I’ve lost my…
Rooster Cogburn, my John Mclane, my Jules Winnfield.
I lost Whitney this year AND my all-time favorite Cub, Aramis Ramirez. Armariezz. THAT’S WHAT I CALLED HIM. Didn’t call him A-RAM OR ARAMIS. I always called him Armariezz. THAT WAS HIS NAME. I wish Whitney and Aramis had things to sing together to the Brew Crew but she’s got better things to do now than hang out in MlilaAAAAuwaaakayyy…
Since I can’t hang with Armariezz anymore then I wanna hang with Adrien Brody, Andre 3 Million and Gael García Bernal from that Gillette commercial. That’s a bad@$$ club!
So much hipper than when they had Federer, Henri and Tiger. Can’t believe it happened.
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Whitney Houston’s death — while not a surprise — is a sad story indeed. In fact, anytime a colossal talent such as hers is lost to the underworld translates into a melancholy tale; but her spotlighted career the last decade and a half has been more than that. It’s been a messy train wreck in slow motion. I’ve just been waiting for it to stop.
Now it’s stopped. For good.
Addiction ain’t no joke. And it cares not who it destroys. You can be the best singer in the world or the most talented athlete on the diamond. It doesn’t care. It will consume you if you don’t get help.
I only hope that people are paying attention.
With that in mind, Mr. Krause made me hip to one of Whitney’s lesser-known interweb gems. Here, take a look for yourself: *Vid Link*. (For some reason, all embedding of this video — and ones like it — has been disabled) Make sure you pay special attention to Monsieur Gainsbourg at the 58 second mark.
Call me crass, but that’s a Whitney moment to remember. She was hot. She had the best voice on the planet. And the entire world was at her service. Yet none of the above was enough to slay the dragon of addiction.
The damn thing breathes fire.
Don’t hate me ‘cuz I’m right.