In 1994, when there were no Vines or Instagrams or Twitter feeds or blog updates to at least slightly numb one’s FOMO, I watched MTV’s coverage of the Woodstock re-up as a means to dull my anger about being born in the ’80s. I was too young to go, and the dry, dirt-and-mud-free confines of my parents’ basement were where I sat and watched it. It was aspirational. The mud didn’t seem necessarily like fun, but with so many bands playing so close together, I could imagine braving the elements. Of course, at the time, I had no idea that a big glob of people who go to these things are essentially paying money to get fucked up with extra-special background noise and, more or less, are shilling out money to see a bunch of bands play one song. I think there’s a line you draw between mud people and music fans. Mud people don’t care about the mess of the festival because it’s part of their experience; music fans are hindered by extreme inclement weather because they paid money to spend the day seeing as many bands as possible — not to be an extra ingredient in dirt porridge.