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Woodstock 1999: Pricey Hippies and Smelly Water

posted by Emerson on 8/08/01

So there I was.

Woodstock, 1999.

It was dirty, it was smelly.  The people were smelly.  Dear lord, were the people smelly.  I mean, I can understand you being in a field for three days and not showering so you can "get a good vibe" or some horseshit like that, but come on.  Splash some water on those pits, and I swear the people at the rave will love you.  I mean, they may not let you follow Phish around if you don't have a body stench that could choke a team of Clydesdales, but at least your parents will let you back into their house.

Myself, Nate, Mon, and Traic (pronounced “dickhead”...not really, he was a foreign exchange student and I couldn’t get my mouth to say TRAY-ick so I just called him ‘dickhead‘) arrived early Thursday afternoon.  The 176-hour trip was pretty good, for the most part.  Did you know there are 43 Waffle Houses between Kentucky and New York?  True.  Along the way we had such fun.  Between leaving Mon behind, accidentally of course, at a male prostitute-infested rest area, and attempting to sell Dickhea--err--Traic to a trucker for some Mini-Thins, we were almost partied out before we got there! LOL!

We finally arrived at the site, and got to work on unloading the car.  I had 3 backpacks.  One with clothes, one with miscellaneous items of luxury like cigarettes and things to trade around, and one filled with bottles of liquor. I noticed Nate carrying the tent, Mon had his and Nate’s sleeping bags and Traic had his sleeping bag.  Where was my sleeping bag?

“Nate, where’s my sleeping bag?”

“Did you pack it?”

“No...”

“Okay, I know where it is.”

“Where?”

“At your house, douche.”

D’oh.


Dirty hippies.

We meander up to the gates where security is waiting to check everyone’s shit for things that are prohibited.  You know, dangerous things, like your own bottle of water.  Here’s where Nate and Mon get scared, since I have a backpack full of liquor.  I light a cigarette and tell them to shut the helllllllllllllll up.  We move closer to the front when I’m hearing hacking and coughing behind me.  Apparently this guy and his woman, we’ll call them “Hippie Joe Douchebag and Hairy Pit Lady of Tye-Dyed Doom”, have taken offense to the smoke coming from my cigarette.  THEN they tell me how smoking will kill me.  I respond with “Better dead than a hippie.”  The rest of our back-and-forth was even more amusing.

HPLoT-DD:  We’re just trying to save your life.

Me: Then take a shower.

HJD:  Don’t push your standards on us, man.

Me: My standards would gag and die within 50 feet of your presence.  Only my will power, and the fact that I’m 48% android, is allowing me to continue breathing.

HJD: You must work for the government.

Me: You must collect welfare.

HPLoT-DD: You need some manners, man, this is all about peace.

Me: Then give me some peace and quiet and shut up.

HJD:  Don’t talk to my flower like that man, it’s really rude.

Me: Talk to my ass, I’m turning around.

That went on for about 15 minutes, until we reached the front of the line. By this time Mon and Nate both had gone into stuttering shock over the contents of my backpack, and we had seen plenty of stuff confiscated from our vantage points in line.  We are at the front, and the security guard looks at me, tilts his head, and says, “Dave?”

“Hey Cousin Dan!”

“Go on in!”

I knew it was going to be easy, but had I known HOW easy, I wouldn’t have even bought a ticket.

We find the area with the least amount of Frigging Hippies and set up camp.  I get over forgetting my sleeping bag by drinking copious amounts of liquor.   It got pretty bad.  Every time someone would walk by and say “Peace, man!” I would reply with “PIECE OF ASS?!?!”  Our camping neighbors were pretty cool.  On one side we had 5 girls from some sorority at NYU, like Alpha Beta Double-D or some such, who could have a shot of liquor only after they showed us some titty.  On the other side we had some Rastafarian guys, who were more than happy to trade weed for alcohol.  Note: I didn’t smoke any, but damned if I wasn’t drunk enough to think I was high, too.  I got to wear one of their multi-colored Rasta hats and sing Eazy-E’s “Gimme Dat Nut” with them.  Yeah, I’m pretty entertaining when I’m drunk.

I'm sure you've all heard a lot of stories about Woodstock '99.  Well, guess what?  They were all true.  Most stories start out "4 dollars for a 20oz. bottle of goddamned WATER???///" and this one is no different.

"4 dollars for a 20oz. bottle of goddamned WATER???///" I yelled, so loudly that the LAST person in line, some 50 feet back, heard me loud and clear.

"Yes sir, how many would you like?" said the fancy-lad in the concessions camper, awaiting his lunch break so he could, no doubt, go make out with a guy.  Probably one from that Offspring group.

"How many? HOW MANY?  I want zero! Fucking zero!  I hope I die of dehydration in the middle of Creed's set so that when my buddies back home turn on MTV News, Kurt Loder will be there to tell them that SCOTT'S MUSIC KILLS PEOPLE."

“So you don’t want anything?”

“Gimme a pretzel!”

“4 dollars.”

“GAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

And then I went back to our campsite, fuming.  I was pissed, mostly about the water, but partly because I had forgotten to bring my sleeping bag.  I know, 'what an idiot!', piss off.  When I got back, the rest of the guys had smoked so much pot they had turned green.  I put on my sad face and said “I have no sleeping bag! I sad! Poop pants!”  Turns out the sorority girls had one of their chicks hook up with some other friends, so they not only had an extra bag, but a space in their tent where it could go.  Goodnight, boobies!


Good morning, boobies!  Good morning, Vodka!  If it seems like I’m drinking a lot in this story, because I had developed quite an addiction to alcohol.  I’ve since quit that nonsense.  Not totally, I just save getting hammered for New Year’s Eve and July 4th, because Alcohol + Fireworks - Fingers = FUN!

It was a beautiful Saturday morning.  I think it was morning.  Sun was out, that’s all I knew.  I was pretty excited, because back then I was really into Kid Rock and couldn’t wait to go see him kill the place that night.  I was having a great breakfast of a granola bar and vodka when I noticed there weren’t a lot of people around.  Oh yeah, they were at one of the stages listening to bands.  Duh.  Nate and Traic came running up to the tent gibbering.  After smacking them both (well, smacking Traic and then giving Nate’s smack to Traic), I got the story from them.  Kid Rock had been given what was possibly the shittiest set time-- 2 in the afternoon.

It was 1:34.

I hauled ass over to the stage with Nate.  We had made Traic stay behind to test the zipper on the tent over and over to make sure it worked.  I can say it, but it’s been said plenty.  For those who don’t know, Kid Rock was given a horribly shitty set time, and he absolutely blew the proverbial roof off the place.  For the 8 of you who just ran to the forum to write “OH I’M SURE KID ROCK BLEW ALL RIGHT” you can eat your own ass.  After the set we milled around for a while, visiting various vendors and sponsor booths.  I saw way too many people trying to be cute wearing shirts with Woodstock, the yellow bird from Peanuts.  I slapped them all.  Okay, I may have bought one of them.

I know, I’m such a wanker.

I really only went to see a few bands, the rest I was pretty nonchalant about. I made extra-special sure I saw Kid Rock, G Love & Special Sauce, DMX, Everclear, Moby, Oleander, the Chili Peppers, and Parliament Funkadelic.  The fact that there were TONS of awesome bands all in the same venue almost made up for the outrageously high prices of everything.  Almost.  What *did* make up for the high prices of everything?  You’ll find out at the end of the next paragraph.

I saw the Mud People.  They were pretty muddy.  Yup.  One of them ran up to me with a gob of mud in his hand.  I told him that if that mud touched me, I would touch him, and not gently in the bathing suit area.  He chucked it at me anyways, splattering my legs.  I calmly cracked him in the jaw and took his wallet.  So Jonathan H. Randall of Chicago, IL, I hope you’ve learned your lesson.  I wish I could say I was the first person to fling mud at Carson Daly, but that would be a bit Forrest Gump-ish if it turned out I started everything that happened at Woodstock.  It would also be a lie.  I was probably the 37th person to fling mud at Carson.  I *did* however hit him square in the back, so I can conceivably die happy.

Sunday was the day.  I slept through Metallica, since they suck, but was perfectly awake for Rage and Limp Bizkit. Fires were set.  It was kind of exhilarating, but pretty pants-wetting terrifying at the same time.  Red Hot Chili Peppers singing “Fire” did not help matters much.  Neither did all the people with lighters and flammable objects.  I’d have to say they were pretty instrumental in all the fires going up, were I pressed for answers.

Then, fate was shining or me.  Irony as well.  At the event were 9(to my count) ACE Hardware trailers.  What were inside these trailers?  It was a mystery, much like a soup can with no label.  Who doesn’t like mysteries and surprises?  Not me, I say.  And so it happened that the lock on one trailer was broken.  I can’t say exactly how this happened, or how much alcohol was involved by the guilty party, but what happened next was beyond my wildest dreams.

The trailer was filled with camping equipment.  Tents, canteens, lanterns, and yes, Virginia, sleeping bags.  That trailer was unloaded faster than my gun when I see a hippie.  Too bad it wasn’t enough to satisfy the growing crowd.  Pretty soon the trailer locks were popped, over and over, until every single trailer had been opened and emptied.  Who needs one sleeping bag when you have 37?

I am in these pictures by the way, but I’ll not tell you which one or which person I am.  I am VERY easy to see, however.  Not my proudest moment, but I least I didn’t burn the fucking place to the ground or molest girls.


The scene of the crime. Inset, NOT me. Nope.

Okay, I molested like 3 girls, but they were drunk and so was I.  Besides, it you grab a girl by the hair and shake her head up and down, she just said “Yes, touch my boobies”.  At least that’s the defense I used it court.  Only kidding.  We should be together too.

So, if they ever have another Woodstock, which doesn’t look good after the events from this one, I would suggest going.  Bring your entire life savings, it may be enough for a pretzel and two bottles of water.  Maybe.

Emerson
AIM: Suicide King Mob
Are you English or retarded?


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