Greetings from Laurel Canyon!
Thanks for checking in on me. It’s 2016 and gratefully I am still here beaming you my little “radio hour.” Courtesy of two space heaters and a number of milk crates filled with vinyl, I’m snuggled in a Laurel Canyon garage office with a full heart.
Those of you familiar with these past five years of blog installments won’t be surprised to know that from time to time I have contemplated what it would be like living on a planet without David Bowie.
Susan was crying when she woke me Monday. It happened. The man sometimes known as David Jones, The Thin White Duke, Milton Keynes, Mr. Showbiz , Rhoda Borrocks—but mostly known as Bowie—has left his human form. Could Ziggy have really broken up the band?
In truth I am not sad yet. Instead I am totally consuming myself with David’s songs. The Bowie catalogue is likely my all time favorite, and with the biggest week of Bowiemania ever, maybe it’s an easy statement to make. Pretty much everyone has something special to say on their favorite social network. I loved what ex-’80s NY DJ turned reality TV producer Fenton Bailey shared.
Certainly I’ll never forget meeting Bowie. It was the winter of 1991 and Bowie was in LA filming The Linguini Incident (yes, ironically with my soon to be wife). Kristina Loggia had a part on the flick and became friendly with Bowie and Iman. The three came for a late dinner at my restaurant—The Olive—and returned over the course of a week for several meals.
On one of those nights Bowie got quite drunk on red wine. He was literally poking my chest spewing to me how he always wanted to own a restaurant and declaring, almost yelling out loud, “Jon Sidel, you are the coolest motherfucker! Mate, the coolest motherfucker in LA!”
I shit you not—I was in shock. I was newly sober and didn’t know what to do or say. I retreated to the Olive bathroom and I distinctly remember walking up to the mirror as if to ask myself “did that really fucking happen?” As I looked into the mirror I could see something glistening on my leathers. At closer inspection I noticed I was completely covered in David Bowie spit. Again, I was flabbergasted!
I remember looking back in the mirror and then down at the bathroom sink. As I went to turn on the water something came over me. I believe I said “fuck it” out loud, and quickly rubbed the Bowie spew into my leather threads.
Long live DAVID BOWIE—the baddest rock star ever. Happy 2016
There’s a bit of Bowie DNA in my old leathers.
