David Bowie always surprises me. And it’s not necessarily a good thing, I must admit. His new record The next day, which many music editors are hailing these days as a great album, is surprising. In a negative way. But probably this consideration must be explained. My girlfriend gave me this album last Friday, whispering only a few words in her sexy voice. Happy birthday, honey. First: it wasn’t my birthday. Second: she knows that I don’t go crazy for modern Bowie’s stuff (and who does, when you’ve been listening to his masterpiece record since the age of seven?) Third: she opened the door and simply got off my car. No kiss, no sex, nothing. So, I should be honest: Bowie’s last album isn’t so bad as I’m trying to depict it now. And probably it’s only my manhood frustration to speak.