Dear David Bowie:

by Dick Mac

Good morning!

Shortly after I awoke, I was on my phone poking around the virtual world that has become a disquieting part of reality.  I was reading this and that about rich people paying taxes and the borders and the word "motherfucker" and friends' travels and meals and relationships -- you know:  the important stuff.

David Bowie Is . . . 

I came across a post that directed me to my phone's App Store and I purchased the "David Bowie is" app.

Once I had it installed, I went through the process of getting it setup.

Must admit:  I thought it would be simpler than it was, but I should have known better.  After all, I was one of your first customers when you and Al Gore invented the internet in 1959, and I've always known that when you do something creative, it is never run-of-the-mill.

It was the crack-of-dawn (or as Cavebat likes to say: the Iggy-Butt-Crack-of Dawn), after all, and I wasn't yet at my best. Nonetheless, I got it running and found a bright spot (as directed by the application) on my bedside table that served as the setting.  I watched a bit and then it appeared right there in front of my pill bottles (yes, I am an older man now and have to take pills each morning) and under the little lamp left in that room by my daughter:  a portrait of you (not in the flesh) and a bunch of ephemera.  

At my bedside

OK, I admit it:  I actually moved my phone and looked at my bedside table to see if the items were projected there in some sort of holographic image from down that rainbow way . . . that we'd spend some time together . . . just me and you and your TVC15.

Alas, your magic only borrowed my bedside table to make it look like you were there beside me.

I ran out of time at that point, because the day had to start.  Get the teenager out of bed and off to high school, and all that.  Now it's almost time to work and I realize:  that's right, you're not really here. 

It's been about a year since I last wrote to you, and the lack of a response reminded me that you are dead.  You used to respond, but no more. Sadly.

So many people die.  It's always sad, of course, but no longer as debilitating as it was in the 1980s when really young people were dying of the plague.  These days, the sadness is for people who made it to old age and got to live full rich, lives.  So, the sadness isn't debilitating, it's the appropriate amount of sadness for the loss that's been incurred.

I miss you.

I know you keep releasing records and apps, and your fans and staff keep your memory alive, but I still miss you. It's just not the same.

Can you believe it's been three years since you released Blackstar?!?!?!  OMG!

As I mentioned earlier, my daughter is a teenager now (which means your daughter is also a teenager).  Boy, oh boy, what a challenge!  Still, who is luckier than us?

Christmas was fun:  we went to a brunch in Riverdale, then we went to Nobu for dinner.  Did you ever go to Nobu?  I don't recall you ever mentioning it.  Christmas dinner was fantastic: 8 courses over three-and-a-half hours.

I finally ordered the Loving The Alien box set!

Remember I told you about my collection of Apple Records 7" vinyl?  You don't?  I thought for certain I'd told you about it.  Well, it's almost finished.  I need a half-dozen more singles and it's complete.  You know how collections are:  just as you think you're close to the end, there is something that eludes you.

Oh!  It's your birthday!  Happy birthday, to you!

I hope it's not sad where you are.  Don't stay in a sad place, where they don't care how you are.

I like our little chats.

Everyone says hi!