CRITICAL MASS--A PARTY
 
 
     "Bad idea," said Karen, as she rotated the new Pepsi can in
her hand.  "What a terrible idea.  Why the fuck would they change? 
And to *this*??!!  Some fucking ABA basketball yinyang doofusy
shit.  Wasn't broken, so why'd they fix it?"  Then she took a last
swig and folded the can in half, twisting it until she cut herself. 
    "Hey," said Maria,  "Aren't you gonna get dressed?"  We were
going to a party at a house down here in West Philly.  We'd heard
there were going to be some "punks" there from out of town.       
"Read my lips, sweetness.  I'm wearing lycra."  
      Howard laughed.  Maria screwed up her face.  Karen, for some
odd reason, had been walking around in a leotard, black stockings
and a lacy pink garter.  She got up, ran into her room, and emerged
after a few minutes in a black leather skirt and pointy ankle
boots.  She could not have been dressed more wrong for the party to
which we were headed.
     "I'm ready," she said.  "Oh shit.  Lipstick."
     We all looked at each other and mouthed "Lipstick?"
     Yup, lipstick.  Deep whorish red.
     Karen threw on Howard's blue CB ski jacket and we headed out. 
    "Hold on," I said, and ran back in.  I pulled open a drawer and
thought, "Taser's gone.  Good.  Howard must have it.  I pocketed a
stiletto and joined the others.
-----------------------------------
     "Let's get drunk and stick beans up our noses!"  hooted
Lemming, almost missing the tricky left-hand merge onto the
Schuylkill Expressway.  The "Repo Man" theme howled from the tape
deck, harmonizing eerily with the growl of exhaust leaking from the
cracked tailpipe of Lemming's '76 Nova.
     "Tell me again why we had to drive all the way to
Filthydelphia to find a party," grumped Ratt, toying with her
nunchaku.  She was pissed because she'd had to sit scrunched down
all the way from Baltimore to protect her Mohawk.
     "Well," I said, fumbling on the floor for the bag of Cheez
Doodles, "the party's really secondary.  Our primary purpose is to
complete the Cosmic Color Wheel of Junk Food.  Hey, Suicide, you
haven't had any of the orange group yet."
     "Shut up, everybody," said Suicide.  "Here comes the chorus." 
    "Using my HAND for an AAAASHTRAY!" we all shouted.
     "Okay, kids, time to clean up the car," Lemming announced.   
  Iggy Pop was drowned out by the roar of the wind as we rolled
down the windows and began pitching beer bottles out onto the
highway.      
      "Yo, Lemming.  Get off here at the South Street exit.  Wait,
save a couple of bottles to throw at my old dorm."
     "Hey, Lar," said Lemming, taking the left turn onto Spruce on
two wheels, "what's in that package you put in the trunk?"
     "Party supplies."  Actually, it was my M1 carbine and a couple 
of boxes of ammo, but I thought it'd be best not to mention that
yet.
-------------------------------------------------------
     We made our way to 48th and Spungen.  We could hear the music
as far as 46th street.  We slipped into the house and quickly
dropped our jackets in a pile in the corner.  As we headed over to
the beer, I did a quick calculation of what that pile of coats was
worth and made a mental note to keep an eye on it while we were
there.
     "Wow," said Maria, "this is something else."
     She was talking about the unusually-diverse mix of people at
the party.  In one corner were some skinheads; in another,
preppies; about ten Black students were huddled by the stairway; 
behind us about five Cure-fags(my cousin's name for them) and the
ever-present death-rock girls.  The dj had apparently given up
trying to appeal to everyone and was playing songs that were his
personal favorites--a good strategy, all things considered.  Karen
downed about four styrofoam cups of beer and was quickly
inebriated.
     We heard a car screech to a stop outside and went to take a
look.  As the group from the Nova emerged I saw my brother's hand
move down instinctively to the taser in his front jean pocket.  I
did the same with my stiletto as one of them began to open up the
trunk.  But a girl with a cool foot-high mohawk said something to
him and they both laughed and the trunk stayed closed.  The noise
level in the house dropped to near zero as they came in.  We
exchanged 'hi's'; they got some beer, and were soon talking among
themselves.  I noticed the taller male of the group looking over
the rest of us as they talked, his eyes darting everywhere.     
The dj put on "Smells Like Teen Spirit."
     "Cool," said Karen, and we all half-danced and half-talked.  
   There was a group of two big, athletic guys and their
girlfriends talking behind us.  One of the girls said, "Who'd do a
song about deodorant?"  Yes, she was a natural blonde.
     Karen stopped dancing and got that look in her eye.  Damned
gibbous moon.  She turned and said, "Sweetness, it's not about
deodorant."
     The athletic guys scowled and we heard one of the girls say to
him, "She's the one who--" and then we couldn't hear her.
     "Well," said one of the guys, "why don't you just tell us what
it's about."
     Howard's hand slipped into his pocket as Karen began, loudly,
to be heard, "It's about heat.  And sweat."    She grabbed Howard's
arm.  "It's about the girl smell of me exploding over our skin,
sealing us in its sweet envelope.  It's about wastebaskets full of
matted, crumpled Kleenex.  About locker rooms full of hormones. 
About that scene in Porky's up in the boy's laundry room.  It's
about how the air smells the moment after you hear the swish of a
skirt.  It's about lust, hard cocks, gushing cunts. Any questions,
sweetness?"
     I tightened the grip on my stiletto and looked around.  The
song had ended, and people were listening, especially the punks.  
   The one guy said to Howard.  "Your friend here don't talk much
like a lady.  You sure she's a girl?"
     Howard had pulled out his taser and had palmed it.
     Karen said, "Suck.  My.  Dick."
     Before they knew what had happened, Howard pressed the taser
against the guy's thigh and gave him an healthy, prolonged jolt. 
As he slumped to the floor we grabbed our jackets and headed out. 
    "Wow," said Maria.  "All that from just a nine-volt battery?" 
     Someone behind us said, "It's not the volts, it's the
amperage."
     We stopped and turned.  It was those punks.
     ----------------------------------
     The car lurched as Lemming rode it up on the curb, parking on 
Spungen St.  "Shit," she said.  "Gotta get curb feelers on this
thing. Okay, people, pre-shutdown checklist.  Nunchucks?"
     "Check."  Ratt stuck the nunchaku in her belt.
     "Tequila?"
     I patted the zippered pocket of my biker jacket.  "Roger."   
  "Pyrotechnic devices?"
     Suicide fished the pack of bottle rockets out from under the
seat.      "Yup."
     "Ignition switch, off.  Lights, off.  Door locks, free.  
Doors open -- three, two, one, EJECT, EJECT, EJECT!"  We opened all
four doors simultaneously and piled out.
     "Lemming, gimme the keys.  I'll get the flare pistol out of
the trunk."  I started around to the back of the car, but Ratt
intercepted me.  "Leave it till later, Lar," she said.  "Check out
that group on the porch -- see the Laurie Anderson lookalike in the
leather skirt?" I glanced over.  Two guys in leather jackets stood
with her and another woman, hands in pockets, eyeing us warily. 
"You're right, Ratt.  Full threat assessment mode."  We laughed.  
   "Hey," said Lemming.  "Everybody remember that NDI song?  Let's
soften these people up a bit."  We stomped up the front walk, the
porch lights reflecting off the studs, spikes, and chains on our
jackets, singing in ragged unison:
     "Open up, honey, I'm your mystery date.  I brought you some
flowers and I'm sorry I'm late.  I'm an item, not a fashion plate,
so open up, honey, I'm your mystery date."
     "Hi, y'all," I said as we brushed past the guys on the porch.
They seemed to relax slightly.  We headed inside, scanning the room
for the keg.  The DJ was between songs, and the buzz of 
conversation tailed off to nothing as we entered.  A group of
preppies in the corner stared at us, naked fear in their eyes as
they huddled protectively together.
     "Fuck," Ratt muttered.  "Skins."
     Lemming looked at the group of skinheads.  "Nahh," she said.
"Check out their boots.  Green laces.  They're straightedge, don't
even smoke.  They'll sit over there all night, swapping thrilling
stories about how Ian MacKaye looked right at them once at a Fugazi
concert."
     We got beers, and Suicide slipped off to search for an
unlocked liquor cabinet as the DJ cued up "Rock Lobster."
     A beefy jock type with no neck sidled drunkenly up to Lemming,
staring at her close-cropped head with the single blond tuft in
front as if it were some sort of strange animal.  "Hey, uh," he
began,  sloshing beer on her shirt, "what *are* you, anyway?  A boy
or a girl?"      Lemming smiled nastily.  "Hiya, stud, guess what?"
she said, bringing her steel-shanked motorcycle boot down on his
instep.  There was a muffled crunching sound.  "*That's* what."  An
expression  of excruciating pain slowly began to form on his face
as she pushed him violently away.
     "Smells Like Teen Spirit" came on, and Ratt sang along.
"Stupid and contagious... yup, that's me.  C'mon, Lar, let's start
a pit!"  She grabbed my arm and yanked me towards the dance floor.
I brought her up short.  "Check it out, Ratt.  Confrontation time." 
    We couldn't quite hear what they were saying over the music, so
we moved closer.  The leather-skirted woman we'd seen before, a
feral gleam in her eye, was getting ready to rumble with a couple
of jerks and their girlfriends.  "Any questions, sweetness?" we
heard.
     Ratt punched my arm and laughed.  One of the frat boys made
some remark, and the woman snarled, "Suck.  My.  Dick."  Her friend
jammed something against the guy's leg and he convulsed violently
and fell.  "Shit, a taser!  I *like* those people!"  Ratt chortled. 
    "Hey, Lemming!"  I yelled.  She popped up at my elbow.  "Think
we should check out of here before that guy you stomped finds his
friends?"  "Aaaaah," she said.  "They're probably all upstairs
raping each others' dates.  Still, a strategic withdrawal might be
in order."      Leather skirt and her friends had grabbed their
jackets and were headed out the door.  One of the jocks started to
follow them, but stopped when he saw Ratt idly twirling her
nunchaku.  "Where's Suicide?"  "Right here," he said, zipping his
jacket.  Something  clinked underneath it.  "Jackpot.  I found some
single-malt scotch and a bottle of ouzo."
     We left.  Suicide hung back slightly, pulling the pack of
bottle rockets from his pocket.  Ahead of us, one of the women was
saying something about 9-volt batteries.  "It's not the volts, it's
the amperage," Ratt called.  We caught up to them.  Behind us,
there was an earsplitting screech and a shower of sparks, then
another, as Suicide fired bottle rockets back at the house.  "Dixie
Whistlers," I said.  "Loudest whistling bottle rockets on the
market."