Too Weird for Ziggy by Sylvie Simmons

newspapers and magazines all around the world. Dressed in her business skin, her face taut with efficiency, we overhear her saying, “As of this moment there is no talk of charges being filed against Rex. If it did come to a court case, his defense would be simple—preshow pressure and the responsibilities of performing to a hundred thousand people over two nights led to a temporary paralysis of the central nervous system and a consequent inability to control his bladder. I’m sorry? It’s estimated at between three and three and a half ounces of urine voided. Hold on a minute.” She puts her hand over the mouthpiece and asks the tour manager, who’s just come into the room with the guitar player in tow, “What’s three ounces metrically?”
    The tour manager shrugs. “Fucked if I know.”
    â€œAbout a hundred milliliters,” says the guitar player casually, and they both look at him shocked, as if he’d just discussed the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle in depth.
    The PR repeats the answer and hangs up the phone. It rings again immediately. Outside she can see a clutch of trembling teenage girls gazing up at the ninth-floor balcony. “Yes, it has been analyzed. No, there’s no trace of illegal substances whatsoever. Just a moment.” She picks up a notepad; the red message light on the phone is flashing its impatience. She reads with no emotion: “Water, inorganic salts, creatinine, ammonia, urea, and pigmented products ofblood breakdown. You’re welcome.” A caller from the
New York Post
wants a comment on the rumor that urinalysis showed the singer to be HIV-positive and that the pissees’ families planned to sue him for attempted murder. The PR sighs inaudibly, says something blandly quotable aimed at filling a column inch or two.
    A call from Britain. A voice smarmy and familiar asks if Rex would like to take the opportunity to make a personal apology to his fans through the pages of the
Sun
. The PR’s London office had faxed over the clippings from the British dailies an hour or so ago. A full page in the
Sun
showed Rex posed regally on the balcony, his eyes bright and steely with power and paranoia like the dictator of a small country, his hand just obscuring his open fly. The headline read: “WEE WEE’S BIG ADVENTURE,” with “Rock’s Bad Boys Say: Piss Off, Argies, Urine for It Now!” in bold type underneath.
    Before she gets to answer that Rex isn’t doing interviews, the guitarist grabs the phone and shouts down the receiver, “What’s your problem? You want us to be
nice
, is that it? You want us to say sorry, we’ll be good boys, we won’t do it again? Rock bands aren’t supposed to
be
fucking nice. That’s not what we’re here for. You go crazy if your politicians smoke dope or go to whorehouses, because that’s not their fucking job. And it’s not a rock band’s job to behave like politicians and be polite and nice and try and please everybody all the time. Rock’s
supposed
to be dangerous. These are dirty fucking times and we’re a dirty fucking band.” Grinning, he hangs up the phone and says to the publicist, “Who d’ya have to fuck to get a drink around here?”
    The PR talks the manager into talking Rex into holding a press conference. At the huge oak door of the Presidential Suite the PR stands with a clipboard, checking off the names of the handful of handpicked journalists, making sure they sign the contract agreeing that the story will be published only in the X issue of X magazine and not be resold or syndicated. The journalists argue spiritedly about press freedom, while privately bristling about the future earnings they’re going to lose as a result of not being able to sell the story to magazines that’ve been excluded for something unflattering they’ve written in the past. TV crews fiddle with their lights, plug