Funhouse

It was something I couldn't really comprehend, the fact that Iggy Pop was sitting in the back of my black Lincoln Town Car, not saying a word except mumbling his approval of the Peruvian restaurant we passed on the way to the Congress Theatre. Within the theatre I observed a swarm of young fans climb up on stage and I secretly wished Iggy would proceed to start shoving them off, but unfortunately, he didn't. Afterwards, in the alley behind the theatre, a girl about 17 years old was offering me Jim Beam and begging me to let her ride in the the car with Iggy. About an hour later, he appeared and signed autographs and hopped into my car with his friend exclaiming the same thing Billy Idol said last summer, "Get me the hell out of here!" He was a bit more voluble on the way back, but not with me, of course. I actually prefer not to converse with any of the stars. I love the Stooges. I grew up listening to their records and still do. But I feel like there is nothing I can say, in that context, except marvel. The fact that he is sitting in the back of my car shatters the god-like image I had of him growing up. I feel like the stars see my car as a refuge from their rabid fans. They don't want the driver to be a fan as well, like there is no escape. Extremely successful people want to be tortured and humiliated. They're tired of having their meretricious asses kissed. They need that balance, you see. And I give it to them. It raises my spirits to that exalted, arduous state of heavenly effulgence.