Jimi was good enough to pass along his copy of Paul Trynka's biography of Iggy Pop in time to help me while away the hours one has to spend in airports and on airplanes to put some distance between themselves and Canadian winter.
There are only two places I do not drink to pass the time: airports and airplanes. I do not drink in airports because there are far too many taser enthusiasts hiding in those places. When I have had a few I sound and act a lot like a sleep deprived back country Polack who needs a cigarette and cannot find his mom.
I do not drink in airplanes because I want to be on my toes in case the pilot fucks up or a humourless over-the-top Muslim gets any funny ideas and because I know there is more than enough beer waiting for me at my destination. Muslim countries are not too close to the top of the list of places I would like to see before I watch my last hockey game.
According to Trynka, Iggy Pop used to live the way I did before I met Sonja. (Women do not see the glamour of getting so wasted you piss your pants passed out in a ditch and wake up thinking you have had a wet dream.) Until I read the biography I believed the stories about Iggy being a Jehovah Witness.
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