Irene Cara hit the nail on the head when she sang, Fame, I’m gonna live forever...Sure, the song went down hill faster than a barrel off a cliff when she ended that line: I’m gonna learn how to fly (High).

Well, you wouldn’t fly low, now would you? But who cares. She was sexy as hell. What kid didn’t have a crush on her, learn how to play an instrument just so they could apply to Julliard?  

“Ed, who the heck is Irene Cara and why are you writing about her in the Daily Life?”

Glad you asked. It’s been said that Iceland is so small that everyone is famous. Therefore, Icelanders don’t get all hot and bothered when someone famous winds up on this rock.  

“Yeah, man. That’s why Björk can hang out at Sirkus without body guards.”

Let’s bring an end to that myth today. Last weekend, Quentin Tarantino was here to promote the movie  Hostel, on which he served as executive producer. The horror film was directed by Eli Roth (Cabin Fever) who fell in love with Iceland when he came here as a 19-year old, living just outside of Selfoss on some sort of horse ranch. 

Reykjavikers were freakin’ out that Mr. Tarantino was in town, as well as Mr. Roth, who has become some sort of cult figure here in Iceland.

On Friday night, I just happened to wander into Oliver (the bar with the $7 peanuts) and who was sitting at a table but Mr. Tarantino, Mr. Roth and a few of the actors from Hostel. Oh, how the vampires and leaches were circling that night. The crowd around the table was so thick I could barely make it past the table, towards the bathroom.  

Speaking of bathrooms: Saturday night was the world premiere of Hostel, and afterwards there was a party at Rex. Now, aside from the bartender Imba, who wears the world’s sexiest low-cut jeans and (to add to the sex appeal) has her bottle opener sticking out the back pocket, there is absolutely no reason to go to Rex. It’s a bar for pretentious pretenders who all think that they are members of Iceland’s elite, nouveau riche clan.

But the after-party was at Rex, so I had to go. Besides, it’s not everyday you get to see Björk staggering around a bar, wearing a party dress and a party hat.  

It was a mob scene. Guys and girls were going berserk for Mr. Tarantino, who was tolerating the drunken Icelanders with grace.

How crazy was the crowd? I was talking to a friend of mine, when a girl I had never seen before ran up to me, her eyes about to burst out of her head from excitement, her nipples perking through some sort of glittered outfit that one might see on a woman from outer space, told me: I just got a photograph of Tarantino! 

Good for you, darling. Now shoo. 

Oh, yes, the bathroom. Our photographer told me that he was in the bathroom when he heard an Icelander say: Tarantino’s taking a crap. Soon, four other Icelanders were standing outside the stall. Imagine, finishing your business and stepping out to an audience, asking for your autograph before you’ve even had the chance to wash your hands. 

Fame...I wanna live forever. 

EW ed@icelandreview.com