I spent the entire show working my way back and forth from my friends' table to the bathroom, unable to even enjoy his performance, in a sweat over what I would say, what we would do, where we would go.
It was after midnight when he made his way across his hotel lobby to meet me. He had a strange way of walking I can only describe as snake-like. Maybe it was because of the pants he'd changed into, a kind of sueded fabric that made his legs look longer and thinner.
In his room, the furniture was pushed against the walls to make room for his massage table. He showed me the coffeemaker he used to make enemas. When I recoiled at this notion, he laughed and said, "This coffee has never been touched by human hands!"
We sat in the window and looked at the city view, which he'd had to pitch a fit to get. And not knowing (or perhaps knowing) what a gift he was giving me, he played a few songs, asking me my favorites. He strummed through "Face Yourself," and though I didn't really require it, explained the lyrics to me line by line, lyrics that, with all their "Now or never, face yourself, no one else will do," I had clung to. I still do, although now the mentions of "zero one zero" and 1984 seem embarrassingly old-fashioned.