for the party to start. My "STAFF" pass got me onto the site to have a look around.

I didn't let it get to me too much, because I had neither the desire nor inclination to attend. I was working out of state at the time and the list of performers didn't excite me all that much.

Our Woodstock path was definitely not straight and narrow; we had our share of loops and spins. As soon as the festival's relocation to Rome started down its official path, the pins and needles kicked in with full force. Those who warned against this course of action are now shouting their "I told you so"s from the highest mountains. Yeah, I sold some tickets, but the effort was not what I would call taxing. It reminds me of those fifties retro-groups that tour the music scene under the names of popular groups to which they have only the slightest tether in reality. I was there to sell tickets to any lost soul who managed to find their way to Rome, NY, but didn't have the foresight to buy a ticket before leaving home.

Common topics in this essay:
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