“C’mon, I’m on acid,” Iggy whines. "Can’t we talk about something else?”

Chances are that he’s merely suffering a flashback, but one can’t be sure. One minute he’s laughing in great gravelly guffaws about Lucy burning Ricky’s toast, explaining, in second person, how Iggy Pop hasn’t been able to swallow TV plots since he started smoking marijuana. Then a moment later he’s sadly reporting that his golf game has been going to hell as of late. The real wild child we’ve come to know and idolize is mellowing out.

"Oh, why don’t you shut up?!,” he laughs with a deep guttural howl that makes him sound as if he’s just swallowed a chunk of the Brooklyn Bridge. ‘‘Fuck off! Maybe I could get a little tape machine and play an angelic choir whenever I enter a room. Heeerrrrre’s Iggy! I live easily with my adulation. I’m very comfortable with it.”