VICE: Anyway, Bowie finally came out of the backroom surrounded by his minions, who seemed to have doubled in size behind the closed door. As he was bidding Andy a fond farewell, I slipped over to him and said, “Mr. Bowie, I was wondering if you’d be willing to do an interview for PUNK…”
Without speaking, Bowie grabbed the Suicide record out of my hands and his entourage swept him down the hall, into the elevator, and outside to a waiting limo, which presumably swept him off to the next fabulous event. I didn’t even have time to say, “HEY, YOU FUCKING POOFTER, GIMME BACK MY FUCKING SUICIDE RECORD!”
I did get back at Bowie though. A few weeks later he came to CBGB with Bianca Jagger, which wasn’t that strange. What was strange was that it was on some off night in the middle of the week when some shitty band was playing and the only people there were me, Cheetah Chrome, Joey Ramone, Robin Rothman, and some diehard drunks.
Ha, you ain’t at Studio 54 now, asshole, I thought as I watched David and Bianca traverse the piles of dogshit on the floor that Hilly Krystal’s Saluki’s had deposited. Then I went outside and stole the hubcaps off his limousine. I fucked that up though, and read in the New York Post the next day that their limo got a flat tire on the way home. MORE
PREVIOUSLY: Please Kill Me Reconsidered (EDITOR’S NOTE: We have an ongoing/intermittent feature here at Phawker wherein we ask interns to check out classic books/movies/albums and then write a review. You know, to reality check whether or not said classics continue to speak to succeeding generations. Which we did with Please Kill Me. See co-author Legs McNeil’s typically prick-ish response below.)
PREVIOUSLY: Please Kill HIM