WHERE’S YOUR HEAD AT ADAM ANT
The room was full of balloons. A bouquet of balloons, sold nowadays like helium-filled, high-tech clusters that cling to the ceiling. A bundle of mail was strewn on the table counter, next to a cheesecake and a carafe of juice. Most of it remained unopened, but several drawings sat propped against the envelopes.
WHERE’S YOUR HEAD AT ADAM ANT
FEATURES
"I'm really a fantasy merchant."
J. Kordosh
The room was full of balloons. A bouquet of balloons, sold nowadays like helium-filled, high-tech clusters that cling to the ceiling. A bundle of mail was strewn on the table counter, next to a cheesecake and a carafe of juice. Most of it remained unopened, but several drawings sat propped against the envelopes. They were pencil drawings, and they were good. An eight-by-twelve of an ant, tattooed with hearts and daggers, was the best. It was from a teen-aged girl.
Adam Ant — who, when he spells his name in capital letters, reverses the “D” — had just turned 28. The balloons and the mail were gifts from well-wishers. Most of the messages were polite, even demure; most of the envelopes were adorned with daggers and hearts and Adam Ant with a backwards “D.” Mostly, they were from teen-aged midwestern girls.