Tongue studs glittered in the afternoon sun, backless shirts revealed angel-wing tattoos. The people-watching made up for it. He pointed out the ambulances waiting on standby. His old-school delivery rang out over the shifting sea of flesh thrashing around in unison. A girl's halter top flew over the crowd like a bird, and somebody tossed around a condom balloon.
Nobody really knows.
The crowd loves it. The crowd screamed. In the paper, the news, everyday I am, radio won't even play my jam. By the way . . . There appeared to be no anti-Metallica sentiment on the part of mischievous Napsterizers.