- July 2001 I work at a record store in Chicago, where I am paid six dollars an hour (I take my day’s pay right from the register at the end of my shift) and can have any used CD in the store I want so long as I clean it. On my last day at the store, two albums come into the shop that I’ve never heard before: Hunky Dory and The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars. I walk away with a bundle of CDs and casually forget about the Bowie albums.
My closest friend (who remains my closest friend to this day) is kicked out of his dorm room and moves in with someone he has heard particularly awful rumors about, which I don’t need to go into here. I agree to hang out with my friend in his new room on the first night. My friend, his new roommate, and I are hanging out awkwardly when the roommate puts on Ziggy Stardust. The three of us smoke pot and listen to Ziggy Stardust all night. The song went on forever.
- February 2010
These are the moments I remember from my own life—some humorous, some thrilling, some mundane—when Bowie’s music and persona played a role. But I mention them to illustrate that the greatest artists don’t always exist for us as part of a grand story, but rather in small instances that accumulate into constant companionship. Taken collectively, they make his death an overwhelming loss. Bowie was always around, and he always managed to bring me closer to other people.
