“They can’t be made secure,” he rasps, typically underplaying the line. He says he doesn’t make public appearances anymore. “But I ain’t.” Perry is sitting in the relative calm of a Hollywood Chinese restaurant decorated with celebrity kitsch and photographs of stars both hot and forgotten, household names and Frankie Avalon. “I mean, I could understand if I was the King.” He gestures toward a decanter shaped like Elvis Presley. And I was going, ‘Hey, hey, breathe, hey, hey.’ “I had a girl in Denver, she just wasn’t breathing,” he says. Keep your feet on the ground, even though friends flatter you,” reads the fortune that slips from Luke Perry’s cookie, sage advice for a man whose face adorns the country’s bestselling heart-shaped pillow and whose mobbed personal appearances make Ayatollah Khomeini’s funeral look like a church social.
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