=========================================================================
[WASHINGTON POST, 7 AUG 1994; Style Section or F. Pgs F1,F4.]

		     PASTURE PRIME
		          by
		     Tony Kornheiser

	I won't be going be Woodstock this time. I won't be watching
"bombers riding shotgun in the sky turning into butterflies above our
nation." 
	I can sum up why in one word: Port-a-Potty.
	Here's how you know you've reached middle age--you make much ado
about the loo.
	It's not that I don't want to see Joe "Alta" Cocker or Bob Dylan.
Of course I do. To gloat! Get a load of those faces. I've seen fewer
wrinkles on a Shar-pei. I stare into the vacuum of Dylan's eyes and say,
"Do you want to . . . take a meal?"
	I still love the music. But I'm 25 years older. If you're reeling
in the years, that's a lot of line. I'm not suggesting we're spoiled, but
there are certain accommodations we of the Woodstock Generation look for
in a concert these days.
	Like valet parking.
	I don't want a long hike to my seats especially if there is as
much mud as at the original Woodstock. That slop is terrible on $200
Cole-Haan Italian loafers.
	And if it's going to be a weekend, I'd like a golf package.
	Maybe I could get in a foursome with Stephen Stills--though
he's a little big to share a golf cart with. Stills is one of the few
performers you won't need binoculars to see. If he were any wider, he'd
need running lights.
	Up until a few days ago there were dueling Woodstocks. One was in
Saugerties, N.Y.,and promised 28 1/2 hours of music over two days--about
the same as an average Greatful Dead guitar solo.  This one, Woodstock
'94, is apparently aimed at those whiny spongers of Generation X, since
it features their bands, like Nine Inch [p. F4]Nails, Arrested
Development and Spin Doctors. What kind of name is Nine Inch Nails
anyway? Whatever happened to names that made sense like Strawberry Alarm
Clock or Moby Grape?
	The other Woodstock, with Richie Haven and John Sebastian was
suppose to replicate the original one, right down to the site on Max
Yasgur's dairy farm. Yasgur had the good sense to die years ago, so he
was spared the embarrassment of finding out that the promoters pulled the
plug when they sold only 1,600 tickets.
	Maybe nobody >wants< to go back to Woodstock.
	"Didn't people sit on the ground?" a young lawyer asked me
incredulously.
	Yes, on the ground, in the mud, as it poured for three straight
days. And there were no showers, and very little food.  It got kind of
gamy.
	Who wants to replicate >that<?
	"If I'm going to put up with that kind of body odor, I'd rather
be in France," my smart friend Martha said. "At least I'd be eating well."
	The only way anyone got through the original Woodstock was on
drugs. And you can't take acid now--it contraindicates with the Prozac.
	You reach the age and a station in life--marked by the use of the
word "chalet" in casual conversation--where camping out isn't practical
anymore, where you find yourself choosing a vacation spot because of its
proximity to a same-day dry cleaner.  I'm not saying seeing the Who
wouldn't be worth spending one night in some sort of hasty lean-to (if
every AA motel within 100 miles were full): I'm just asking: Would I be
able to store all my dermatological necessities? At night I put on so many
solutions I think I'm Sherlock Holmes.  And would there be enough calcium
on hand for those of us who worry about osteoporosis?
	Part of me is tickled by the thought of a legion of us sitting in
a meadow, carrying our overpriced Sutton Place Gourmet picnics; all of us
trying to make calls on our cellular phones at once, creating buzz that
sounds exactly like the opening riff from "Eight Miles High."
	And the camcorder problem--at night, all those stupid blinking
red lights would make the open field look like Runway 28 at La Guardia.
The next morning, where would we plug in our individual cappuccino makers
for that 5 a.m. wake-up screech by Edgar Winter and White Trash?
	But I get a sense of dread thinking about what the new Woodstock
might look like at midday: thousands of potbellied has-beens slathered
with sun block, reclining in lounge-chairs, with blankets over our legs
like we're on the deck of the Titanic, listening to Country Joe singing,
"And it's one-two-three what are we fighting for? and honestly not
remembering.
	The truth is that none of us could take 28 1/2 hours of anything,
because none of us ha any attention span anymore.  Don't you sometimes
start walking down to the basement and you get to the fifth step, and you
forget why you're there?  I don't even have a long enough attention span
to sleep through the night.
	The true Zen dilemma is what would we wear to Woodstock? If we
wear tie-dyed shirts and gauze dresses, we're >poseurs<. On the other
hand if we wear Dockers and Polo shirts, We're >hoseurs<. And we could
hardly what we wore to the original-which was absolutely nothing! People
walked around completely naked, Although the third day you couldn't tell
because the mud was covering up the good stuff. 
	Isn't that the true fault line of the generations? When you're
20, you can around naked and not scare anybody. When you're over 40 and
naked, you scare yourself.

==============================END======================================