IGGY AND ME

The event was melting itself with seamless acceptance onto the filmstrip of my unconsciousness like an uninvited guest.
I was at an office party; quite possibly the worst of the species. My options were limited. A kamikaze drink to the death mission followed by a planned escape-- which required precision timing and a well-thought out escape route, avoiding the concertina wire of polite conversation and the trench brooms of chit-chat. Or, I could soil myself forever in this rosy-cheeked free-for-all of bad humor, forced laughter, and gag gifts.
The situation looked pretty goddamn grim at any rate, a yuletide Catch-22 of the sourest flavor. I considered Seppuku, and began looking around for a clean plastic knife.
The door opened, and who should stroll boldly into the belly of this horrifying affair but Iggy Pop. He was dressed in an open silver shirt and black leather pants with flames up the legs. I remember breathing a sigh of relief, because I knew then that this social Thunderdome was naught but a horrendous dream; my subconscious mind cleaning the house and disposing of refuse.
I called him to my table, this Godfather of Punk, and ordered up a round of strong drinks. We launched into an epic discussion, which made perfect sense of the moment at hand, and allowed me to finally discover some semblance of peace in my own life. But, of course, it was a dream.
Upon awakening, this carefully constructed spider web unraveled, leaving an even larger hole in my soul. But we had a great time, which was the important thing.
Iggy left before I did-- another sign that I was dreaming-- and I stayed until close, stumbling outside with the rest of the drunks. I once read that bars are the church of the lonely.
"Shit. That makes me the High Priest."
It was cold out, and I could see my breath amid the swirling powder of suicidal snowflakes, leaping toward their slow-motion doom.
I started walking, but I hadn't gone more than a block when I found Iggy. He was passed out in a ditch alongside the road. As a standard rule of thumb, you shouldn't let Iggy Pop spend the night unconscious in a snowy ditch.
I went through his pockets until I found a driver's license with a local address for one James Osterberg. I slung him over my shoulder, and stumbled off into the coming dawn beneath a sky of imperial violet. He ain't heavy; he's my Iggy.
The address in his wallet led to a series of low-slung lime green apartment buildings covered in glowing neon palm trees and surrounded by a large pool, which doubled as a moat. I knocked on the door and a man let me in with an expression of immense relief and gratitude upon his face.
"We were getting worried about him. Thank you for bringing him home."
We poured Iggy into his rack and, as we pulled off his boots, I remember looking around at the walls, eyeing the artifacts.
"So this is the room where Iggy Pop sleeps,..."
Before I left, I had the presence of mind to leave him a note with my current home phone number on it, asking him to give me a ring sometime.
Motherfucker ain't called me yet.