A Case of the Lonely Lips.

I'm bare-chested. I am Iggy Pop. I swing my tee over my head, and land on the eager,outstretched arms of the sweaty,fornicating crowd. I look outside the window. The city is quiet tonight. As I look into the mirror, and take the razor to tough stubble, I am reminded of my date tonight, with a girl who has maddeningly beautiful lips. The razor sears its cruel way through the hair, and the tufts fall to the wash in agony. The sex is good. A long time since I had a good time. I feel the cold edge of the blade as I dunk the razor in the shaving-water. My upper lip looks bruised. Form follows function. I come out of the bathroom, do a quick search around my room for my parka, wrap it around myself and feel the cold night air bite my exposed face. Come July, and the weather is almost pleasant. The streetlights are cold and flickering. The bodies around me moan as they weave in and out of focus. I go inside a bar, sit on the bar-stool and ask the bartender for a drink. He knows I'm underage, but he also knows I'm a regular. I come here with my father often and we exchange pleasantries with this soft-spoken man behind the counter. The Dandy Warhols. Good. He brings me white rum, with a dash of lemon. I look at my drink, then take a mindful sip. I wait for the date. Tonight, I'm the Passenger.