Happy Birthday David Bowie.

He turns 69 today. I just read Patti Smith's exquisite book M-Train, she's 67, I think. It's a book you have to read twice,. I only read it once, as of now. There's a future coming and twice books are a thing for that.

I wouldn't call many things exquisite. Maybe Silvia coming off a running dogwalk to a very hard turn, or one of my friend Deirdre's paintings. It's a top shelf word and quite specific. It's a word for the future, and not the past.

I think about Patti and Bowie both when I'm on the floor playing with Banksy. I get down lower than her and pretend I'm a small dog and she gets super confused, because I'm usually tall and holding a tuggy. She brings them to me all the time. If you ever feel like you're lacking in presents, get a border collie. Bearing gifts is their always.

When I have to climb up off the filthy rug, this year climbing is harder than I'd like it to be. Like, yeah. Actually climbing. I figure that rockstar icons who lived the '70's in black and white and color don't concern themselves with ankle joints that doesn't hinge or weird knees. Their minds move to a better place. But I might be wrong. I love my raincoat maybe as much as Patti loved hers, but hers for loftier reasons. Mine covers my flabby ass and it really does keep me dry.

And mine isn't one more loss in a long string of them. A good thing to keep in mind.

Me and Gustavo and Banksy are running in a dogshow this weekend. In a covered roping arena on pretty hard dirt. We haven't much been running anywhere. I think we all feel winter's dark. If my legs start to hurt and things go screwy, I'll call in the diamond dogs. Come out of the garden, baby, you'll catch your death in the fog. I'll channel Patti's braids and her dungarees, and look for a little exquisite out there. Stay alive.