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

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.

Breakups are rarely easy. Feelings can get hurt, emotions get involved . . . it's a situation I try to avoid at all costs. But I'd had a lot of time to think about this, particularly on my morning and afternoon commutes, and I'd sadly come to realize that it was time: I needed to break up with my radio station.

When I first moved back to Connecticut, I got back together with my old radio station purely out of nostalgia. Maybe that sounds shallow, but I remembered how good it used to make me feel, listening to the current Top 40, cruising around Glastonbury with Nirvana and Alanis Morissette blasting from the speakers. I wanted to recapture that old feeling. At first, I think my radio station was happy to have me back. It flattered me and gave my family gifts—my sister won backstage passes, my nephew got some tickets to see the WWE. But soon, I was feeling a little left out. What about me? I thought. Every day, I had to listen to my radio station shower other listeners with fabulous prizes, and I couldn't even score two tickets to the movies for being the tenth caller. I was feeling neglected.

And to be honest, I didn't even like the music that much. They were still playing Top 40 hits, and half the time, I'd never even heard of the songs, much less cared about them. I was bored with their playlist. Nothing ever changed. I'm ashamed to admit it, but on the weekends, I started flirting with other stations. In particular, the station down the dial regularly broadcasted an Awesome 80s Weekend, and I started spending a lot of time with them. Maybe too much time. The warning signs were there; I just chose to ignore them.

Nobody likes to admit that they have a wandering ear. When had I become that girl? I ran back to my old radio station out of guilt. But after listening to "All About the Bass" for the third time in an hour, I came to a sad realization: I was not happy. I started thinking about my needs, what I wanted:  decent music, maybe a surprise Duran Duran song once in a while. I had to face a hard truth: I was begging for more out of this relationship . . . but my radio station wasn't even willing to meet me halfway. Not even an overplayed Pink Floyd song. Nothing.

Maybe my radio station wouldn't even notice if I quietly slipped out of the room.

I scanned the dial, desperate now for a station that would play music I actually liked. I'll admit it was selfish, but I was so unhappy, I didn't care. Something had to change. A smooth talker around the 106s caught my ear. He played Clapton. And U2. He even threw a little Nirvana my way. I felt a twinge of guilt when the opening notes of "Faithfully" by Journey started strumming through the speakers, but not for long: I liked that song. My old radio station would never have played it.

I found myself singing on the way to work. When was the last time I'd actually done that? And the deejays were funny in an intellectual, grown-up way. Not one of them made crude jokes about their co-deejay's breasts or inappropriate gas. These new deejays made me laugh. It felt so good to finally let go and just enjoy myself, to throw caution in the wind. No longer did I care what my friends might think if they found out I was listening to what might arguably be classified as an easy listening station. For once, I was doing something for me. And I liked it.

On the way home today, instead of hearing Taylor Swift or Bruno Mars being barfed out of the speakers, my new radio station played the Beatles. The Beatles! This station was awesome! I cranked up the volume and sang "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" at the top of my lungs. It felt good. And I'm sorry if it upsets my old radio station, but it made me happy.

Life goes on, indeed.