Magilla doesn’t get sent out to places very often, except maybe the state fair which is admittedly less interesting since Duffy isn’t around to do butter sculptures anymore, so this is a rare treat. A rare, weird treat. The first annual Thin White Dukeathon is taking place in Iowa City (naturally; where else?), and he’s been sent to poke around.

It’s crazytown when he gets there, a feverdream where Aladdin Sane rubs elbows with the Goblin King and vampires natter stylishly with matrimonial bartenders. “We don’t take it hugely seriously,” a Ziggy Stardust from Wisconsin tells him. “I mean, it’s not a career, the way it is for the Elvis people.” There’s a tiny bit of scorn mixed in with the kinship, there. She shows him around the convention, introduces him to all the influential Bowies.

“Rip Torn and Buck Henry are speaking at the keynote,” she says at an afterparty. “We were hoping to get Bowie, but, well, things didn’t work out with his schedule.”

 “Can I get you a drink?” he hollers, as politely as possible.

“A what?” she hollers back.

“A drink!“

“David Bowie doesn’t drink! Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Bowies, Bowies everywhere,” he laments, “but not a Duke will drink.”