When Whitney Houston passed, many of us clutched our chests, if not our heads, with outstretched hands in shock or grief. People speculated that drugs or alcohol took her. Some said, “I had a bad feeling,” wondered whether she was murdered or slipped away by suicide. Others still, as the winds blew, mumbled such spookiness as even the February that took her was odd, too warm. But the majority angrily blamed Whitney’s history of drug abuse and—by association—oft-persecuted ex-husband Bobby Brown for the loss of life. And fans, perhaps rightly so, worried for her daughter while pretending the whole blue world doesn’t know where broken hearts go.
Archives for : March2012
These days actress Demi Moore must be feeling as if she got punked. But a second marriage failing need not mean that she is a failure. The fatal failure occurred well before the second marriage—at the point of deciding to marry Ashton Kutcher instead of just playing with him—like playmates do—in the sandbox.
“That old lady stole my boyfriend!”
"That old lady stole my boyfriend!"
When Brittany Murphy, like a bereaved daughter crying out to her father, made that public confession to David Letterman, we knew that, as young as she was, those hurt puppy dog eyes could see that a cougar was no more than an old horny fool with a Peter Pan complex.
"Tell me, tell me why can't I live my life? Don't be cruel..."
Hell to the yes,
My life is blessed.
Then tell me,
Tell me why,
Can’t I live my life?
Media darling, princess wife.
One crooked smile?
Smiled sparingly?
Is that too much to ask
Of an ex-“troubled spouse” like me?
Don’t be cruel,
Don’t be cruel,
I would never be that cruel to you.
Ray Jay singin’ them little boy blues.
No shame in my game,
Jersey girl, true.
He ain’t the only one,
And I-E-I will always love you, too.
Never Let Me Go (2010), a film based on the best-selling novel by Kazuo Ishiguro (Remains of the Day), is a tale of genetically engineered clones raised to be organ donors who embrace a fleeting chance to live and love. Never Let Me Go is an unreality that will stay with you for days . . . clinging like heat in an attic . . . or an old wound.
The sea, a boundless prison ever flowing with beauty, is a gate. A boat, rusted, lying on its side as if discarded on the seashore by a child’s lost interest, is the key—useless as it is. A whipping wind then, as the clones watch from the sand, becomes no more than the stinging chill of hopelessness.
