Despite all he accomplished, here’s a partial list of things Bowie never did:

It was probably 1985. Yes, that sounds right. That would make me eight. My oldest sister, seven years my senior, ruled the stereo and record collection as oldest sisters are wont to do.

I was twelve when I first heard Space Oddity.

This was the early 1970s, when even the popular kids were sad and disconnected. I just knew them as mean, so I spent a lot of time in my own company.

We were a football field of fans awaiting the leper messiah’s entrance. The crowd erupted and surged hard; you had to move with the human wave or risk a limb crushing.

Ziggy played guitar. I played left field for Wyoming Tradesmen.

1972, and I was a skinny little-leaguer in a baggy uniform, cherished Rawlings fielders mitt dangling from my left hand, standing sunburned to a crisp in the remotest regions of the outfield.

David Bowie was my mother's music. In the early seventies, she played it all the time, usually loudly, often while drinking and crying. She loved Bowie so much she had a poster of Aladdin Sane on her bedroom wall.

In June 1972, men tied to President Nixon’s reelection campaign were arrested when they broke into the offices of the Democratic National Committee at the Watergate office complex, while my older brother turned twelve and received, as a gift from our parents, a stereo, the first in our house.

It’s safe in the city to love in a doorway

A drag queen grabs my waist and launches me into The Tube. I am her mini-me, dressed to compliment her red and black outfit.

When I was a teenager, I frequented a place next store to the movie theater where I worked called the ‘Paperback Exchange.’ Old Books, old records, generally things people would never find at the mall nearby.

1987. I am 11 years old and I am already an inveterate babysitter on a Saturday night gig.

1. Death

This is supposed to be a short piece about David Bowie, written on the occasion of his death, which was a terrible surprise.

The boys are ones and the girls are zeroes because boys hit harder and a 0 looks like it would embrace you. Girls hit, too, so the circle arms are for appearances. But now here you are, under my thumb, gloss on gloss, my sister's magazine that she threw in the trash under the sink, closing the cupboard door before I could reach it.

As I read the various feeds mourning David Bowie’s passing, I see Heroes, Low, Ziggy Stardust name checked as some of his best work. There is only one other person I’ve seen acknowledge David Bowie’s Outside in some capacity.

In 1983 my older (and only) sibling took me to buy my first album. On vinyl, he insisted. It’s the only way. Our folks had a sprawling collection of their own, built mostly in the late 60s and early 70s when they were teenagers and young parents.

The last time I cried over a celebrity death was in 1990. I was dropped out of college and working in the most mediocre women’s clothing department at Macy’s.