A Short, Brutish Party

Finishing my class, a friend called to invite me to "a pretty rockin' party;" an easy drive, I pulled up quickly. I said hey to my friend who was checking out a '69 Coronet, and walked into a red-lit, well-finished but spare restaraunt room filled with what I was just begining to recognize as a small part of Seattle's rock star aristocracy (0f the approximately Alice in Chains bass player variety) - and an appropriate trailer of astonishing young women. I was there literally two seconds, one second away from either a jaw-dropping brunette or an impressive tray of eggrolls, when a vaguely punk rock guy pushed pass me to beat the living crap out of a older biker looking chap, jumping him, getting him in a headlock and punching him repeatedly in the face. A massed crowd of friends and chefs pulled them with great difficulty apart, the biker bleeding badly from the cheek onto his red beard, the attacker holding up a bent pair of glasses and yelling with underwhelming righteousness:

"Do you expect me to take... THIS?"

Apparantly, important eyewear had been bent.

My reason for being there, already shaky, was now thoroughly unclear. I started to leave, and I just heard the biker, who said something about just trying to be nice. It sounded plausible. The hoo-hah, like most such hoo-hahs, made little sense. Last I saw the biker guy was in the back of a car, making general plans to avoid the police, who showed up later in some force. At some point a gun was supposedly pulled by someone, but I missed that.

Next party: I get egg rolls for sure.