The Celebrity Syndrome: Crack is Whack

The Celebrity Syndrome: Crack is Whack
This post may win me no friends but sadly that is not the point of this blog. It is about putting my snarky ass opinion out there, uncensored.
So with the funeral of Whitney Houston this weekend I got to thinking about what I call Celebrity Syndrome. Whitney was a very talented artist, a human being, and by all accounts a nice person. Her problem was she became a celebrity. The planets aligned and stars collided or whatever happened and suddenly she was in the fame spotlight. For better or worse that spotlight changes people; we see this happen time and time again.
 
People, in America and to some degree the rest of the world, are fickle and cruel. We are no better than a gang of vultures or the Romans in the Coliseums. We love to watch a person fall and sometimes bleed. We love to watch them rise from the ashes like a phoenix, but most of all we love to see them die.
 
Stay with me here. I am as bad as the next person. The day before Michael Jackson died I only owned his music on maybe a dusty old vinyl record somewhere. He was a damn pervert, a child molester and I was not going to support his lifestyle. NO! Not me. The day after, I owned every song I had ever loved by him on iTunes and discovered some I did not even know about! In my eyes, all his sins had been forgotten, and maybe were not even true. We should just leave him in peace; it does not matter anymore, and I guess it doesn’t.
 
The question remains, why do we not cut the same level of slack for regular people? Let us say a man in your neighborhood is accused of molesting a bunch of kids, never convicted but you are positive he did it, everyone says he did. This man becomes a social pariah and is a virtual shut-in and the subject of whispered accusations and scrutiny. Suddenly he dies. Does anyone abruptly start talking about the great parties he used to have or that wonderful recipe of barbeque sauce or chili he made, and then start cooking it again? Is his funeral attended by everyone from the neighborhood; people fighting for the opportunity to eulogize and honor him? Nope. Sorry, that ain’t happening; not in a million fucking years. He was a nobody and therefore he does not have the celebrity syndrome.
 
Whitney Houston is widely known to have, had crack problems. A tragic addiction for any person, but we forget that she made that choice and we forgive it and then televise her funeral. There was an initial time in her life when she made that choice. She chose to take a drag on that crack pipe. (do you drag or suck on a crack pipe? Hell if I know) It was her choice; unless Bobby Brown held her down and forced her to do it… but I really doubt that is how it happened. He may have been doing it and she, in a moment of weakness, said
“Eh, I’ll try it… what’s the worst that could happen?”

Well, Whitney, darling, the worst did happen you looked like a crack-headed lemming, in some really bad dresses, for a long time and your voice was never the same again. That gift, God-given, talent was destroyed by the microwaved cocaine you sucked down your windpipe. She did give us the gem “Crack is Whack”. Then she died. Tragic and unexpected the night before the Grammy’s; no one is talking about her struggle with life and the law, only the sadness of losing such a woman.
 
Do not misunderstand me; I grew up on a healthy dose of pre-crack Whitney… I saw the Bodyguard. I had the soundtrack, who didn’t? Older and wiser “I Will Always Love You” (which of course I now own on iTunes) has a whole new meaning. Would we mourn the loss of the cracked-out hooker downtown selling her “talents” with the same vigor? No. Not a snowball’s chance in hell.
 
Amy Winehouse became famous looking like a hopped-up heroin addict. She did the hard bit of work looking normal and then the smallest modicum of fame in the United Kingdom changed her. Did anyone stop her? Did anyone say we are not going to pay you anymore; no one in the industry is going to pay you anymore until you get off that shit? Nope. Instead, they shipped her over here, to the land of milk and honey, where we could celebrate her brokenness. Where the drugs were readily available and the line between right and wrong in Los Angeles is always blurred for “them”. She died not from the illegal drugs but from her liver finally giving up after she drank too much clear liquor. Clearly, this was a woman crying for help and instead of helping her we relished her demise, like fights at a hockey game or crashes in a NASCAR race. All of that forgotten now, she sings with the angels. 
 
Until we start holding our celebrities to the same standards as average people we cannot expect anything better from them. Until our heroes become the people that actually deserve it, like that firefighter who went into the raging fire to save a mother cat and her litter of kittens. Does anyone not related to one of the 9-11 firefighters even know one of their names? Did you go out and buy firefighter gear and start wearing it around after that? No, you didn’t. You bought a Yankees jersey with some steroid-using athlete’s name on the back because they had that special 9-11 jersey. Some of that profit went to the Police and Firefighters fund… I guess. It is fine by me, Alex Rodriguez is freaking hot. I am only pointing out that we are all guilty. These are only the most recent occurrences but it happens time and time again.
Should we expect more out of our celebrities? Or should we allow them the Celebrity Syndrome? Would we like them less? Or is it possible we might like them more?
Nah… that’s not gonna happen.

Curse Words and Sweat Hogs

 
Curse Words and Sweat Hogs
It is three in the morning. My mind is a blur of swirling thoughts that never seem to plague me in the daytime. I would guess the mind waits for you to relax and give it a moment to stop concentrating on holding you up and moving you around… or in my case which spoon to use or watching my language in front of my family. Let me get this right out there… I curse like a sailor.
 
I feel like there is a time and place for everything. Obviously, I do not curse in church or at my pastor, or in front of small children. I have only cursed like that in front of my mother (never in front of my daddy) a few times and I think the first real-time was while in the hospital and on morphine. Do you get a pass for that? You should. Things you say while high on a doctor-administered narcotic directly in your vein should be pardoned.

God surely does not write it down and keep it on your “sin roster”; mine surely is long and probably going to require some explaining… I am thinking the list of my cursing would count little toward that. At least I hope.


I have heard both my parents drop the f-bomb a few times; in more increasing numbers as I have gotten older. (perhaps they think it is okay now that I am old enough?) It still freaks me out every time I hear it. Like the few times, I have overheard my grandparents curse. Some things should never happen… parents and f-bombs… unless you are the Osbornes … should not ever happen. Call me prudish but it sort of tarnishes that whole superhuman nature of parents and grandparents.

Another thing a person should never be subjected to is hearing how great your grandparent’s sex life is. Yeah, that happened to me once. The idea of pouring bleach in my ears and perhaps my eyes or giving myself a home lobotomy had never occurred to me before I sat on their couch as my grandmother expounded on the healthy virility of my 80-year-old grandfather… and how she thinks it has helped him keep his hair. There it is folks a healthy sex life helps you keep your damn hair. I have solved male pattern bald…. Well, I suppose my grandmother has solved it. Whatever.  An entirely different day in therapy for that. 
 
I might never have learned to curse if it had not been for my loving mother. While she spent money on “finishing classes” hated the haughty nature it gave me; she did not want a frigid prude of a child. On a family vacation in the middle of a Texas summer when our A/C had gone out in our land yacht of a family Buick Regal, dripping in sweat as my father refilled the gas tank and grabbed some drinks and those crappy cracker packs from the convenience store. My mother, who I had just admonished for saying “shit”, locked the doors to the car and turned to look at me sitting behind her. If I did not say the word shit we were not leaving.

“WE ARE NOT LEAVING UNTIL YOU SAY THE WORD SHIT!”

 

My mother and I are similar in temperament. Neither of us wanted to give to the other. So there we sat sweating and glaring at each other like wet hens. My father is trying to get back in the car and is now trying to figure out what the Sam Hill is going on… That triggers a small-ish fit outside the car. As I notice people staring at us sweating in the road boat of a car, I called the sweat hog from that day forward, finally yelled at the top of my lungs…

“SHIT”!

 

Thus my days of cursing were released upon the world on a steamy, suffocating, blistering, Southeast Texas afternoon. No breeze to carry the ugly word from the car only the smell of gasoline and my father getting in the car in a huff wondering exactly what had just transpired between his eight-year-old and his wife. Who now had turned around and had a smug and satisfied look on her face. The baby brother was probably sleeping… or something.

That moment in, my mother and I’s relationship, was one of those defining moments; one that showed how the balance of power would be and there would be many of these stand-offs to come.  Thankfully most of these did not occur in a sweltering car, sitting at a Mobil Gasoline Service Station. 

Yep, we put the fun in Dysfunctional. I think the key to that word is FUNCTIONAL. We are not perfect, but we all love each other. Ugly words and all…. Well except for that day in the hospital on the morphine as I cussed everyone and the pain with every ugly word I could come up with. I think I finally earned the brownie badge for language and perhaps for once my mother questioned the wisdom of losing her cool that day.
 
I do not know. She would never admit it. Southern lady to the core; and I love her for that. 

I cannot wait to have kids.

Snarky

Snarky
Snarky is defined, by the Urban Dictionary, as the following: “A witty mannerism, personality, or behavior that is a combination of sarcasm and cynicism; usually accepted as a complimentary term. Snark is sometimes mistaken for a snotty or arrogant attitude.”
  
Insomnia
Insomnia is defined by the Urban Dictionary, as the following: “The state of sleep loss. No matter how much you desire dreamland, it refuses you entry. You stand at the gates, whining, crying, but stuck in the world of buzzing activity. Otherwise known as the hell on earth.”
Both of these terms seem to define who I am and likely one leads to the other. It would be too easy though, I suppose to blame my snark on my insomnia; truthfully I have been snarky for far longer than insomnia has plagued me. I felt however that I should let you in on both of the two major defining terms of my present situation. For it would terribly rude of me not to warn you that I am a sleep deprived, cynical, and sarcastic… however a perfectly loveable person; the fact remains that my brand of humor is often misunderstood and taken for unladylike.
 
You cannot place blame on my mother; she has tried to teach me the finer ways of life. Things like sitting up straight, not scratching itches, which fork to use, proper language and its usage, and I do fine when I am required to “clean up”. I am not a complete loss. I do know how to behave when being observed. 
 
Though in my private time I am scratching, slouching, using spoons, and cursing up a storm. The first time I ever got in trouble at school… okay well the second time, the first time is a different issue involving gender discovery and kindergarten. The second time I got in trouble in school was for cursing at another student. I shall point out that the other student called me a name and I let him have the best of my vocabulary at the time. I am not even sure I fully understood the meaning of the words I used just that they were bad. The vice principal called me into his office after over hearing me drop the f bomb and admonished me for my lack of grace and girlish innocence. The other student a boy, who my father swears to this day, just had a crush on me, never served a lunch detention for rhyming my last name with something… 
 
I get a bit testy when you do that.
 
The point is I am not your average southern belle. My father calls it spitfire and feistiness. My mother is just glad I stopped getting into spitting contests with the boys, nasty habit. She was never very comfortable with my ability to get along better with boys over girls. Likely if questioned she would say this contributed to my lack of social graces and permanently put me in the “friend-zone” and not the “girl I should marry and take off my mother’s hands zone”. It is not as if I did not have my girlie things and do not have any now. I have a small obsession with makeup and skincare products that would be much larger if I had the budget. I danced ballet for nearly 20 years of my life and dreamed of going professional as a child. (Side note: not a huge fan of the color pink; blue, blue is my favorite color any shade.) I enjoy a good bouquet of peonies or gardenias from a gentleman caller anytime. My collection of perfume could rival most department store fragrance counters. I like shoes but have horrible feet and have never learned to walk in heels so my main fashion obsession is the Coach bag. Any Coach bag; well truth be told any high end designer handbag I just cannot afford anything outside of the Coach outlet.
So there it is… my first Confession post… not so much confessional just more familiarizing yourself with me and things you may or may not know about me. I have a list of things to “confess” and explain my opinions on ad-naseum.
 
Please feel free to leave comments and suggestions for my takes on ANYTHING. I will literally tell you like I see it. And hopefully make you laugh in the process.
 
xoxo ~ A