html xmlns:og='' xmlns:expr=''> Lounging at the Waldorf: Newsflash


Saturday, January 16, 2016


Newsflash: I'm still devastated by David Bowie's death.

I'm glad I'm not alone. Many, many, many people are feeling the same way I do. And that reminded me of the heart crushing, breath snatching crescendo to the song "Rock and Roll Suicide."

Oh no love! You're not alone
No matter what or who you've been
No matter when or where you've seen
All the knives seem to lacerate your brain
I've had my share, I'll help you with the pain

You're not alone
Just turn on with me and you're not alone
Let's turn on with me and you're not alone
Let's turn on and be not alone
Gimme your hands cause you're wonderful
Gimme your hands cause you’re wonderful
Oh gimme your hands.

When I first heard that song, I didn't know people called each other "love." "Sweetie," yes. "Honey," sure. But I didn't know "love." I thought he was talking about the emotion. I didn't know he was to you and me.

I knew a boy. Initials, JH. The last time I saw him, I lent him a book about Edie Sedgwick and we sang Bowie songs on his doorstep. That's right. We just sat on his stairs facing Colorado Avenue, singing. At what point did I outgrow that? Why did I stop casually sitting around with my friends singing?

Even though we were in sunny Santa Monica, JH wore big boots and a trench coat most days of the week. He was a sweet kid, one of God's affable yet naturally melancholy creations like black tulips, marble sculptures, and soup. With his sunglasses and his soft, fuzzy Isro, he was young Dylan, a walking watercolor.

Isro. You know, like an Afro but for the Jews.

Anyway, I lent him the book (not even mine, it was my aunt's...sorry!) and then we promptly lost touch the way teenagers do. The next thing I heard, this delicate soul had taken his own life. He thought he was alone but he wasn't. None of us were. If only we believed it.

Let's just listen to David. Let's be wonderful.

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