"I'm going to pull over so I can change," said RICK LOOSE as we turned into the parking lot of St. Mary's Catholic Church.

We'd driven past the thus far under-populated party.

RICK LOOSE wouldn't change into his princess costume in front of anyone; it would ruin any mystique. So we eased down the road in the dark to a private place.

"If you describe this situation…you'd have one of those sentences no one has ever said before," I replied, referencing the George Carlin bit where he rattles off absurd, anomalous sentences, "If you said, 'My friend RICK LOOSE pulled into the church parking lot to change into his princess outfit'."

Our desperate 9:55 p.m. trip to Toys R Us bore no wigs for the party.

The princess getup we found in the Girls' Dress-Up Aisle sufficed: not one, but TWO tiaras. One with fluffy pink trim.

Close enough.

The Little Princess package included clip on earrings, a gaudy necklace and a bejeweled scepter. RICK had the option of switching the scepter's plastic blue jewel with either a red or green back-up jewel.

Knowing I couldn't find a wig so late at night, I chose wigless non-conformity: too-baggy dark-blue jeans, a do rag, a long-sleeved shiny Nike sweatshirt to my knees, shoes sporting a garish Swoosh, aviator goggles propped on my head and a brown bagged forty of Icehouse.

The plan, if anyone asked why I wasn't wearing a wig; "Wig?" I would answer, surprised, "I thought this was a WIGGER party, yo."

I question my reasons: I hate that word, "wigger" almost as much as I abhor it's phonetic likeness. But at the time, it seemed hilarious and I couldn't let my personal moral agenda quash a good joke.

RICK LOOSE dawned his literal regalia. We headed out of the parking lot back down the road to the party. He looked pathetic and fabulous: beard and multiple tiaras. That he rarely smiles only added to his beauty.

The party still slept when we got back. RICK and I sat on the couch conversing with two non-costumed attendees.

RICK fidgeted with the tiaras, looking like an beautiful, pitiful, queen. "I have got to get used to these fucking tiaras."

Another perfectly unique string of words.

My giant Icehouse effected me before I'd even half-drained the bottle. I had my tape recorder, but I couldn't discreetly tape my thoughts without the ten people in attendance noticing and asking, "Hey, what are you taping?"

"I'm writing a novel about you making an ass of yourself at parties. Try and act natural."

My thoughts were few as there were not yet an inspiring number wigs present.

We weren't even sure there would be.

RICK stayed on the couch. I moved to the kitchen to talk with the master of the house, SINGER/GUITARIST, who had just got home from work. Like many of his friends at the party, he is skinny with short dark hair and thick rimmed glasses.

He drank several beers before dawning his wig, which seemed like the way it should be done. It was hard to stand around sober, yet costumed.

Neither SINGER/GUITARIST nor anyone else at the party had yet inquired as to what I was suppose to be.

Good conversation led to more beer and better conversations involving more people with short dark hair and thick glasses.

Wigs poured in.

The gathering became an official "P-A-R-T-Y" with the coming of the THE PERFORMER.

Whispers of, "He's naked," preceded our first sight of him.

THE PERFORMER is not a "party animal," nor a sad plea for attention; There's a nobility in his public nakedness. Whether or not he chooses to go nude because of something that occurred in his childhood; it is obvious he does not do it for us.

Regardless, his nudity is famous.

Along with his penis, THE PERFORMER wore a fur stole, gnarly fake teeth and a short, choppy, black wig.

He doesn't smirk or outwardly indulge in the rewards of his performance. He conducts himself, for the most part, with an oceanic calm and a politeness rarely seen in modern society.

The penis he brings spreads a blanket of inhibition over any gathering. It's very good for a party.

In its presence, it's near impossible to feel silly dancing.

That's not to say THE PERFORMER'S performances do not challenge people; it's one of his goals.

People enjoy it. But when THE PERFORMER and the penis walk into the kitchen at a party, into the florescent light and loud happy conversation, people inevitably, slowly slide away.

"I like to follow the crowd," says THE PERFORMER with no hint of self-satisfied glee, "and see how long it takes them to migrate from room to room."

Unlike most parties

The party penis takes precedent over even the most memorable of pretty women in attendance. It lingers long after the final drunken guest.

You may find yourself anthropomorphizing: The shriveled penis may seem helpless to defend its own set of autonomous ideals, emotions and prerogatives. The shy penis; so reluctant, unfortunately binged to an un-inhibited owner.

Living above him and his girlfriend as I do, in THE FRIENDSHIP GARDEN triplex, I've experienced THE PERFORMER'S full frontal brunt.

But not even I, am ever prepared for the performance.

As the pitch of the party rose, I sat on the couch and talked with THE PERFORMER'S GIRLFRIEND.

THE PERFORMER intermittently came and stood several feet in front of us as we sat on the couch; which put the penis at eye level.

I wrote "CENSORED" on the back of my hand and held it, palm outward, blocking the sightline to his groin: the black box effect.

I turned to speak with his girlfriend, and THE PERFORMER touched the penis gently to the outstretched palm of my hand.

I drew it back so fast I almost hit myself in the face. But I didn't feel violated. The encounter helped me deal with the penis directly, for the duration of the party.

He left his girlfriend and I to continue our conversation.

As we spoke, I looked from her face to the penis on the far side of the room.

And back to her.

And back to the penis.

And back to her; wondering how they ended up together.

Or rather, I wondered why I have no girlfriend, and worry about every aspect of myself in relation to that fact, yet he walks around nude in a fur, still managing to belong to this beautiful, demur, seemingly intellectual woman.

I would be no great journalist if I didn't seize the opportunity to solve the mystery. The recorder rolled:

ME: Do you mind if I interview you?

HER: Sure...

ME: Tell me about THE PERFORMER'S nudity…explain this to me…because I find this fascinating about you as a woman…that you can deal with this surreality…

HER: The nudity issue?

ME: Yeah.

HER: How do I feel about it?

ME: Yeah. Give me your lowdown.

HER: I think like most people…I think it's comical.

ME: When he decides to do it…don't you ever try to dissuade him?

HER: Actually, in the van, I told him 'You can wear my underwear,' y'know they're black, they're nice…

I pondered that superfluously volunteered information.

HER: And he's like no…'no, I don't want to'.

ME: That's pretty liberal for the most part. It doesn't offend you in any way to be here with him…at a party?…Now, I'm not saying it offends me either but…

HER: No, I know…But, no, not at all… I'd never do it but…

I was getting nowhere in my search for hard news.

ME: There's some other layer we need to penetrate here…

She laughed.

ME: Did you know he did that before you started dating him?

HER: Yes…yes…I'd heard stories…but…

ME: But you were never confronted with the reality of it until…what did you think the first time you ever saw him do it…?

HER: I thought, wow…this guy has……….something that……..no…qualms about……..doing whatever the hell he wants to do… And that's pretty honorable.

I have a self-conscious enough time just eating in front of a woman for the first time. I can't imagine how that played out; the first time he got publicly naked in front of her. I wonder how long you should wait, how long you date someone beforehand.

The majority of the now heavily populated party danced on the back patio.

Horny boys and girls in wigs did well to James Brown, but non-ironic Homoeroticism became a nightlong theme.

Another guy got naked and danced but with none of the subtlety and class of THE PERFORMER. A weak plea.

Two of my closer friends came wearing very short, tight gym-shorts, with white stripes up the side, as an ironic statement, but fell under the spell of said shorts: They performed what looked like a mating dance. Jutting their groins in and out as the danced, their penises flopped toward each other, under their shorts, like small ferrets dancing under blankets.

Eventually, the wig party got too loud. The dancers crowded into a dark bedroom to continue. Which did nothing to dampen the sexuality.

Kids rubbed together. Several beautiful girls bounced on the bed. I leaned against the bedroom doorway by the bathroom, dictating into my tape recorder, trying to find the courage to ask the woman standing next to me to follow me into the bathroom. I interviewed her.

ME: So, what do you think of the nudity?

HER: THE PERFORMER looks fine but…

ME: You know him?

HER: Oh yeah…he looks fine, but let's say he had a small ding-a-ling, he wouldn't do it.

It is important, as a journalist, to not laugh.

ME: You think he has a pretty big cock?

HER: Uh, well…if he had a small one…I mean, personally, I have small tits…

I pondered that superfluously volunteered information.

HER: I have small tits so I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't be like 'Hey, look at me!' Personally.

ME: I don't think that, when you think about this issue…I don't think you should even consider trying to relate to it…

HER: You gotta think about it: if I had the balls to do that…

ME: I try to be objective.

HER: You can't be objective

ME: I try. Especially in this case.

HER: You know, Michael…

I wondered how she knew my name.

HER: You've thought about it at least once. Yes you did.

ME: I just know I wouldn't…innately…so I don't even think I...I don't even question...I'm objective

HER: What's that written on your hand?

ME: I hold it up to block out the gay porn, it says "CENSORED".

I held it up, palm outward, letters facing us. She laughed loudly.

Right on. Bathroom here we come.

I took my hand down and realized she wasn't laughing at my joke: SINGER/GUITARIST knelt down with his head at THE PERFORMER'S knees as THE PERFORMER sat on the edge of the bed.

Unsmiling, SINGER/GUITARIST took a drag off his cigarette, brought his mouth centimeters from THE PERFORMERS crotch, and blew gentle smoke at the penis.

He looked up at the beautiful girl standing next to me and whispered, "smoked sausage."

That gesture gave me courage.

"Want to go in there?" I said gesturing to the bathroom and accidentally dropping my tape recorder.

When we came out, the music still blared and the crowd still danced; pressed together, earthy alterna-women in black spaghetti straps spilling beer on the boys and the bedroom carpet.

Everyone looked so fucking beautiful and happy.

Two girls walked past me through the doorway. I heard one saying to the other, "I think he's in there making out with someone." Just hearing the phrase gave me warm comfort. I knew it was not just the beer. I was glad to be at a party where people wore wigs and made out.

One of the girls, a gorgeous black woman with a blond wig, stopped in front of me, "What are those?" she asked, pointing to my head.

"Oh, they're flight goggles, like the Backstreet Boys wear."

I looked at her beautiful skin and contemplated the bathroom.

"And where's your wig?" She smiled.

"Wig?…I thought this was a WIGGER party…"

She patted my flight goggles, smiled, and walked off.

THE PERFORMER had now-shirtless SINGER/GUITARIST splayed on the edge of the bed simulating sodomy. Dancers cried tears of laughter as they danced, but neither THE PERFORMER nor SINGER/GUITARIST smiled. They were off in some space by themselves.

THE PERFORMER finished. SINGER/GUITARIST stumbled to his feet looking lost and post coital, his thick rimmed glasses crooked on his face.

One of the spaghetti strapped girls jumping on the bed leapt off, knocking SINGER/GUITARIST to the floor.

She put her mouth to his pouring a whole cup of beer into his eyes in the process.

He screamed.

Then finally laughed.

But stopped when he realized he couldn't see.

As he stumbled, eyes closed, toward the door, toward me, I put my tape recorder to his blind face.

ME: Tell me about that.

HIM: What do you…what…what do you need from me?

ME: Gimmee some words, man.

HIM: Gimmee some…

His face lilted from intense simulated sex; back to seriousness. I. the serious reporter, fought laughter as well:

ME: Words, man. I seen you get fucked in the ass…seen you get molested like a sporting event…I'm a sports reporter. Tell me about the big game.

HIM: I could feel his…

I laughed. He removed his glasses and handed them to me, pawing at his eyes.

HIM: I got molested. And then the girl poured beer in…my eyes and now I can't see… right now.

ME: Did you get off at all?

HIM: Which part?

ME: I dunno. Either time. THE PERFORMER? Making out with that girl?

HIM: I pulled on THE PERFORMER'S wiener for a little bit…

ME: I know. You were staggered by the whole…

HIM: And then…Yeah…Yeah, I actually did have more fun with THE PERFORMER…

He opened his eyes and looked at me like he'd just been born. He looked around at his welcome party.

He turned back to me, eerily sober.

HIM: I had more fun with him than the girl who spilled beer in my eyes…yes. In my face.

As he walked away I remembered how straight he was when we first met. Didn't drink. Didn't smoke. Now he blew smoke on guy's cocks and drank beer through his eyes, as well as being able to hold a brilliant conversation. I really like him.

The last time I saw him at the wig party, he had THE PERFORMER'S penis between his thumb and forefinger leading him around.

SINGER/GUITARIST pointed at the penis, exclaiming to the party guests very seriously, "There is nothing wrong with this man's penis."

Neither of them smiled. It was very for real.

SINGER/GUITARIST led THE PERFORMER to me, penis between his fingers like a snake he would milk. He grabbed my tape recorder:

ME: Don't…

HIM : I just want to…

ME: man…

HIM: I just want to… let me rub the penis on the tape recorder.

I was crippled with laughter. Very unprofessional.

I currently sit here typing, listening to the tape: SINGER/GUITARIST'S voice getting loud and distorted as he talks directly into to the recorder. Un-laughing. Aware.

HIM: Where is the…O.K….O.K. (clearing his throat) this is the penis…Where's the mic?…

ME: This party is just wrong and it gets wronger and wronger…

HIM: I'll just have to smack it all over the tape recorder so it picks up…

ME: No.. the mic is right there!

HIM: This is a penis smacking a tape recorder.

I hear the small 'dap!' of the penis against the recorder. The velocity varies.

I, just now, counted 21 'dap's, and feel ambivalent when I realize I have not yet washed the recorder.

THE END

And to believe I have people writing and telling me this journal isn't worth anything. WHAT DO YOU THINK?