Whitney Houston dead at 48

I read the news about Whitney Houston's death today, clued on by someone's Facebook post--seems to be the most common way to find out about crucial news these days. My first reaction was one of vague shock, quickly followed by a resigned thought of "Oh. Well that figures."

Then I began to think about the circumstances of her life, the circumstances of her death. And I started to wonder whether anyone could have done something to prevent this, whether it would have even been publicized if someone had intervened and saved her from her self-destructive actions. And it occurred to me that not only would no one have heard about it, but that no one would have cared.

I realize I am now jumping to the conclusion that drugs were somehow involved, that she was probably using at least recently if not doing them at the time of her death (which presumably led to a heart attack or stroke). But it's sort of beside the point what her recent actions were. What strikes me is what the reaction of the public was when she was running her humiliating public course of drugged-out rampage a few years back, jeopardizing her health, family and reputation.

As we have with so many icons of our culture who steered themselves onto ugly and dramatic paths, we vilified and mocked a Whitney Houston who was in the throes of crack addiction. We parodied her in sketch shows and panned her on internet threads. We gossiped about her wretched life with Bobby, about her ruined vocal chords, about the hell their kids must be living in at home. And though some friends and family surely tried to help, to stage interventions and stop the madness that was consuming these talented performers, any such efforts failed to entice the press or the public. It was the mess itself that drew the flies.

The element that makes this tragedy all the more stage-worthy is the fact of the real-time audience in attendance, laughing and crying at the heroine, but never with her. But most of all, delighting in the sheer thrill of the spectacle, demanding more and more pain and degrading behavior to consume and judge and chat about with friends.

Whether it is true artists like Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston and Mel Gibson, or sensations of moderate talent like Britney Spears or Lindsay Lohan, Americans love to watch celebrities gaffe, screw up, make a mess of their lives, fall from the lofty pedestals we've built for them to stand on. This is not to judge or wag a finger--the gods know I'm just as guilty. It must be something ingrained in the DNA of our culture, and it bears looking at if only for the sake of maintaining some kind of sane picture of who we idolize and why. If not for ourselves then for future ages.

We tend to create infallible heroes to worship, faultless specimens of morality like athletes Tiger Woods and Michael Phelps. Then when they err the error seems heinous, unforgivable. But after all, whose fault was it to believe that any person is ever morally beyond reproach.

What comes as perhaps the biggest shock then is when these heroes and idols finally succumb. When they leave this world and lose the ability to fuck up or to be congratulated or to speak on their own behalf about their choices and their personal philosophies. And amid the emotional outpourings of bereaved admirers--some of whom must be shame-faced at being a part of the greedy court of public opinion--we search for those great achievements this person has accomplished among the rubble of their reputation. So it is with Whitney Houston.

My own humble memory of Ms. Houston is sweet and positive, detailed, infused with the nostalgia of my childhood-self sitting in the backseat of my mom's red Dodge Caravan with my brother, listening to the "top 100 hits" station as we drove around running errands on Saturday afternoon. There wasn't anyone we would rather hear come on the radio than Whitney singing one from the early years. (Usually it was an upbeat number like "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" or "How Will I Know?") Inevitably, Mom would lose all inhibition and shout out the vocals as if she herself had won the Grammy for recording it:

"...And when the night falls
my lonely heart calllllls!
IIIIIII wanna dance with somebody!
I wanna feel the HEAT with someboday (yeahya)!
Ohhhh I wanna dance with somebody!
With somebody who loooves me!"

And the van would fill with laughter as my brother and I made fun of her for letting go all decorum and really feeling the soul of the music. This is was the crux of Houston's artistry, a bi-product of any musician's artistry--creating beautiful moments for music listeners. And she did this by singing like no one else has before or since. Her presence shall indeed be missed.