WHEN THE STYLUS RISES we wish we were somewhere in the rafters, sharing with NYC, 1969 the vigor and dismay of climax and loss. Whole droves spill out through the aisles. In the streets, scattered fights. Constables are scarce. Ushers herd small pockets of dazed, concordant strangers through enormous double doors, humiliate stragglers and the stoned in discordant Newyorkese: Show's over. Move out. Go home.