He goes to the beach often, which has left him with a tan the color of a baseball mitt. He eats bacon and two eggs sunny side up for breakfast almost every day, eats a steak or two for dinner, is fascinated by what appears nightly on the History Channel, the Discovery Channel and C-Span ("I just love C-Span!"). For love, he's got his statuesque, extra-buxom, super-sweet girlfriend, Nina Alu, who is half Nigerian, half Irish and twenty-five years his junior for extra warmth at night, he's got their fluffy little dog Lucky. Except for a nightly glass of red wine and too much strong Cuban coffee, he's clean and leading a very regular kind of life. It's been twenty years since he last did heroin, four since he smoked dope or snorted coke, five since he enjoyed a cigarette. "But one of my legs is shorter than the other and I was recently told to start evening things out or I'm going to be fucked up later in life."īy implication, of course, this suggests that he is not fucked up now, and he says that this is in fact true. "Yeah, I know, I look like a fucking freak," he says, in that gravel-pit-deep voice of his. Oddly enough, he's also wearing a thin-soled loafer on his left foot and a thick-soled boot on his right foot. It really pissed him off, so he has vowed to "wear the thing to death, because that's the way I am"). He looks grizzled and cheerful, his long face gaunt and weathered, wearing jeans and a tattered pullover shirt (by Versace, costing maybe $500, a massive extravagance that started to shred within days. Today, he's cruising along coolly in his 1981 Rolls-Royce Corniche, with the top down, long hair fluttering. He is fifty-six years old now, has recently released a new CD ( Skull Ring, featuring songs recorded with Sum 41, Green Day, the Trolls - his latest backup band - and the reunited Stooges) and lives quietly among doddering blue-hairs and faggy hipsters in Miami Beach.
Just in general, he lived the totally messed-up life and wrote the totally messed-up songs without which there could have been no angry punk-music explosion of the 1970s, much less anything that has evolved since, angry-punk-music-related. He would slather his body in peanut butter barf on his audience cut himself up with broken glass wear silver-lamÈ evening gloves onstage shoot heroin make frequent use of his big, beautiful penis crash his car into trees beg horrified record-label executives for drug money pass out in bathrooms with the spike still in his arm check himself in to a mental institution and score coke off David Bowie while there. back then, right around 1969, while the rest of the world was going psychedelic, he presided over quite some reign of perverted rock & roll terror. Nothing makes sense unless you know who Iggy Pop was.
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