I wrote about Princess Diana tonight, or rather, the salacious book that’s set to come out and make Prince Charles furious. And I remembered when she died, how I found out, and who told me. And it was about the time I saw Bowie and, as I confessed earlier on this blog, got bored. He looked at me, I died. Then I recovered, and got bored. Seventeen years later, I’m writing about it.
Tonight, by chance, I found a review of that show posted online. It’s from a now-defunct local magazine that apparently wanted to preserve its existence by putting all of its content on the most basic of late-90s era websites. And I don’t recognize it, exactly, the photos that are included in the article. And I realized the very tenuous nature of memory, how it all gets mixed up and the clothes change and the conversations weren’t exactly what we thought they were.
My mom took me to see the Glass Spider tour in 1987. I was 12. That’s a fact, I have a birth certificate somewhere to prove it and a recently produced chart of astrological transits and progressions from a local astrologer that depends on it, so it had better be true. My mother remembers the concert, but she remembers it differently.
“Yes, I remember that,” she told me recently. “He was all dressed in white…”
Which he wasn’t, at least not in 1987. But he was, apparently, 10 years later, at a much smaller venue and barely a week after Diana’s death.