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WOODSTOCK OR BUST (A KIDNEY) |
JUNE 21, 1999
The other day I was sitting in my cubicle. My back was aching and my eyes were red and burning from staring at the computer screen. And I thought, "This is my bondage. Sitting here without moving for 40 hours a week...how is this not an inhuman form of torture? How is this not a slavery any less than picking cotton or plowing fields?
Of course you might say that I could quit. I am free to starve or live in the streets. Just as an African slave of the old south was free to run and face the whips and bullets of his white masters, but that did not make him any less a slave.
Energized by the tea with extra sugar I sat vibrating in my chair. My energy at war with itself as I tried to be a good worker and sit firmly in place. Finally, when the clock on my computer read five, the thought came to my mind that I should get in my car and drive anywhere where there is trees and open spaces.
Once in my car, an old Chevy Blazer, without a map in hand I started driving north. Impelled by the immediate desire to get as far away from the city as possible. After an hour of bumper to bumper traffic I found myself on the open highway with no direction known. I thought 'perhaps I'll go to Woodstock. I've never been there before.'
For people of my (kind-of-heard-of-the 60's) generation, the name Woodstock comes with unconscious images of freedom and non-conformity. I had a couple of blankets and a sponge egg-crate bed in the back of the blazer, the CD case was well stocked, and now I was heading to Woodstock with the songs of my childhood in my head comparing the place to the garden of Eden and the symbol of a social revolution.
After about 45 minutes of driving I realized I wasn't heading towards the Garden of Eden, in fact I was heading hopelessly west with no opportunity to right my course. If I don't find my redemption soon I will end up in Ohio. Or worse yet, California!
Since I do not have a map, in order to get
back on track in my quest to commune with
nature, I pull out my cell phone and call
a friend in Utah who looks up a map on the
internet and guides me back in the direction
of Woodstock.
After a couple hours of driving I pulled over into the parking lot of a diner that is closed for the night, right outside of Woodstock and crawl into the back of the Blazer for a good night's rest. My plan is to enter Woodstock as it is bathed in fresh morning sunlight.
In the morning I awake bright and refreshed. The diner is still closed so I decide to waste no time and head right into Woodstock.
I have an urgent need to partake of my morning urination, but my thinking is, 'this is Woodstock, within a few minutes I'll find a nice secluded spot in nature and do my business. And after all, for a man, isn't that what getting back to nature is really all about? Standing proudly among the flowers, trees, and tiny creatures of the forest, and whipping out my dick and pissing on the ground. Ahh, then I will be a true nature boy. This is how I will make my spiritual connection with Mother Nature!
So by 6:15 I'm driving through Woodstock. The sleepy town is beautiful. Old houses sit among trees and streams. The businesses have names that try to preserve a long lost connection between their hippie past and the yuppie present. On the right I pass Terrapin Pest Control: "We make ants say uncle." Sunflower Construction: building a brighter tomorrow. Rainbow Pediatrics Clinic: from free love to follow-up, we care for all your love child's medical needs.
As I look for my expanse of nature, where my first order of business is the aforementioned morning urination, I see the nature all around me, but there is one slight problem. Its seems that the good people of Woodstock love trees so much that in order to protect them they have nailed a bright yellow sign to each and every one of them that says. "WARNING: PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING!"
The signs are everywhere. On every tree in every yard. Even in forest areas each and every tree seems to have the sign warning me to stay away. By now my need to connect with nature is getting desperate. But everywhere I look are those damned signed. Placid Lake: No trespassing. State Park: No trespassing. I'm trying to squeeze my legs together as I drive. Wildlife preserve: No trespassing. My eyes are watering as I grit my teeth. Stay Out: No trespassing. By now I'm driving frantically. No trespassing. No trespassing. No trespassing. Through the quiet town of Woodstock I am driving like a madman when suddenly it appears before me like a desert mirage. A Holy Grail. A refuge. McDonalds! The golden arches shine a friendly welcome. I can that it's open by the cars passing through the driving. I tear into the parking lot and sprint into the men's rooms.
Standing at the urinal a smile of relief crosses my face. I don't know whether it's locals trying to keep stoned hippies from wrecking the place, or old hippies discovering their true materialist nature, but this is the most territorial place I've ever seen. Perhaps all those signs are really just to keep frustrated city dwellers who come searching for a day in the garden from coming round and pissing all over the place.
I grab a couple of egg mcmuffins, jump into the Blazer and head for Manhattan. So much for communing with nature. I came looking for people with flowers in their hair and almost ended up with piss running down my leg. Good bye garden of Eden. Hail the Sodom and Gomorrah!
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