David Bowie

This would be funny if it weren’t so freaking sad.

Screw you 2016!

In just fourteen days you’ve taken two of our best and left us with…well, Donald Trump and that creepy Burger King with the plastic hair and psychotic smile.

Earlier this week I was shocked and a little pissed at the loss of David Bowie. I walked around the entire day in a fog, almost as if I could feel the creative void he left behind. I was just getting my groove back when this morning I woke up to the news that the delicious Alan Rickman had passed.

Wait. What?
Things have gotten out of hand, this has just got to stop!

Both were sixty-nine years old, which from over here at fifty-seven seems really young and waaaaaayyyy too close. (Uh, oh, now my own mortality chip has been activated), AND they both died from cancer.

Fuck you cancer!

So now we all know what happens—we wait for the third one to go. It’s some kind of weird numerological anomaly that always proves itself to be true: celebrities die in threes.

When Raphael came home from the gym this morning he was met with my sad-sack face which stopped him in his tracks. I’m sure for a second he assumed I was upset over the fact that my ticket had not won us the  1.5 billion dollars (which I was), or simply that I’d finished my coffee—but he asked me what was wrong anyway.

“Alan Rickman died,” I sort of half sobbed.

“The guy from Harry Potter? The guy with the voice?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed with genuine shock. You see, my husband is so bad at remembering names, movies, actors, and anything pop culture that this was like a fifth grader correctly answering a $1000 Jeopardy question about life on our planet before computers. (As he explains it, he doesn’t want to waste the brain space.) Ouch. That always makes me feel like I need Will Smith to put on his sunglasses and flash that light in my face to free me up some brain bandwidth. (See what I did there?)

“Yeah, yeah, he was in Harry Potter. But oh my gawd, what about Love Actually, and Truly, Madly, Deeply* and Die Hard; oh, and we just saw him in A Little Chaos, remember?”

“Not really”.

“Ohhhhhh, I loved him…and now he’ll never know. I always wanted to meet him so I could ask him to record the outgoing message on my phone.” (Sigh) That voice…I can’t even…”, I could feel a lump growing like a goiter in my throat.

“Oh man, you’ve had a rough week. All your favorites.”
Awwwww, that was nice, some real sympathy. Then he turned on me.

“You know they always go in threes—I hope the third one isn’t Jean-Luc Picard—that would suck.”
He had a slight grin on his face as he ran out of  left the room, “Uh oh, what if he’s six-nine?” he shouted from a safe distance.

Okay, now he was just fucking with me.

I had made a dark secret of mine public knowledge a couple of years back in a speech I made at Raphael’s 60th birthday “roast”— the fact that I had a mad crush on Jean-Luc Picard and had used him as a husband template. Not so much the actor Patrick Stewart, although don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t throw him back. No, more specifically I had the hots for the French, bald, serious, thoughtful, smart, capable, man-who-could-solve-any-problem that the Universe (literally) threw at him and dare I say sexy, Captain of the Starship Enterprise—Jean-Luc Picard.
And I came damn close with Raphael. Except for the Starship, I nailed it.

“Natalie Cole!” I screamed down the hall. “She was the first. Jean-Luc is safe!—Natalie Cooooooole!”

“That was New Years Eve. Doesn’t count. It was still 2015.”

Shit, Game on.

“What about the Motorhead guy?” I was grasping at straws, my brain was scrambling, Google! Google!
Fuck that, “Siri! How old is Patrick Stewart?”

“Motorhead guy was still 2015”.
How did he know this shit? He must have been Googling as fast as his fingers could type. I could hear in his voice that he was trying not to laugh. Jerk.

“Patrick Stewart is seventy-five!” I yelled, filled with genuine relief. “Oh, thank God, he’s safe,” I muttered to myself under my breath, not realizing, because of all of the brain space filled with useless trivia, that that only meant he was six years closer to the pearly gates.

“Why are you yelling? I’m right here,” he said, standing in the doorway wearing only a smirk. (Not really, he was wearing pants, but it makes for a better story.)

All of this to say: Why are all of the great ones dying? Sixty-nine is middle-aged, people play stupid guessing games about who’s died instead of crying, it’s starting to suck being a baby-boomer, death is not the end, and considering who joined the general population this week—Heaven is going to be a blast!

Its been one-hullava week—wanna weigh in?

Carry on,
xox

*”Truly, Madly, Deeply” which came out in 1991, is one of my all-time favorite films and so I went on Amazon to order a DVD so I could watch it this weekend and cry my eyes out—and there was only ONE copy—for $200! WTF?

How lucky are we?

We all knew he wasn’t from HERE. Someone so otherworldly. Someone so fearlessly himself.

So maybe it was for that very reason that it never occurred to me that he could leave us.

Say what you will, even if you’ve never listened to a note of his music (which would seem virtually impossible and make you someone I’m not sure I could be friends with), you were aware of the man.

Because he was SO different.

An alien among us, so much so that he was the obvious choice for the lead in the 1976 film, “The Man Who Fell To Earth”.

But what made David Bowie, David Bowie?

I was crazy lucky to be in Chicago last year at the same time as the exhibition of his extraordinary life, “David Bowie is”.
So of course, nothing could keep me away.

It (the David Bowie-ness of David Bowie), started at the very beginning as this collection showed, giving us a peek into his private hand-written notes, diary entries and song lyrics. Among the treasures were many examples of his drawings for album cover art, stage mock-ups which he designed, and a remarkable collection of outrageously unique stage costumes (including early Alexander McQueen), photographs, and other rare possessions from the David Bowie Archives.

In other words, if Bowie was an alien—THIS was his mothership.

I stayed too long, (Rebel, Rebel) in the very last room, even as the museum people were trying to shoo me along to give the throngs of other Bowie-ites a chance to get a view. I was busy crying big, sloppy tears as I stood mesmerized by the multi-media presentation of floor-to-ceiling video tiles of concert footage and music (for which I was emotionally unprepared), which had me feeling as if I were onstage with him at Wembley Stadium.

It was without-a-doubt the best thing I’ve EVER experienced—in a museum.

All that stuff was just evidence of the obvious.
This guy knew who he was and what he came here to do VERY early on in his life and his focus and determination to be WHO HE REALLY WAS, no matter how strange and shocking that looked or sounded—separated him from the rest of us.

I was in high school in L.A. when that film came out and that’s also when I first heard his music at Martha Johnston’s house, (The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars… about a bisexual alien rock superstar—duh), and consequently, when I first snuck out to see him in concert.

It was a revelation. And while many aspects of it went over my Catholic-schooled, teenage head—still, it marked me.

He wasn’t like us. Was he a man or a woman? Both? Neither?

Shit! When I think about how ahead of the crowd he was with his androgyny and glam rock it blows my mind. I figure at least a decade.
And I suppose in the big picture none of that really matters except it kinda does because he influenced an entire generation of musicians; Duran Duran, Madonna, Lady Gaga to name a few; and in doing so—he influenced all of us.

They were all, with the exception of Gaga, part of the soundtrack of MY youth.

So, I think that’s what he did for all of us. What David Bowie is, as the title of the exhibit leaves blank for us to answer, is someone who gives us permission to be unique…maybe even a little bit odd. Someone who gives us permission—make that encourages us to:

To fly our freak flags. It may inspire others to do the same.
To stray away from the herd.
To control all aspects of our image.
To be different than the rest.
To have the vision of something shocking and untested.
To be forever curious, always moving forward.
To be our courageous selves, whatever that may look like—public opinion be damned.
And not to let any grass grow under our feet. To become a Master of Reinvention just as he’d done through the years.

We may never be as batshit odd/brilliantly genius as David Bowie. He set the bar too high.
But we can try.

I aspire to be like him. Receiving inspiration and creating until the end, but we may all be a little less brave without him around…for a while.

Annie Lennox wrote something that really resonated with me on her Facebook page today maybe it will with you too:

“Like a gazillion other people, I feel stunned by the news that David Bowie has departed this earth.
At the loss of someone who has impacted and influenced your life, you can hardly begin to measure the shape of what’s left behind.

Our personal and collective inner landscape has shifted and we’re trying to come to terms with it.
No one exists forever and it seems our elegant gentleman was well aware that his last mortal chapter was about to reach its conclusion.

“Blackstar” was his parting gift.
Provocative and nightmarishly “otherworldly”… we are jolted towards the twilight realms of epileptic seizures and voodoo scarecrows.
The bejewelled remains of Major Tom lie dormant in a dust coated space suit…
It leaves me breathless.
You must see it to believe it…
He knew…
He could see through it all.”

Love you, carry on,
xox