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per's PA system. Heaven. The press was to be in a separate area from the
"youth mass" and when we landed, you could feel the heat from this huge
group of cattle. After ditching the green cap and jumping the fence, I knew
I was on my own in the flanneled jungle.
My first contact with the sub-species was a dude named Critter. "Ma name
is Charlie, but everybody calls me Critter." He was coming down from
some killer Owsley tabs and warned of the trails that were coming from the
mountain mist. He took me back to his camp where we met the rest of his
clan: his girlfriend Jemma, whose claim to fame was giving head to Jerry
Garcia some twenty years before in Golden Gate Park, and their only son,
Malcolm X Moonbeam, a true stoner trog that was cleaning a pipe to get a
last bit of some dank resin. The weed ran out the night before and he was
"jonesing for a rip." Apparently they had come all the way from Mantooth,
Illinois, to see the show. Jemma's words summed it best for me, "Well, you
gotta be a part of something or you're gonna be a part of nothing." Heavy.
I left to search out other wayward souls.
My next stop was the shitter where I met the man responsible for all the
port-o-pottles, Dick Narducci. He has been living in dung for as long as he
can remember. He explained that, "The seventies were bad because of all
Little Bam Margera (opposite top) beat security to the punch when he skated the bank on the roof of
the guest hotel and kickflipped it to fakie, Shortly after this shot was taken, the security threw him off
the roof into the raging mash pit. One of the most energetic performances (above) came from Ice-T and
Bodycount. After the show, ke announced that he would run for President. One of the specialty events
was the beer chug marathon. Team Pierre (right) gulped all comers on his was to victory. Shena the
snake woman (below right) came all the way from Daytona, Florida, to partake in the day's festivities.
Her quote on the action, "Anybody fucks with me and the last thing you hear is the hiss of Marvin."
The highlight of the night was Pearl Jam (below) who in true rock star fashion, flew in on the Concorde
and threw caviar and goose paté to the adoring crowd. The Coat Hangar Man (opposite right) was a hit
at the coat check booth. Spinal Top (opposite left) laughed all the way from the joke tent to the bank.
the bad food and vomit at rock concerts. But now with all of these vegetarian tree-hugging hippies,
this shit is like a day at the beach," For a man that looks at turds like dollars, he was a very rich man.
I left him in heaven or hell, I couldn't tell.
Spying some young trendizoids helping one of their friends back to their tent who had
slammed a fifth of Jack to the dome before the first band went on, I could see this soldier was
making life tough for the others. He wouldn't move. The others thought he was out cold until 1
jump-started him with my stun gun. The kids thanked me and waffled off to the main stage.
Trying my best to fit in with the crowd by "dudeing" people, standing at the edge of the mosh
pit and slamming kids in the head when they weren't looking and generally chameleonizing
myself to the "Generation X,
I soon found myself having the
most fun I'd had in years. I
saw two bands and went off
to seek more of the deviant
lifestyle that has Middle
America so scared.
My first stop was
the Scarring and