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MY (BELATED) BOWIE STORY
Nov. 15th, 2017 05:00 pmPeople are mentioning Bowie quite a bit today; perhaps this is the time to get my mind off of being shot with a paint gun, by finally telling about how I once spent a few minutes on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art discussing the philosopher Santayana with him (as one does) Someone I knew casually from the scene who did a lot of high-level security work spotted me by the front steps as he was about to escort him to his car, and apparently decided I wouldn't be all AAAAGHHH OMG BOWIE BOWIE BOWIE!!! Silly him!
Anyway, on this particular day, I was standing by the entrance to the Met, and thinking about leaving, when this guy comes over, greets me by my scene name, and says, "Can you keep it quiet?"
Me: ?_? "Yeah...?"
Him (indicates unremarkable well dressed man): "See that guy?"
me: *rolls eyes to see without turning my head* "Yeah...?"
him (grinning at my lack of perception): "That's David Bowie."
me: (@)___(@) TILT TILT TILT
him: "If you want, you can talk to him while I get the car."
We walk over; introductions. I only *just* stop myself from saying something like "You sound just like David Bowie!" (I'm guessing this was the middle 90s- maybe ’95, as I remember wishing I had bought Outside (still haven’t- bad me) so I could say something pertinent about it; probably before '98, as I don't remember thinking about Velvet Goldmine.) My brain was running in circles, gibbering to itself about Merry Christmas, Mister Lawrence; Labyrinth; Ziggy Stardust; Man Who Sold the Moon… finally, pretty much out of desperation, I said,
“What are you reading, Mister Bowie?”
He looked (understandably) surprised for a moment, as we began walking toward the door, and said, “I’m reading Santayana- do you know him?”
…the gods be thanked, I did, just a bit. I gibbered what little I could remember of The Life of Reason (or as much as I’d got through); Gore Vidal’s memoir Palimpsest had just come out, and I related Vidal’s anecdote about bringing people such as Tennessee Williams to visit Santayana at the Convent of the Blue Nuns… my brain was so far out of its comfort zone, the whole thing was more surreal than anything else. (I also remember somehow bringing up that I’d always thought Bridge on the River Kwai and Merry Christmas Mister Lawrence would make a fascinating double bill, to which he politely agreed; too, I remember the cologne he wore: musky, with an undernote of citrus, is undoubtedly how I’d describe it if I knew a fucking thing about such things. I remember fleetingly thinking of how Alexander the Great’s sweat was supposed to smell like honey, and even more fleetingly wondering if I should mention that (thankfully, I didn’t). If I live to be ninety years old, and on my deathbed, I caught a whiff of that fragrance, my mind would respond “Bowie.”
Our conversation lasted about three or four minutes; it lasted forever; the guy (WHAT WAS YOUR FUCKING NAME, DUDE?) came around in a car, and David Bowie smiled, and was gone. The guy gave a grin, and rolled the window up; I never saw either one of them again; I just remember standing on the sidewalk, feeling as though I had been walking a tightrope, knowing I would never again have such an enchanted, enchanting moment. I don’t know why I never shared it- perhaps because I associate the moment itself so strongly with STRESS FEAR WHAT DO I SAY NOW PLEASE GOD DO NOT LET ME BE A BLITHERING ASSHOLE; perhaps because I almost felt as though a scene from someone else’s life had been spliced into mine by mistake. Still, it was a moment; it was surreal and demanding and lovely; from that day to this, I’ve never felt the slightest self-consciousness about chatting with famous people again.
Anyway, on this particular day, I was standing by the entrance to the Met, and thinking about leaving, when this guy comes over, greets me by my scene name, and says, "Can you keep it quiet?"
Me: ?_? "Yeah...?"
Him (indicates unremarkable well dressed man): "See that guy?"
me: *rolls eyes to see without turning my head* "Yeah...?"
him (grinning at my lack of perception): "That's David Bowie."
me: (@)___(@) TILT TILT TILT
him: "If you want, you can talk to him while I get the car."
We walk over; introductions. I only *just* stop myself from saying something like "You sound just like David Bowie!" (I'm guessing this was the middle 90s- maybe ’95, as I remember wishing I had bought Outside (still haven’t- bad me) so I could say something pertinent about it; probably before '98, as I don't remember thinking about Velvet Goldmine.) My brain was running in circles, gibbering to itself about Merry Christmas, Mister Lawrence; Labyrinth; Ziggy Stardust; Man Who Sold the Moon… finally, pretty much out of desperation, I said,
“What are you reading, Mister Bowie?”
He looked (understandably) surprised for a moment, as we began walking toward the door, and said, “I’m reading Santayana- do you know him?”
…the gods be thanked, I did, just a bit. I gibbered what little I could remember of The Life of Reason (or as much as I’d got through); Gore Vidal’s memoir Palimpsest had just come out, and I related Vidal’s anecdote about bringing people such as Tennessee Williams to visit Santayana at the Convent of the Blue Nuns… my brain was so far out of its comfort zone, the whole thing was more surreal than anything else. (I also remember somehow bringing up that I’d always thought Bridge on the River Kwai and Merry Christmas Mister Lawrence would make a fascinating double bill, to which he politely agreed; too, I remember the cologne he wore: musky, with an undernote of citrus, is undoubtedly how I’d describe it if I knew a fucking thing about such things. I remember fleetingly thinking of how Alexander the Great’s sweat was supposed to smell like honey, and even more fleetingly wondering if I should mention that (thankfully, I didn’t). If I live to be ninety years old, and on my deathbed, I caught a whiff of that fragrance, my mind would respond “Bowie.”
Our conversation lasted about three or four minutes; it lasted forever; the guy (WHAT WAS YOUR FUCKING NAME, DUDE?) came around in a car, and David Bowie smiled, and was gone. The guy gave a grin, and rolled the window up; I never saw either one of them again; I just remember standing on the sidewalk, feeling as though I had been walking a tightrope, knowing I would never again have such an enchanted, enchanting moment. I don’t know why I never shared it- perhaps because I associate the moment itself so strongly with STRESS FEAR WHAT DO I SAY NOW PLEASE GOD DO NOT LET ME BE A BLITHERING ASSHOLE; perhaps because I almost felt as though a scene from someone else’s life had been spliced into mine by mistake. Still, it was a moment; it was surreal and demanding and lovely; from that day to this, I’ve never felt the slightest self-consciousness about chatting with famous people again.
