Woodstock is not about image. It’s not about analyzing bonfires and looting frenzies and labeling an entire generation angry.

It’s not about doing it for the nookie or for Carson Daly.

Woodstock — whether 30 years, five years or 30 days ago — is about moments:

Jimi Hendrix pouring his heart on a Monday morning mass of leftover hippies, singing “The Star Spangled Banner” with his beaming white Stratocaster.

A drained Country Joe McDonald ad-libbing “What Are We Fighting For” an hour into his scheduled 30-minute set, as the next band to perform fights through miles of traffic.

Green Day urging an afternoon crowd to pelt them with mud.

The Red Hot Chili Peppers closing out a second weekend of peace and love in upstate New York with giant light bulb costumes brightening the stage.

Woodstock ’99 had its moments, too. And the majority of them had nothing to do with rioting or whatever we tend to label what those kids in the Towers do every spring.

To be honest, the moments are what made the $150 ticket worth it, not the hours of continuous music.

Did the bands disappoint? No, not at all.

But, logistically, unless — like The Who sang in ’69 — your eyes can see for miles (the main East Stage was a 20 minute walk to the West Stage) or you have equal love for Alanis Morissette and Limp Bizkit, there was plenty of downtime.

Maybe that explains the influx of “alternative entertainment” at the festival, coined “Boobstock” by Saturday morning newspapers.

Yeah, there were breasts, plenty of them. Even a few limp biscuits dangling around. Nudity was such the trend there was a man wearing nothing but a backstage pass walking through the food line at the press tent.

But boredom wasn’t entirely to blame for the fleshtival. “Show Us Your Tits” chants and “Free Breast Exam” signs were everywhere you looked.

Boys will be boys, whether stoned metalheads or Peace Patrol, and at Woodstock ’99, they weren’t shy about asking to see some skin.

Even on stage, everyone from the always politically correct Live frontman Ed Kowalczyk to Jamiroquai offered commentary on the boobs bouncing below their eyes.

You could even say the heat caused the nudity. Pacing the mammoth Griffiss Airforce Base in 90 degree weather, you’d do anything to stay cool. Why not go topless when everyone else is?

But all the boobs in the world couldn’t steal the fire from the true moments of the weekend.

Korn owns the rights to the first, which occurred early Friday evening, just as the cool night sky had set on the sun-scorched crowd.

Midway through the festival’s most intense set, frontman Jonathan Davis, standing center stage like Jesus Christ in a kilt, ignited his Zippo and held it above his head.

As he plunged into the next tune without saying a word, 150,000 fans — some old, some new — dug out their lighters and fired them in unison.

A sea of flames filled the air. No topless women. No garbage. No Jagermeister Frisbees. Just flames, an infectious bass line, and flickers of light from cameras trying to catch the beautiful moment.

It was hard rock’s attempt at “This Little Light Of Mine.” A quaint foreshadowing of how Woodstock would end.

A few hours later, after the goose bumps had gone away, several concertgoers gathered metal garbage cans for a makeshift percussion ensemble just outside the rave hangar where Moby was giving a flawless performance.

The idea of a poor man’s Stomp probably stemmed from a dude with a few minutes of spare time on his hands. And he was likely pretty confused when the show was still going two days later.

It had become such an attraction, the topless women had to stand on the cans to get attention.

By Saturday, the moments were starting to taste like a Woodstock concert should. People were starting to stink. Beer didn’t sound as good, but a little bit of rain to clear the dusty air did.

The stubs of every fountain on the grounds had been broken off, spraying water just high enough to shower under.

Rested and curious, the early risers watched trucks pump out sewage from the already overflowing port-a-johns (as the announcer often called them).

Hungover and bruised, the late risers ate pizza for breakfast, sitting on empty boxes from dinner the night before.

Whether “Nashville” or “Trainspotting” were really the attractions, the indoor indie film festival was the place to be. Many of the sprawled out people in the room looked like they had been there awhile.

It was the largest tent at Woodstock. In fact, a woman would later report being raped in the room. She was so stoned when talking to police she didn’t know if it was by one or two men.

Where she found police is a mystery to me. Until Sunday, the only figures of the law to cross my path were the less-than-enthused highway patrolmen directing me to the parking lot.

Outside the film festival was the official lost person wall. On it were more pizza boxes with phrases like, “Where are you Sarah Smith? Meet us at the tent.”

Hmm.

Across from the missing-in-action posterfest was the extreme sports area, where skateboard and tattoo contests (the winner had “EAT ME” on his inner lip) entertained passers by.

Boarders were a far cry from the Warped Tour. In fact, the “extreme” skatepark looked much like the scene outside T Galaxy on a Friday night, only with commentary — a loud and annoying announcer who kicked off each morning around 10.

On the East Stage (West Stage headliners Chemical Brothers, Mickey Hart, Los Lobos and Ice Cube attracted few reporters), the moments flowed like sweat from your forehead.

Kid Rock gave a career-making performance that included one of the festival’s most random displays of affection.

Urging the crowd to throw empty water bottles into the air, they followed like a game of Simon Says, some even emptying water onto the ground just to have something to throw.

For the kids in back, it was a spectacle. For us in front, it was an attack. Either way, it was a moment.

Mud finally stepped up to the occasion late Saturday afternoon. Water from drinking fountains and broken hydrants was emptying into a stream that would divide the East Stage field into two sides. Crossing without getting muddy was impossible.

Mud fights broke out and before you could say “Woodstock ’94,” people were playing in sewage like it was the same. Fortunately, Limp Bizkit drew nearly everyone back to the stage before “Poopstock” was declared.

If there was a buzz band of Woodstock ’99, the Bizkit were it.

On one side of the stage stood Puff Daddy and Stephen Baldwin. Fellow midgets Verne Troyer (better known as Mini-Me) and Kid Rock sidekick Joe C watched from the other.

What they saw was an eruption from the crowd so powerful it knocked the walls from the speaker towers right off.

Well, they were actually more torn off than knocked, but either way, they found their way to the front of the stage, putting a new twist on “crowd surfing.”

It looked like fun to chief Bizkit Fred Durst, who urged the crowd to assist him in the truly extreme sport.

The result, though not as memorable as it could have been, was Durst screaming “You gotta have faith” as proud fans held him above the crowd.

Rage Against The Machine and their pure angst package was one long and memorable moment, capped off by a seemingly fitting burning flag and an endless line of ambulances leaving the grounds.

Metallica followed and brought what everyone was praying for — rain. You wouldn’t have guessed it from the sky, but when announcers gave the “stay away from metal objects” warning, the cheers surged.

The rain came in sublime timing — just as Metallica had entered into “One.” It didn’t last long (West Stage headliners the Chemical Brothers were still dissecting the same song when it stopped), but for a few minutes it felt like Woodstock.

In the rave hangar later that evening, Fatboy Slim spun records like they were going out of style. His audience was a bit of everything: guys groping girls, girls groping guys, girls groping girls.

The line at the body piercing tent was finally dying down and a shirtless man with a microphone was collecting ones to pay for a pair of broke women to have their breasts painted.

One guy gave a $10 and got flustered when the girls were still clothed 20 minutes later.

Before melting into my sleeping bag poached on the hard ground, which looked like a cloud of pillows to my exhausted eyes, I recall a rather strange conversation I had:

“I don’t remember peeing today.”

“We had to have peed, we drank a bottle of water every 15 minutes.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I think you’re right. Is that healthy?”

Sunday was not as memorable. Exhaust had set in and wallets were wearing thin.

Our Lady Peace made up for Everlast’s failure to sing a decent note, and Jewel was smokin’ long before the fires began.

Rumors were flying backstage about the supposed Hendrix tribute, which went from a guitar gods showcase to disappointing laser show.

However, the evening was not without a moment. It wasn’t the moment, like many wish to think, but it was the final moment and the one distilled in our minds.

As a naked Flea and the Chili Peppers closed with an impeccable cover of Hendrix’s “Fire,” a field that had been caked in three days worth of empty $4 water bottles was set fire.

As the flames grew, so did our imaginations.

We were the Woodstock of our generation. All 220,000 of us had survived a lethal combination of heat, dehydration and sleep deprivation.

We had shared the same foul toilets and showered under the same fountains. We were one. Unstoppable.

If there were direct flights to Kosovo, we would have been cutting in line to get on them. If there were starving children near by, we would have been stuffing $12 pizzas down their throats.

But there weren’t. There was nothing to fuel these first-time feelings into.

So the class of ’99 looted and destroyed everything we could find that fought these feelings.

Sure, it was stupid.

Some people even got hurt.

But it was Woodstock, where stupid was cool. Where grown-ups wore pacifiers just because it was 3 a.m., and vertically challenged performers wore shirts that said “I’m not a fucking midget.”

Where men and women got their nipples pieced then walked topless into a mosh pit.

Where peace and love had gone through 30 years of aging and no one knew how to respond.