The new Whitney Houston album is out. I’ve heard snippets of it on the radio, but I don’t think I can listen to the record in its entirety. If it’s garbage, it’ll just kill me.
Somehow in the murky years of childhood, my impression of Whitney Houston became inextricably linked to my understanding of my mother. They looked sort of the same (proof below), they sang the same, and they both had big, white, light-house smiles.
So when Whitney was in trouble–and her trouble was in all the tabloids–I had a completely irrational, disproportionate response. My intellectual reaction was, What a sad thing, to see such talent stifled by violence and addiction. My emotional reaction was, Maaaa! Gas up the car! We gotta GO SAVE WHITNEY!.
Now, with Whitney recording again and sober, I’ll think I’ll just wish her well from afar. It’d be too hard to get invested again and then be heartbroken if she fell off the wagon.
In the meantime, in my real life, my mom’s birthday was a couple of months ago. This year, to no one’s great surprise, I’m still broke. So I wrote a song for Ma. [click here to listen—>] Mom Birthday Song
Amazing ladies abound.