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.