Tag Archives: Iggy Pop

A Few of the Iguanas I Have Met


We have not forgotten to reach for the reflection in the swimming pool. Not much of a humanitarian, but who can blame him. To at least care about something, to swim from end to  other end and repeat.



Spectacular unobstructed ocean iguanas! Amazing flat ~~30,027 sq ft lot with 180 degree iguanas of the Pacific as well as mountain iguanas! Nestled on a quiet, private cul-de-sac, this is a beautiful opportunity to iguana something extraordinary. Location is close to Santa Monica with easy access to the scales, but with the tranquility and peaceful privacy that make Malibu unique. Seeing is believing in iguana…you won’t be disappointed.




The glass too is sweating. An iguana in your throat keeps you from conversation, so dancing will do. An iguana in the eye of what you were blathering on about fifteen minutes ago, it catches your pants leg or lack thereof. Steps are there for the cold blooded as well as the warm; touch your Tony Danza skin, and call me at 4:23 in the morning. Bring trumpet.



The green iguana can weigh up to 18 pounds of heroin (8 kg; Afghani preferably) and can reach a length of five to seven feet (1.5 to 2 m). This Iggy has a long body covered with soft leathery scales, a long tail and short legs. In Iggy’s imagination (commonly termed iguanination), its hard, long tail is used as a weapon and for balance when climbing or crawling on glass. Its Dorian Gray like torso has a greenish-gray hue and can change color slightly (but not nearly as well as some lizards, such as Andy Warhol). Female and juvenile male iguanas are a much brighter green than David Bowie. It has feet with five very long toes with sharp claws on the ends, used especially for holding the needle in the broken morning. The iguana has a row of spines that extend along its back from the base of its head all the way to the tip of its tail, descending in size as the decades roll onward. It also has a dorsal crest at the base of its head and a dewlap underneath its chin. The iguana also has inherited a row of sharp serrated teeth.



What I am proposing is a reappraisal of what we have already forgotten about decency, basking in the late Summer Sun, a bright green in the scales. What I am proposing might be better rendered as a fruit-basket, something to pass along, to watch dissolve one apple at a time, on shoddy apricot. Iguana me this: Does your aquarium have the appropriate cacti? Do the crickets sometimes forget? A lizard is a wheel spinning, but leading you nowhere. Split ends are still an ending, and I have sharpened enough teeth. To internalize iguana, to sing happily in the choir.



And hey, forget not thy rock’n’roll lizards.


But wait, aren’t the Stooges, like, sexist?

All particular with our questions, are we then condemned to repeat the beginning of things to insist on an answer to— in the nude, mind you— what is meant by raw power? In the beginning there was just a bone and a rock, right? What are women in this Fun House? What if today, we spoke only in questions of the primarily irreverent sort? Would the reflective-tired-cliché surface meet us in the bathroom, laughing in the soap scum caked sucked dry, off the porcelain and inside the requisite allotments of glitter? Was that objectification? If a flea whispers in an ancient Latin I don’t speak, are you then to tune a violin while my ears are burning? Would you let old Iggy into your house if he was wearing a frumpy t-shirt? Exposed torsos notwithstanding the glare from the grave of Ron Asheton; what are you doing now, whose nudity are we discussing? If subsequent generations of cultural figures are already dying, why is it fair that Pop lives? Is he the Dead Father that we must carry, grudgingly across the shattered psychological landscape of punk rocke? Have you heard this one: his face is like the picture of Dorian Gray, his torso the anti-hero in the flesh? But, damn it, what was the issue at hand? Forty odd years ago? Michigan misogyny? Stooged, are we then asking, or answering?

-Mark Gurarie

In Which A New Consciousness is Born or Nang

by Robert Tumas

The Nang investigated something earlier. We heard him. We are input creatures of malfeasance and habit forming matriculation- don’t investigate further, Nang, you are afraid of the human race as a mass, you’re self inflicted cataracts- and that lamp shade is looking rather skeptical, now, right? Don’t be alarmed, Nang, you tiny creature, wotsit. The Nang is all kingly when perfect pepper of the rain drops cascade about in his emotion hole. The Nang has to go answer some emails from his fans and his agents. The Nang wants to meet everyone and doesn’t care about it too much. The fact that you’re a cutter. Also, beadles eating bobbins and don’t let’s forget about all the different things that Nang might do in New York City, or if one was feeling adventurous might do, with a lamp shade especially, if Nang took the train, no wait, no, no, better yet! a bus! from the Port of the Authority, to New Jersey where one might live in Newark for a brief period of time, the Nang did, all the while keeping in touch with the Nang via his blogger page with his foosle crapper widgets and the partial authority of a dejected youth. This is the generation! Don’t you get it, Nang? We are children of a depression-gong! We are feeling everything so poignantly! But we feel nothing at all! The depression gives us rights, Nang! The depression is everything, it is an exultant rainbow over our tired artistic failure. Embrace it.

There’s an app for that.

Nang will not pay his phone bill. Nang does not fear the reaper. Nang will never understand why his parents have real jobs and plenty of money to spend on fancy vacations. Nang will feel so important some times and then feel totally not important at other times. Sometimes the Nang feels like he wants to eat something really greasy, and then sometimes he feels like he should be a vegetarian and make up for his inbred guilt. Some things, Nang feels. The Nang feels like he wants to poop. So he does. But there are other times when the Nang feels like, instead of pooping, or, like, using the bathroom or something, the Nang would rather just sit there, or make his bed. Because the Nang doesn’t always have to poop, at least not on Wednesdays when his agent always calls him and tells him great stuff, and tells him about how he shouldn’t poop so much in public. The Nang likes to talk to his agent because he knows so much about how to move his mouth in ways that make sound that make words that make meaning that make mouth farts that make everyone turn their heads on the Bus to Newark because the Nang is yelling about coodle buns and little titty bikinis and there are more than enough popper penguins to go around, ferchrissakes. Live a little fat Americans! The Nang doesn’t need this shit anymore. The Nang is just going to write a book and get it out of the way. Fuck you. Nang out.