It’s been an odd, rough week. I finally beat back the vestiges of this year’s version of The Cold from Hell to walk into a big old depression pit. It was one of those weeks I had to obsessively catalog every thing I needed to do at work, marking each off with a highlighter swipe as they were completed, one by one. I found myself midweek, coming home exhausted and wanting to build a blanket fort to hide within. As a result, this blog suffered a bit. Writer’s block doesn’t begin to describe how I felt about the written word from my own hands for the past seven days.
Last night, the grip of depression finally loosened and I owe it to my husband and son. And of all people, Elton John. Having worked over 40 hours this week, I had a short day Friday and my husband took my son and I to a local burger place that has an amazing beer selection, along with a menu that has burgers named after famous people. ( I always opt for a Mike D. named after the Beastie Boys member–vegetarian of course). My son played D.J on the way home and decided to dial up some older Elton John songs. With excessive traffic on Mission Street, it ended up becoming a carpool karaoke–with several part harmony, no less. We worked through “Crocodile Rock”, “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” and did an amazing job on “Rocket Man”. (I also discovered that Mr. Reginald Dwight and I have the same vocal range, btw.) I came home feeling much better. Yes, music can be a miracle cure at times.
The other reason this week probably hit me harder than usual, is that its the anniversary of David Bowie’s death. Two years down the road, I thought I wouldn’t feel this as deeply as I do, but his death still feels fresh and raw as an open wound. I recently picked up Rob Sheffield’s book On Bowie and more than anything the first paragraph describes in so many words how many of us Bowie fans feel:
“Planet Earth is a lot bluer without David Bowie, the greatest rock star who ever fell to this or any other world. He was the hottest tramp, the slinkiest vagabond, the prettiest star who ever shouted “You’re not alone” to an arena full of the world’s loneliest kids”
For certain, as child who never quite fit in, who spent most of her childhood shuffled from home to hospital and back again, who railed against a normative culture that she could never quite measure up to physically or socially, David Bowie was a saint in my eyes. He told us it was O.K to be weird, in fact, that weirdness was cause for celebration, and that following that weird ass muse through every reincarnation was a worthy cause. Losing my heroes, Joe Strummer and Lou Reed felt tragic; Bowie felt like the loss of a family member, much beloved, whose departure will take a long, long time to reconcile.
So I’ll leave you with this– Bis bald until next time.