It was not the androgyny on stage that offered up David Bowie as a cultural icon. By the time his few tracks tame enough for commercial radio music it past the tuning fork in the left ear of adolescent rebellion, his eyes transfixed anything he did on film, like an anti-messiah ready to cast you off, a young woman sensed his explosiveness beneath the surface, and thus it is another blade to penetrate the starchy creviced tits only of interest to those who get a kick off the fetish of hustler, remorse for the ignorance of his cancer diagnosis. A Hawaiian red pineapple seems an appropriate transport for Ziggy's star on the walk of fame. It is okay to cry a little, okay to be positive and celebrate how unique his entertainment value was, how courageous his sentiment to turn away honors like a knighthood. He knew better.
This passing caught me off guard.
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