You know Angela Bowie was pissed about how her marriage to David Bowie turned out because she kept his fake last name and waited out a 20-year gag order to publish this catty memoir in which she claims a lot of the business and styling credit for his early success. You would really think Angie would have seen the writing on the wall when she recounts proposing marriage to David, under the guise of a business proposition, and he replies by asking her, “Can you deal with the fact that I’m not in love with you?” Really, being bitter about him boinking other ladies in an open marriage seems like a moot point after that, but Angie lays it bare and name checks everyone she can think of that David slipped it to. This is the trashiest, most gossipy, and least self-aware of the consort memoirs, but it is all worth it when Angie reveals her memories of the Bowies in LA; you know, where they exorcised a demon from the bottom of a pool in a rented house and David fell in with a group of witches. Cocaine is a hell of a drug. [via flavorwire].
