stooges inducted.

A few days after John Lennon was shot, I cut off my completely unmanageable perm into a daringly short pixie cut and started wearing all black to school. I also started wearing my Clash t-shirt, my Ramones t-shirt, my Velvet Underground t-shirt, and any of the other shirts surreptitiously purchased at either Trash & Vaudeville or Manic Panic. It was not long after that that I was shoved into a locker for the first time with a comment along the lines of “Grateful Dead rules” and “punk shit sucks”. I remember this, because in the process I dropped a vintage copy of Creem magazine with Iggy on the cover that I had hidden in the back of a notebook to read during study hall. I was more worried about the magazine than I was my bruised ribcage.

When Iggy got onstage tonight, after greeting the ballroom with the double-fisted Detroit salute, he said, “Well, roll over Woodstock – we won.” And 20 minutes later, as the Stooges played “I Wanna Be Your Dog” in the Grand Ballroom in the Waldorf-Astoria, I had to agree. We won. As Billie Joe Armstrong read through an impressive, highly accurate, very meaningful list of 20 or 30 bands who owed their existence to the Stooges, I was already thinking that we’d won. As Josh Homme appeared in the tribute film and said, “As far as I’m concerned they’re the greatest rock and roll band ever,” I raised a fist in triumph from my lowly position on the couch in my living room. It only took us seven years, but they’re in. They couldn’t get them in while Ron Asheton was still alive, but – they’re in. It’s done.

We won.

And a double-fisted Detroit salute to every asshole in my senior year who beat me up for liking different bands than you did. Seriously.