I went to Comic-Con (OHMIGOSH AMAZING *gaspsputterdie*) in San Diego the other week and raided one booth's collection of cheap and plentiful posters. I spent $21 dollars for three posters: The Clash's famous "London Calling" print, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and a gi-nor-mous picture David Bowie's face, circa 2003.
For you to understand why I dropped seven bucks for a print of a fifty-six-year-old man's visage, you must know that I am a . . . there really are not even words to describe how utterly enamored I am of Bowie -- I mean, to the point that my love of him can be socially debilitating. Yeah. I'm the premenstrual food addict and he's the German chocolate cake. On second thought, that's kind of a poor analogy, because it isn't that I want to devour him, per se, more that I want to trap his clone in my closet and intimidate it into singing Moonage Daydream 24/7 while wearing sequined tank tops and stretch leather pants.
But we've wandered far away from my original point, monkeybirds.
When I saw this print, all I could think was "Wowwowowowow -- OH. SWEET. NIBLETS. The man glows." So I bought it. Because I want him to stare me to sleep every night. However, now that the initial manic excitement has faded away, I'm starting to have second thoughts . . .
"Let's sway . . . as I drink your soul, feeble mortal, and force the hand of your last breath . . . While color lights up your face."
It's the manifested horror of combining his "Devil's Little Helper" period with a carjacking hobo.
Don't get me wrong: It's Bowie, so I'm going to keep it anyway. The man could dress up in a chicken suit and walk in a circle and I'd say it was the most marvelous thing since Swan Lake. I'm fairly certain that Bowie is incapable of disappointing me. Nonetheless, his expression makes me want to cross the street and get a handle on my bear mace.
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