The grass results in the munchies. The guy with the necktie headband shares a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich with us. He’s from Ohio, got here on Tuesday, and volunteered to help build the concession booths that look like medieval tents up the hill behind us. If we need more food, that’s where we should go. He tells us that some hippies are giving away food but to be careful. Some have cooked corn they picked from a neighboring field, not realizing that it was feed meant for livestock and guaranteed to give humans a bad case of the runs.

Over the PA comes the news that a baby has been born. Not far from us, a naked woman stands up and begins shouting unintelligibly, gesturing in some strange, frantic form of cheerleading. Two other women cover her with a blanket and get her to sit down.

“Brown acid,” says the guy with the red-and-blue tie around his head.

Down on the stage, a band called Quill starts to play. We try to listen, but the band is not well known, and this far back in the crowd, many people continue to talk and mill about. The band may be difficult to hear, but there’s no shortage of entertainment. Mostly crowd watching.

Tinsley and I are engrossed in the spectacle. The masses of gaudily dressed, braless, drug-using longhairs; the music; the sensation of being in the midst of something huge and unlike anything we’ve experienced before. A tall stringy-haired vagabond wearing a colorfully knit poncho and using a tree branch as a walking stick weaves haphazardly through the crowd. His eyes fix on Tinsley and he makes a beeline for her, then leans close, his face only inches from hers. “Want to ball, baby?”

“No, thank you,” Tinsley replies.

He wanders away.

The sun comes out. Country Joe McDonald does an acoustic set, leading us in the Fish cheer: “Give me an F. Give me a U. Give me a C. Give me a K. What’s that spell?”

“FUCK!” roar half a million freaks.

“What’s that spell?”

“FUCK!”

“What’s that spell?”

“FUCK!”

He plays the “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-to-Die-Rag,” the anti – Vietnam War anthem for our generation. The largest chorus in the history of the world sings along.

Clouds drift in overhead and a light rain begins to fall. Tinsley covers her head with her damp denim jacket. We’re both hungry, so I tramp through the crowd toward the concession stands. The lines for food stretch for a hundred yards. The wait is long but not intolerable thanks to the numerous meandering joints that come my way.

By the time Lucas the Ravenous gets his hot dogs, he is both ripped and has been ripped off. They’re charging a dollar for a hot dog that would cost twenty-five cents anywhere else. Maybe Arno’s right about the fleeting nature of the hippie spirit.