Reading in the Times how for years Bowie walked down Manhattan streets un-accosted, so unlike his many on-stage personas he was nearly invisible—just a baseball hat, a pair of cargo shorts and a fuck-you finger pointed to the ground. Maybe some aging hipster flashes a thought: “That guy looks a lot like David Bowie.” But maybe not even. Davie Jones turning the corner into sweet oblivion. I feel a little like that here at the Cataloochee ski lodge, crammed against a wall, inhabiting my small cube of space. Except for one face at the other end of the bar, I don’t recognize anyone here. Not my scene. Hardly anyone looks at each other, an occasional nod or a smile. And it’s a holiday, and good ski weather, so everywhere I turn I vie for space with bundled up teens, snowboards, trays of french fries wheeling by at eye level. When the Panthers score on TV, the place lets out a collective, gleeful yell. And I like it. I like this warped anonymity, which feels so right, right now, here in my little bubble, looking out on the great escalator lift rising up in the bright sun in sad parody of spiritual ascension. Barkeep, bring me another beer!