In looking up something on Google this morning, I saw a website that touted “David Bowie’s 100 favorite books.”
I barely know who David Bowie is (or was), but I doubted that he had even read a hundred books.
Or, if there was something more, it now escapes me, just as does the idea of David Bowie as a literary heavyweight.
To tell the truth, whenever I thought of this fellow at all, it was as yet another transgender performer who seemed to be famous for no identifiable reason, same as, say, the Kardashians.
Mind, I’m not suggesting that this David Bowie isn’t a nice-enough guy. But don’t you have to do anything outstanding anymore to become famous enough for anybody to care what your favorite books are?
What am I missing here? Was this David Bowie famous for even the 15 minutes of fame that Andy Warhol allotted to each of us? Was I simply out of the room or perhaps taking a nap when it happened?
Maybe so. Before being reminded this morning, I hardly knew David Bowie existed, yet there he was, famous enough to be recommending books to readers. Heck, even the freakishly famous like Boy George and Tiny Tim at least registered a bit on my radar before, thank heaven, vanishing as quickly as soap bubbles. (Let it be noted, too, that they exited quietly without leaving us their recommended reading lists.)
Maybe it’s just as well that I was oblivious to Mr. Bowie’s literary acumen. I see on Wikipedia that he sometimes called himself Ziggy Stardust and claimed to be the creator of a kind of music (I use the word advisedly) called “plastic soul.” I see also that he couldn’t seem to decide on either a permanent name or personality. He was born David Robert Jones, but for a while called himself Ziggy Stardust?
I rest my case.