It’s Friday morning and no one wants to go see Iggy with me.

I don’t really understand it. I wish I could explain. Maybe it’s because I’m a shitty planner, and I didn’t ask around until a few days ago. Too bad I don’t have a fucking Blackberry. Maybe it’s because no one wants to drop the 30 bucks for the tickets. Or the 20 bucks for a bus ride to Seattle. Maybe it’s because there’s a handful of other good shows already in town this weekend. Maybe I smell. Maybe I’m asking the wrong people. Maybe no one else likes Iggy.

One friend bails out at the last minute Thursday night. In a quick 30 second phone call she tells me sheís leaving Portland and driving to Idaho. I ask her what’s in Idaho and she says she’s not sure. I ask her why sheís going to Idaho and she also says sheís not sure. I see where this is going and I accept defeat. “Well, whenever you come back, can you bring me a potato? With a smiley face drawn on it?” She says “absolutely,” though almost one week later, when I write this - I’m still without my potato.

My brother bought me these two tickets to see Iggy Pop and the Stooges for my birthday, and heaven help me if I’m going to let them go to waste. At 11:02 am Friday morning I put up a quick post on Craigslist.

“Hola. I’ve got one extra ticket to see Iggy tonight at WAMU Theater in Seattle. Trying to drive up there this afternoon. Give me a ring if you’ve got a lust for life and looking for a little adventure. Adios.”

I secretely hope that an attractive, free-spirited girl with a fuel-efficient car and tatoos in sexy places will respond to my ad within the next 10-15 minutes, wanting to drive up with me. Weíd have great and occasionally awkward conversations about rock and roll, food, travel, and our favorite superheroes all throughout the I-5 corridor, slamdance together during the show, and make out on the Seattle waterfront under a full moon.

Instead, I get one phone call from a guy named Ed, offering me 10 bucks cash for the ticket. I start to look up bus schedules.

Even though time is probably running out, I run across the street to the grocery store to buy a sandwich. I get to talking to a homeless guy named Jim who I like to chat with occasionally. I grab a bag of chips and an iced tea for him, and we have a fairly thorough conversation about why itís hard to find good work in this town, and the effects of losing local manufacturing and industry to workers overseas, and the best way to repaint a 1904 bungalow.

By the time I get home and really pay attention to the schedules, I realize I’ve missed all the busses and trains for the afternoon.

I’m at a crossroads. Public transportation is out. I’m probably not going to wait any longer for that beautiful bombshell road-tripping companion to call. I don’t want to eat the cost of the tickets. I’m going to rent a fucking car. And I’m going to see fucking Iggy Pop.

I get on the computer and make a reservation with Dollar Rent-a-Car. I lie and tell them Iím over 25 years old. I also tell them Iíd like the smallest car they have so I can limit the number of $3.50 gallons I fill it up with. After all, the only cargo itís hauling is, well…me.

Sure enough, when I get to the rental office an hour later, all they’ve got left is a station wagon. It drinks gasoline like a barhound pounds PBR when itís on special. But it’s 4pm and Iím going to be late. So I hit the road in my brite white Subaru Outback.

I get to Seattle about 20 minutes before showtime and I scalp my extra ticket to a guy walking down by the waterfront, who quietly, but aggressively says, “Tickets, tickets, who’s got tickets?” to every damn person who walks by. He offers me $15 for the ticket. I tell him I want $25. He says I must be fucking crazy. I turn my back and he taps me on the shoulder with a twenty and a five. We make the exchange and within five seconds, he yells, “I’ve got tickets - thirty-five dollars. Who wants ‘em?”

I make it into the theater just before Iggy takes the stage and I donít care about anything else anymore. I’m here. It’s general admission and I scoot my way up as close to the front as possible. In a matter of minutes Iím a pebble’s throw from the stage. Only one mohawked teenager with a Ramones t-shirt and a shiny silver nosering blocks my view.

The lights dim and the rest is history. Iggy’s shirt is already off before he even comes onto stage. This man just turned 60. He moves and shakes like no one I’ve ever seen. His body and muscles and bones donít seem to abide by the rules of physics and inactivity most other people follow (myself included). He must do yoga. He gets up on top of amplifiers and humps the air. He sticks the microphone down his pants. Multiple times. He’s ripped. Thereís gotta be 2 percent body fat on Iggy. His muscles are chiseled into his body and its captivating as hell to watch. He makes odd fish-faces that would invite ridicule if anyone else did it. But it’s Iggy man, and on him, a funny face looks fucking cool.

It’s about 15 minutes into the set - and I turn to look at the guy next to me. He’s got to be 50 years old, has a thick moustache, a beer belly, and heís wearing jean shorts and a Curious George t-shirt. He looks oddly reminiscent of Milton in Office Space, and in some kind of weird way, he fits right into the crowd. An all-ages managerie of mayhem, where already, three fights have broken out, all between guys and girls. In all three cases, the girls kicked the shit out of the guys. This is a real rock concert.

I turn to look back at the stage and I can’t see anything. That’s because Iggy’s just leaped off the stage. I quickly realize there’s nothing but Iggy in my face and for a brief moment I canít even breathe because his left nipple is suffocating me. I try to rearrange my mouth but his mammory is wedged in there pretty well. Iggy’s sweat lubricates the impact but I still need to work hard to keep him elevated otherwise I’ll be crushed in seconds. This is not a bad way to die, but Iíd still like to see the encore, if possible. After regaining my composure as much as possible, I muster up the strength needed - lift with all my might, and pass Iggy on to the people headbanging next to me.

There’s not enough Iggy for all of us - we’ve got to share.