When a young man in the crowd noticed me, he directed the crowd to part and I was left alone in the center of a widening circle. I had slowly and sensuously removed my sweater that I was swirling it above my head swaying my hips in a very provocative way. I then removed my sneakers and kicked them to someone who was cheering me on in the crowd. I popped the first button of my jeans to a loud cheer. The boys in the room all centered in on the action as some of the girls stepped back disgusted by the show I was putting on. You see, I am a dirty blond about 5’4 and slim. I am fairly skinny with curves in the right places. I am rather modest and only my past boyfriends or the people that have seen me in a bathing suit at the beach would know that I am rather hot. I don’t usually wear make-up and never attract attention to myself. Yet, here I was in the middle of a room full of strangers about to pull my pants down while swaying my hips like a stripper. I usually wear very baggy pants. And the Plastic Ono Band from a century and a half ago, mashed up with Psychlone's own skronky beats and the insistent sampled growl of Captain Beefheart was sufficiently catchy and percussive to be both danceable and on point."All we are saying is..." Psychlone yelled into the mike."Give Peace a Chance," echoed the crowd, totally ignorant of the political context of the 1960s and the United States of America's futile war in Vietnam. This was just one of the many conflicts that had led to the nation's economic collapse and eventual disintegration. And this was a nation—now split into three warring nations that were threatening to fragment even further—that once considered itself the world's policeman in an era when that notion seemed somehow plausible.Crowd response! This was fucking fantastic.Psychlone didn't want to milk it too much. The crowd wanted more than slogans to sing along to. They wanted beats to dance to. There were other tunes on his laptop from the far distant.
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