Feeling Bad For Bobby, and More Thoughts About Whitney Houston’s Funeral
Description
An Ode to Emily
More Than Meets The Eyes
Should I Tell Her How I Feel?
The Play Date
Dogs, Cats, and the Art of Dating: Lessons from the Cab Ride
The Colorado Connection That Could Never Be
When Love Feels Like a DIY Project: The Fixer-Upper Dilemma
Why Men Marry Some Women and Not Others
Should You Settle?
Is There Hope For The Gender Gap?
Cheating is a Cop Out
The Dance of Second Chances
1. There’s absolutely no rhyme or reason to the way I react when hearing about a person dying. None whatsoever. It’s completely unpredictable, completely arbitrary, and completely dependent on… whatever the hell it’s dependent on. I have absolutely no clue, and I’ve stopped trying to figure it out. There have been times when a one paragraph long news story about some random area murder induced tears and haunted me for weeks, and other times when family members have passed and the only time I got worked up was when I forced myself to get worked up because I felt bad that I hadn’t.
This “reaction unpredictability” extends to celebrities as well. I felt nothing when Michael Jackson — a person who I was a huge fan of — died, but the deaths of Amy Winehouse — a person I was “eh” about — and Patrice O’Neal still resonate with me. I still can’t listen to “Rehab” or watch “Elephant in The Room” without getting chills.
Knowing how unpredictable I can be about this should make me immune to surprise. I mean, If I’m capable of any reaction, there shouldn’t be a reaction that surprises me. Despite this, I was (and still am) surprised at how affected I was by the news of Whitney Houston’s death (When first clicking the TMZ link to the news of her death, I literally stared at my monitor with my mouth agape for two minutes and could see my heart beating through my shirt) and how interested I was in the goings-on (and the public’s feelings about the goings-on) of her funeral.
Although I wasn’t able to catch the first hour and a half or so (I started watching when Stevie Wonder was singing), I sat there captivated like I was watching the 4th quarter of game seven of the NBA finals. And, as if this captivation wasn’t enough, I logged on to Twitter and Facebook to basically give myself a sensory overload.
I don’t know what any of this means, or why I even felt the need to share it. I don’t know. I do know that it’s been (over) a week and I’m still surprised that I still don’t feel any different.
2. There have been myriad different accounts of the events that led to Bobby Brown leaving (or getting kicked out of) Whitney’s funeral, so I won’t go into any of them. I will say, though, that I feel worse for him than for anyone else who was in Whitney’s life. Losing your ex-wife (a woman I’m sure he still loved and may have still been in love with) is bad enough, but being the popular scapegoat for the decades-long spiral leading to her early death has to be a bitch of a burden to carry. History will not look kindly on him. Regardless of what he does for the rest of his life, his primary legacy will be that he, to put it bluntly, killed Whitney Houston.
Now, whether this legacy is actually fair is another question. We assume that Bobby was the bad influence, but while Whitney was America’s Sweetheart, she wasn’t exactly an angel herself. Also, as influential as Clive Davis was reported to be in her life, who’s to say that he didn’t have a hand in her downfall?
Obviously, this is all speculation. None of us know exactly what led to Whitney’s substance abuse problems. And, since none of us know, perhaps we should place a collective moratorium on “Blame Bobby.”
3. I happened to be at my parent’s house when the funeral was being aired. When R.Kelly came to the podium, all three of us said “Wait. Is that R.Kelly???” at the exact same time. No bullsh*t.
And (in my best Forrest Gump voice), “That’s all I’m going to say about that.”
4. I know many people had an issue with some of the “So, America, make sure you’re recording so you can see how these exotic-ass Negros celebrate the dead” -ey comments from some of the non-black members of the news media covering the event. In particular, Piers Morgan sounded like he was covering at an event at Jurassic Park.
I didn’t have a problem with this, though. I mean, aside from random Nike commercials and Tyler Perry movies (which white people don’t watch anyway), this probably was the first time many of them had seen a homegoing at a black baptist church, and I think most of the non-white reporters found the proper mix of reverence, respect, and curiosity.
Also, aside from the celebrities involved, Whitney’s ceremony wasn’t all that atypical. Seriously, if you substituted “random white co-worker who seems out of place but makes up for it with a poignant speech” for “Kevin Costner,” “aunt who does her thing on the organ even though she tends to forget words to certain songs” for “Stevie Wonder,” and “neighborhood family who no one wants to fight because there’s like 25737848 of those motherf*ckers and you know if you fight one, you’ll have to fight them all” for “The Winans,” this funeral was probably exactly like any other baptist funeral any one reading this has ever been to.
5. I’m not sure if the fact that I simultaneously ”experienced” the funeral with over a thousand others on Twitter — all with their own running commentary about the event — was a good or a bad thing. Actually, I’m pretty certain it’s neither. It’s not disrespectful or distant or progressive or indicative of anything, either. It just is. That’s just the way we deal with things today. While other generations had their own forms of collective consumption, we just do it in real time.
6. So, ever since a certain post I wrote a few weeks ago, I’ve been more willing to let certain people take a look at articles I write before I submit them, just in case they pick up on something that I may have missed. Don’t fret. You’re not going to get a neutered Champ or anything. This is something I’ve always done. Just do it a little more often now.
Anyway, last Friday, I let one of these friends see an article I wrote for Ebony about Chris Brown. That article contained a somewhat off-color joke about Tyler Perry. Her response:
“I dont usually discourage Tyler Perry jabs, but this mtherfer just flew Whitney Houston’s body to her family in his private jet. HE ALWAYS DOES THIS SH*T. Like, whenever I want to take a shot at him, he adopts some orphan or saves a kitten or some sh*t and makes me feel bad afterwards. Anyway, you should probably leave that out.”
I (reluctantly) listened.
More Than Meets The Eyes
Should I Tell Her How I Feel?
The Play Date
Dogs, Cats, and the Art of Dating: Lessons from the Cab Ride
The Colorado Connection That Could Never Be
When Love Feels Like a DIY Project: The Fixer-Upper Dilemma
Why Men Marry Some Women and Not Others
Should You Settle?
Is There Hope For The Gender Gap?
Cheating is a Cop Out
The Dance of Second Chances
1. There’s absolutely no rhyme or reason to the way I react when hearing about a person dying. None whatsoever. It’s completely unpredictable, completely arbitrary, and completely dependent on… whatever the hell it’s dependent on. I have absolutely no clue, and I’ve stopped trying to figure it out. There have been times when a one paragraph long news story about some random area murder induced tears and haunted me for weeks, and other times when family members have passed and the only time I got worked up was when I forced myself to get worked up because I felt bad that I hadn’t.
This “reaction unpredictability” extends to celebrities as well. I felt nothing when Michael Jackson — a person who I was a huge fan of — died, but the deaths of Amy Winehouse — a person I was “eh” about — and Patrice O’Neal still resonate with me. I still can’t listen to “Rehab” or watch “Elephant in The Room” without getting chills.
Knowing how unpredictable I can be about this should make me immune to surprise. I mean, If I’m capable of any reaction, there shouldn’t be a reaction that surprises me. Despite this, I was (and still am) surprised at how affected I was by the news of Whitney Houston’s death (When first clicking the TMZ link to the news of her death, I literally stared at my monitor with my mouth agape for two minutes and could see my heart beating through my shirt) and how interested I was in the goings-on (and the public’s feelings about the goings-on) of her funeral.
Although I wasn’t able to catch the first hour and a half or so (I started watching when Stevie Wonder was singing), I sat there captivated like I was watching the 4th quarter of game seven of the NBA finals. And, as if this captivation wasn’t enough, I logged on to Twitter and Facebook to basically give myself a sensory overload.
I don’t know what any of this means, or why I even felt the need to share it. I don’t know. I do know that it’s been (over) a week and I’m still surprised that I still don’t feel any different.
2. There have been myriad different accounts of the events that led to Bobby Brown leaving (or getting kicked out of) Whitney’s funeral, so I won’t go into any of them. I will say, though, that I feel worse for him than for anyone else who was in Whitney’s life. Losing your ex-wife (a woman I’m sure he still loved and may have still been in love with) is bad enough, but being the popular scapegoat for the decades-long spiral leading to her early death has to be a bitch of a burden to carry. History will not look kindly on him. Regardless of what he does for the rest of his life, his primary legacy will be that he, to put it bluntly, killed Whitney Houston.
Now, whether this legacy is actually fair is another question. We assume that Bobby was the bad influence, but while Whitney was America’s Sweetheart, she wasn’t exactly an angel herself. Also, as influential as Clive Davis was reported to be in her life, who’s to say that he didn’t have a hand in her downfall?
Obviously, this is all speculation. None of us know exactly what led to Whitney’s substance abuse problems. And, since none of us know, perhaps we should place a collective moratorium on “Blame Bobby.”
3. I happened to be at my parent’s house when the funeral was being aired. When R.Kelly came to the podium, all three of us said “Wait. Is that R.Kelly???” at the exact same time. No bullsh*t.
And (in my best Forrest Gump voice), “That’s all I’m going to say about that.”
4. I know many people had an issue with some of the “So, America, make sure you’re recording so you can see how these exotic-ass Negros celebrate the dead” -ey comments from some of the non-black members of the news media covering the event. In particular, Piers Morgan sounded like he was covering at an event at Jurassic Park.
I didn’t have a problem with this, though. I mean, aside from random Nike commercials and Tyler Perry movies (which white people don’t watch anyway), this probably was the first time many of them had seen a homegoing at a black baptist church, and I think most of the non-white reporters found the proper mix of reverence, respect, and curiosity.
Also, aside from the celebrities involved, Whitney’s ceremony wasn’t all that atypical. Seriously, if you substituted “random white co-worker who seems out of place but makes up for it with a poignant speech” for “Kevin Costner,” “aunt who does her thing on the organ even though she tends to forget words to certain songs” for “Stevie Wonder,” and “neighborhood family who no one wants to fight because there’s like 25737848 of those motherf*ckers and you know if you fight one, you’ll have to fight them all” for “The Winans,” this funeral was probably exactly like any other baptist funeral any one reading this has ever been to.
5. I’m not sure if the fact that I simultaneously ”experienced” the funeral with over a thousand others on Twitter — all with their own running commentary about the event — was a good or a bad thing. Actually, I’m pretty certain it’s neither. It’s not disrespectful or distant or progressive or indicative of anything, either. It just is. That’s just the way we deal with things today. While other generations had their own forms of collective consumption, we just do it in real time.
6. So, ever since a certain post I wrote a few weeks ago, I’ve been more willing to let certain people take a look at articles I write before I submit them, just in case they pick up on something that I may have missed. Don’t fret. You’re not going to get a neutered Champ or anything. This is something I’ve always done. Just do it a little more often now.
Anyway, last Friday, I let one of these friends see an article I wrote for Ebony about Chris Brown. That article contained a somewhat off-color joke about Tyler Perry. Her response:
“I dont usually discourage Tyler Perry jabs, but this mtherfer just flew Whitney Houston’s body to her family in his private jet. HE ALWAYS DOES THIS SH*T. Like, whenever I want to take a shot at him, he adopts some orphan or saves a kitten or some sh*t and makes me feel bad afterwards. Anyway, you should probably leave that out.”
I (reluctantly) listened.
Début de l'événement
08.01.2022
Fin de l'événement
08.01.2022