Defending David Bowie
Danielle Kraese
51

Thank you so much, I hate these people already.

I hope you won’t mind me overshadowing this story with an amazing one? Here goes.

In September 2016, I went to a party where there was face painting, as the theme was 4th birthday. This was a 28 year old or so journalist friend I only know online, and on the other side of the city, by the way. But we have a lot of mutual friends, and we’ve known each other at least 2 years anyway.

Well, I had gotten my face painted with the Ziggy Stardust lightning bolt, and it was bloody hot like only an Australian spring/summer can be, so I was already sweaty (obligatory mom’s spaghetti joke here). I was having a fucked up kind of year, and I was fine until I saw just the simplest of public displays of affection, and I’d been keeping it together, just, but I was going through the rollercoaster of 2016 more isolated than any point in my 31 years, save for when I was very little.

I made myself scarce as I broke down. Then I rinsed my face, said good night, and left. With red face paint, glitter, tears, sweat, and water all over my face. And my arm. And my leg. And it was, as you can imagine, quite the look.

I passed by my local karaoke place, and they were doing Rockaoke — live band karaoke — and the bus stopped outside.

Fuck it, I had been wanting to go again for months.

Dragged my half-dead self in the door, and sat down just anywhere.

“What happened to you?” some chick in rock ’n’ roll attire, the whole hair metal look (and smoking hot and only 20-something, too).

I looked down at my arm. “Oh, I’m still wearing this.”

My face paint looked like war paint.

I. Was. A. Rock. God. That. Night.

I changed my Facebook name to Daniel Bowie after that, and stuck with it the rest of the year (4 months is the minimum).

I collapsed on the couch once I got home from all that, and my brother said I looked shell shocked, like actually PTSD, and I sure as hell felt it. I’d sure as hell feel it later when the results of the US Election aged me ten years in my sleep, according to my local bar’s birthday email. But holy shit, did I get a good story out of that part of the year. And I got to do karaoke with a live band and a crowd of 20-somethings who love rock n roll and just good music in general. That scene is alive and kicking in my city. We got so sick of Nightclubs and testosterone-charged wankers, I guess.