Saturday Nite Memory

This is Saturday. Saturday night. I am home at my computer. As you can decipher, my social life leaves much to be desired. Saturdays used to the greatest night. Many years ago, there was a place called the Eastown Theatre where popular bands would perform. On Saturdays I would arrive at their door to pay $3.50 to see Alice Cooper, or Rod Stewart and the Faces, or Iggy Pop and the Stooges, or the Bob Seager System, or Ted Nugent and the Amboy Dukes, or Grand Funk Railroad, or Mountain, or Brownsville Station, or any of a thousand different bands. The Eastown was an old movie house that had the first 20 rows of seats torn out, and featured popular rock bands instead of films. The audience could meander around the floor, getting within spitting distance of the performers on stage. And Iggy Pop did indeed spit, among other things.

The Stooges were on stage and Iggy was singing "I wanna be your dog" when he suddenly jumped into the audience. He crawled accross the floor, the crowd close but leaving a spotlight of space around him. He sang as he made his way to the center of the auditorium, dragging his microphone cord behind him.

On this particular night, I had consumed mescaline. The colors were bright and dazzling, the music was pure bliss. I stood stoned still in complete awe. Iggy made his way back to the stage and as the circle of people around granted his way he found me. I did not move out of his path like all the others. I was frozen in my spot, mesmerized. Iggy got off his knees, grabbed his mic in both hands like a club, and knocked me on my ass.

The sudden assault awakened and irritated me. I jumped up ready to fight, but by now the circle containing the rock star had passed. Iggy had found his way back up on the stage. His microphone cord did not. I picked up the cord at my feet and gave a yank. Iggy, trying to finish the song, was pulled forward. A tug-of-war ensued. I would pull Ig to the edge of the stage. He would jerk the line back and continue singing. We pulled back and forth half a dozen times before the bouncers grabbed me.

The next thing I knew, I was standing on Harper Avenue, stoned to the gill, angry at Iggy Pop, and without the means to get home. I had to wait for the concert to end for my friend, Donny, to appear. He had supplied our transportation that night. Donny told me that he had seen the bouncers throw me out. I asked why he didn't come out to find me. He said, "There was over an hour of the show to go. No sense of us both missing it." I couldn't argue.