Bowie is Lost. Bowie is Free.

The show is fucking over, folks. It’s been more than a day. He is not coming back and he is gone forever and it’s time that we sucked up to the facts: we will never be David Bowie and we will never see another one again. Life, as we know it, is over (or something like it) so take off your tights and brush your hair and it’s time to wear that button-down shirt unironically and retire to your desk like a normal, antedelusional workperson you know you were supposed to be: that square peg in the circular hole that goes home to his shitty apartment in the middle of some bustling metropolis someplace where fun is around every corner before it disappears by the time you get there, or the basement of your parents’ house because despite being twenty-six and beginning to gray in the hair, the world just isn’t what it used to be back when you could hitchhike across the USA like Kerouac or the King; it’s frightening out there and it’s that sort of gloom that hollowed out his voice into the cathedral that he squeezed into strangulated higher tones and croons—rock isn’t something to play with, boy; your hair isn’t orange enough. Continue reading “Bowie is Lost. Bowie is Free.”

Inherent Vice (Thomas Pynchon – 2009, Penguin Press)

1970.  I wasn’t there. And don’t pretend that you were, either. But I’ve seen a lot of movies, and that probably counts, right? Future generations will get a startlingly real idea of what the last two decades have been like based purely on the advertisements that survive, much less substantive things like news clips, youtube videos, and the summer blockbusters. What I’m saying is, 1970 was probably something like a thick cloud of marijuana, a summer that never ended, a lot of hippies, and the entire country was SoCal listing endlessly on the crash of the surf while bands played whose legacies probably amounted to little more than a bigger hit off the bong after the stage lights had darkened. Continue reading “Inherent Vice (Thomas Pynchon – 2009, Penguin Press)”

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