WOODSTOCK II
My best friend Mike had just picked up a brand new 1994 Corvette Convertible. “You’re crazy to take it,” I told him. “There’s gonna be a million people at the concert, the parking will be ridiculous and if it rains like it’s supposed to the entire place will be one big mud pit like back in 1969.” Mike was easy going, nothing bothered him and he had made up his mind to take his new ride. “We are not going to be seen up there in your piece of shit Delta 88.” He was right, my 88’ was piece of excrement to the naked eye. However, it was reliable and for a trip to the 25th anniversary of Woodstock I thought it was the wiser mode of transportation. Despite this he insisted on the Vette. I originally determined it was because he was so excited to finally have the car that he couldn’t bare to part with it for three days. But then I realized he thought it would be a magnet for women. Ninety-nine percent of the reason he’d made the purchase in the first place was to compensate for his inability to get laid. This was logic I couldn’t argue with.
Once we were on the open road I changed my tune completely. His new whip was phat. The metallic blue seemed to glow in the summer sun. We flew past every vehicle on the road during the 202-mile trip up from Boston. And when we crept through traffic the car incited the turning of so many heads we nicknamed her Whiplash.
“Saugerties New York is the next town on the map,” I said with a voice loud enough to project over the radio and rushing wind. “We should get off here and expect to hit some traffic before we reach the event grounds.” Following my instructions Mike took the exit to find the most spectacular winding roads; ones like you might see in a car commercial. There he put the Vette through its paces, winding the engine in and out of gear around each turn.
Before long we began seeing cars parked on the side road and concertgoers traveling on foot. “I want to see how close we can get before I stop.” Mike said as he kept driving at a moderate pace. Up ahead the road took a sharp dogleg to the left.
My heartbeat began to pick up with looming anticipation. Mike reached out and lowered the radio. “Look at this,” He said head gesturing to young lady walking towards us on the left. She was a stunning blonde with an hourglass figure reminiscent of Pamela Anderson. The red halter-top she wore barely did its job, and her jean shorts would have been hazardous even for Daisy Duke.
Feeling his oats Mike leaned on the horn and locked in on her visually. Responding to his advance she shouted “PIG!” at the top of her lungs. Mike was so shocked he turned to me with a face flushed red from embarrassment.
The impact that followed was violent; the airbag thrust me directly back in my bucket seat. Uncertain what had happened I struggled to gather my wits. Looking over and out the cracked windshield I could see it wasn’t a “pig” at all but more like a bore.
Sprawled lifeless in the road it was debatable whether he or the Vette had fared worse. Turning to Mike, who looked about as bad as I felt, he said, “ You know my Dad was right, women are meant to be loved, not understood.”
Sprawled lifeless in the road it was debatable whether he or the Vette had fared worse. Turning to Mike, who looked about as bad as I felt, he said, “ You know my Dad was right, women are meant to be loved, not understood.”
Too bad it hadn't been a deer
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