I wrote last week that at the time I came out Madonna was Diva In Chief, but by the time I hit my stride at as a gay man in the 90's, it was Whitney. The high point, in more ways than one, was Gay Pride in New York in 1999. Whitney made a surprise appearance at the Pier Dance down in Chelsea and I was only about 10 feet from the stage. She was a little fucked up, but then, so were we. It was a magical experience, at least what I remember of it.
I was down in the OC over the weekend and the boyfriend and I were out all day Saturday trying to find someplace to live. We arrived back at my parents, who were watching the news, just as the announcement was made about her death. We were both stunned.
My mother didn't really know who she was, which is pretty much true of any music artist of the past 40 years. But she once taught voice and knows an amazing singer when she hears one and as the various clips of Whitney's performances over the years played everywhere over the weekend, my mom was captivated.
All weekend long the sad news was rehashed on every conceivable TV show, with all the same clips and all the same rampant speculation. By the time Sunday evening rolled the story had been recycled so many times, now with the added news that it was probably an accidental drowning, that we all just became numb to it and sat through it in silence.
Finally, as we watched it all again one last time before going to bed Sunday night, my mom offered up a coda.
"It's such a shame. She should've taken a shower."
