CONFUSION RAINS ON HEMP FEST

There is probably still a bewildered but mellow straggle of hippies waiting
in a Harrisburg hayfield to get in to World Hemp Fest 2000, even though the
party ended three days ago. At the main entrance, sunburned, dreadlocked,
multi-pierced hemp enthusiasts Saturday tried desperately to score
tickets--and those were the staffers manning the gate as the cars lined up
in front of them. No one knew if enough tickets had been printed, if they
were stolen and sold on the black market, or if someone had lost them.

Inside, on the main stage, an impassioned pot activist extolled the
benefits of hemp as a medicine, a plant and a lifestyle choice. "Overgrow
the government!" he exhorted in a raspy voice.

Right. The same people who can't figure out how to run their own festival
should be in charge of the biggest superpower in the world.

In marked contrast to the Oregon Country Fair, held the weekend before,
Hemp Fest 2000 hardly lived up to its billing as a warm, fuzzy family
event. In fact, the vibe was just plain depressing--a $15 flea market for
hemp tinctures, bong cozies and pro-drug bumper stickers. The majority of
the attendees seemed to be either burned-out hippies who have embraced hemp
as a religion or pungent teenagers spending the summer on the road.

But what do I know? I'm an indifferent consumer and an even less
enthusiastic pot smoker. As far as I could tell, the Hemp Fest was a way
for ringmaster Bill Conde--who owns a redwood lumber business and a concert
venue called High-5--to finance a grass hut in Belize, where he hopes to
head after this fifth and final festival.

Conde's selling out, but he told reporters it has nothing to do with the
fact that he's been charged with aiding and abetting drug
transactions--charges that stem from a prior festival. I never got a chance
to talk with him, even after waiting outside his trailer for half an hour.
Every time I knocked on the door, one of his posse blocked the entrance,
saying he'd be out soon. Behind them, I could see Conde sitting at the
table, counting out wads of cash.

It was beautiful, man.