I have made it no secret that I was a tween and a teen during that magical musical time known as the eighties. Back in my day, we had fabulous magazines like Teen Beat and Tiger Beat and Bop!. The sole purpose of these fine periodicals was to deliver glossy photos of hot young movie stars, hot young TV stars, and hot young musicians. The teenage girls into whose hands these hot young photos were delivered would immediately cut those images out and tack them to their walls. I was one of those girls. It seemed to be a required step in the puberty process.

I’m sure, if you’ve ever read this blog before, you can guess who was on my wall: Duran Duran, the cast of The Outsiders, more Duran Duran. But also Adam Ant, The Pet Shop Boys, and this funny British guy with crooked teeth.

Yes, that is David Bowie. Why is he holding a cat? Who knows? I didn't care. Keep in mind that I was still a tween. I loved my British pop stars, but I also loved kitties. I might have had this photo framed.

I’d love to tell you that I admired Bowie because of his voice: so instantly recognizable, yet ever-changing; or his expansive talents—actor, artist, space alien. But I was a young, hormonal girl. Here’s what I loved: his hair, his eyes, and his teeth. He was hot.

His hair, because it always looked perfectly spikily coiffed, something that (despite my best efforts with Dep gel and Aqua Net) I could never achieve. His eyes, because they were not only two different colors, but one pupil was permanently dilated, and thus endlessly fascinating. And his teeth, because they weren’t perfect. (I had never been self-conscious about my teeth until a dentist suggested I have my front uppers and lowers capped to straighten them out. I didn’t do it—up until that very moment, I had never given their crookedness a second thought—but now I am painfully aware of my jack-’o-lantern smile.) Famous people with imperfect teeth hold a special place in my heart (Ethan Hawke, I salute you). If they don’t care about their haphazard grins, why should I?

My point is, as a teenager, I thought David Bowie was handsome and sexy and enigmatic. 

Eventually, I got through puberty and grew up. And happily, as an adult, I found David Bowie to be brilliant and crazy and bizarre and beautiful.

David Bowie was always part of the backdrop as I aged. While I was agonizing over pimples and bad dates and bad marriages and a mortgage, he was singing and acting and reinventing himself over, and over, and over. And in every interview, every video, every movie he popped up in, I thought Hey, there’s my old friend, David Bowie! I love that guy! And once: Hey, what the—did he fix his teeth? How could he?

Waking up Monday morning to the news that David Bowie had left the proverbial building was saddening in a way I wasn’t prepared for. My old friend was gone. His absence was immediate and huge.

Except . . . it isn’t. I have a lot of Bowie on my iPhone, and played his music all week while driving or at my desk. I put on Basquiat Monday night and watched him play one of my other favorite artists, Andy Warhol. Social media and the online sites have been posting tributes all week to this amazing man. And even scrolling through some of my old blog posts, I found references to Bowie that I’d forgotten—my love of his duet with Bing Crosby, only because it’s David Bowie. My love of Labyrinth, even though, let’s be honest, it’s not the best movie in the world. References to “Space Oddity” and “Changes” occasionally made because I’d assumed everybody knew these songs and would get the reference.

I have one coworker that is as deep in mourning as I am over the loss of Ziggy Stardust. We started talking about how absolutely brilliant he was to release Blackstar so close to his death. His swan song has skyrocketed in sales this week, and there has been endless speculation and interpretation around the lyrics and videos he left us with.

“Typical Bowie,” my coworker said. “Leaving us all guessing and wanting more.”

This is true. Typical Bowie—in that he never did the typical or expected.

I’ll miss you, old friend. 

I’m off to put on my red shoes and dance the blues.    
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This week from The Storyside:
Fabulous free fiction: "That Sounds Familiar" by Stacey Longo (hey, that's me!)
An overview of how to get your book written and published: "From Idea to Printed Page, Part 1" by Ursula Wong

There are rules in my house for the holidays. (Actually, they’re not so much in my house as in my head.  I do take them with me wherever I go.) Here’s what you have to do if you want to celebrate the holidays with me:

• We do not talk of weight or diets during Christmas week. There are no “I shouldn’ts” or discussion of Weight Watchers points during this week. You have your whole life to diet. This type of food only happens once a year.
• We do not yell at the cats for destroying the tree. It’s their house, too, and they’re not allowed to go outside. You’ve just brought a giant, six-foot cat toy into the house. If they want to chew on the pine needles and barf up green hairballs later, by golly, you will LET them!
• We do not play holiday music in my presence unless it is Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. The exceptions to this are limited, and come down to:

1.  “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” by Band Aid.
   
2.   “Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy” by David Bowie and Bing Crosby. (Note: ONLY this version is allowed. And no more than twice a season.)
   
3.  “Wonderful Christmas Time” by Paul McCartney (no more than once a season).
   
4.  “You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch” by Thurl Ravenscroft (most fun name EVER!)—however, if you compare me to the green, cranky one, I will stab you in the eye with a fork three sizes too small. Like a cocktail fork. Whatever. It'll hurt, that's all.

Note: I have been known to break up with radio stations forever for starting their holiday music crap right after Thanksgiving (it was nice knowing you, 106.5 WBMW).

• If you want me to bring food to a holiday gathering, you have two choices:

1. spinach dip in a bread bowl
   
2. cookies (probably snickerdoodles)

There is no wavering from this list. If you call me a week before your scheduled event and ask me to bring a fancy pesto-puffed-pastry tree with dipping sauce that you’re just sure I’m talented and creative enough to make, you will get a bread bowl filled with spinach dip.
Or nothing. You might get nothing. A pesto tree? Are you kidding?

• Step out to the left, please. When the car stops, please step out to the left. (Wait. I think that's the rule for the old Mr. Toad's Wild Ride at Disney World. Disregard, please.)
• You are welcome to wish me a Merry Christmas, a Happy Holiday, a Fabulous Festivus, a Happy Chewbacca, or whatever you wish to say to acknowledge the season. This is the one time of year when I will not be offended by your religious views. Knock yourself out.
• Do not ask me to watch holiday specials with you. I do not like them. You cannot change my reaction to them. I will not enjoy them. I will heckle them. You will get angry and call me a Grinch. I will impale your eyeballs with my above-mentioned cocktail fork. It will end badly.

Follow these rules, and we'll get along fine. I hope you have a wonderful holiday this Christmas. Happy Chewbacca, everyone!
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This week from The Storyside:
My Favorite Funny People: "Light Reading" by Stacey Longo (hey, that's me!)
Festive Book Review: "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Krampus" by Rob Smales

My next entry on this list might surprise you: "The Little Drummer Boy/Peace on Earth." It's surprising because I hate both "The Little Drummer Boy" and Bing Crosby. But I am, at heart, a child of the eighties, and as such, one thing I really do like is some David Bowie. What makes this song even more enjoyable is that Bowie didn't want to do it. So he likes Bing about as much as I do.
Let me clarify. According to this article from the Huffington Post, Bowie was supposed to sing "The Little Drummer Boy" in tandem with Bing. Bowie didn't want to, because when you're Ziggy Stardust, you don't give a rat's patootie about offending a legendary crooner like Bing Crosby. Atta boy.
So at the last minute, the writers for Bing's holiday special wrote an accompanying piece ("Peace on Earth") and Bowie . . . agreed to sing it. The result? A bizarre duet that is so uncomfortable to watch, it'll put you right in the "I'd rather be anywhere else but here"  mood that's so common around the holidays.

Next up is a song that isn't traditionally considered a holiday classic, but I think it should be. It always takes me back to a happy time. Picture it: late November, 1994. I was a young, naive college student, buying a frozen Stouffer's microwave dinner at the corner UniMart. It was there that the creepy sales clerk told me the news: Jeffrey Dahmer had been murdered in prison.

In short, a Christmas miracle. Stacey's small grinch heart grew three sizes that day.

To this day, nothing gets me in the holiday spirit quite like the Violent Femmes' holiday ditty, "Dahmer Is Dead." Go on, have a listen. You can't tell me that doesn't evoke some sort of emotional reaction in you.

Finally, I would be remiss if I didn't mention that old feel-good chestnut, "Teddy the Red-Nosed Senator." When I think about Christmas, I think "Sure, it's about the birth of the savior and all that, but how can I poke fun at Teddy Kennedy at the same time?" Because isn't that really what the holiday is about? Making fun of a dead Kennedy's addiction problems? Yes. Yes it is, in my book.