On reflection

Why David Bowie is like cocaine to me

While I’d never wish to disparage all of my lovely, intelligent, creative and cultured friends for whom Bowie was an inspiration, both artistically and personally, I am glad to find at least one writer who seems composed in the face of the great man’s passing. It’s no disrespect, just that Bowie was like cocaine to me. I know the funny white granules must be amazing, because everybody tells me so, but the stimulant never really set my brain on fire. Just like I could never imagine purchasing the drug from a dealer, but snort a line out of courtesy, finding it amusing and sociable, I’d never put up a Bowie poster on my bedroom wall, but still love singing along to Major Tom, Starman and Heroes when someone else played them.


Note: wearing exuberant clothes as a man doesn’t make you gay. Conversely, being gay doesn’t mean wearing exuberant clothes, or even being having a sense of style.

I accept this numbness as a comgenital condition, for better or worse.
In similar fashion, I have never felt Bowie somehow gave me permission to be gay, because I never remembered him demonstrating his love to another man, or even his delight in the male physique. My heroes at the time were Tchaikovsky, Baldwin, Mercury, Mapplethorpe and Wilde, who were true to themselves in much less forgiving times than the sexually liberated space Bowie inhabited, or, in the case of Mercury, were really properly out there.

All of this means no disrespect, I hasten to add.

I’ll try and listen to all the Bowie songs my lovely friends have posted and hopefully gain an education and a deeper appreciation in the process – perhaps it’s not too late for my heart to be truly moved.

By the way, I do think it’s impossible for any recently departed to get any decent shuteye in the afterlife when people shout RIP every five minutes, which I imagine is like annoyingly your coffin being nudged by excitable mourners. If you want the dead to rest in peace, will ya stop crying RIP the whole bloody time?

So, farewell then,
David B,
You were loved by many
Maggie Thatcher must be spinning in her outsourced grave
Ha, ha.
Maybe you are smiling too, up above –
Eternal Starman in the sky.


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