It is obvious at the start of our long awaited Whitney journey that her reputation was not the injured party in the 14-year Brown-Houston Alliance – her voice, too, the collateral damage and unfortunate casualty of having to yell “Bobby!” and “hell-to-the-naw!” one too many times. Every now and then a dalliance into drugs can do wonders for a singer; but Whitney’s new raspy voice is less potential Janis Joplin and more early stage swine flu.  It is not an insurmountable obstacle for the listener; but you may find yourself imagining the clarity of what might have been had she found her way into a recording studio a decade earlier.

But her voice is really a mere disappointment when considered against the catalogue of infantile lyrics penned for these alleged songs.  With such moments as “you think your shit don’t stank, but it do,” they’re words one would expect to stumble from the under-developed maturity of a 14 year old little girl, not a 46 year old vocal and record-setting force that surely has a complex and complicated story to tell.

In the album’s final song, Whitney wisely tells us, “don’t call it a comeback.”  We won’t.  It’s a warm-up.  You can stay Whitney, but we all know you can (and need to) do better on the next one.

Track 1: Million Dollar Bill
It’s a bit odd, thanks to a strange rhythm; but it’s one of the more enjoyable tracks.

Track 2: Nothin’ But Love
You’ll find on page 17 of “The Fallen Diva’s Comeback” playbook, on is required to have a “you-can’t-keep-me-down” track.  And this is it.  However, I’m pretty sure proffering such saccharine lyrics and impaired musical arrangement aren’t supposed to be part of the deal, too.

Track 3: Call You Tonight
My advice would be to send it voicemail, and listen to the message later.

Track 4: I Look to You
I can only imagine she’s looking for the melody in this gem.  Sadly, it’s a group effort.

Track 5: Like I Never Left (feat. Akon)
Yeah, we could have done without Akon altogether.  Whitney Houston needs no teenage sidekick to enhance her relevance and legitimacy, thank you.  And the song shits the bed, too.

Track 6: A Song For You
There is no need to have Whitney doing cover songs, I say; she’s not completely done (yet).  Traditionalists will object to the turn this song takes; but multiple attempts compelled me to conclude it would be a pretty good song to run to.

At this point, you may need to brace yourself for an unapologetic slide through a series of odd, boring songs with simplistic production value.

Track 7: I Didn’t Know My Own Strength
If you manage to endure this one all the way through, you’ll at least have a better idea of your own pain threshold.

Track 8: Worth It.
It simply wasn’t.  And it seems a more fitting title for the track would have been “For the Lovers.”

Track 9: For the Lovers
The fast forward button gets a little breather here.  In fact, you may find yourself putting this one on repeat a couple of times…if for no other reason than to recover from the lackluster experience of the album thus far,…which the next track endeavors to remind everyone of.

Track 10: I Got You
No, you don’t.

Track 11: Salute
At least she did us a favor of ending the album with an enjoyable song.  Like the album, the song itself is uneven. There are a couple of moments when you frown slightly and just have to give the nation’s favorite former crack addict the benefit of the doubt.

But not to be outdone by her longtime nemesis, this month Ms. Mariah Carey reminds us of her own battered voice that, too, is slightly past its prime.  To her credit though, the Mimi Butterfly is a better lyricist.  She may be our last opportunity to prove the power ballad was not just a long, lost treasure of the 80s and 90s.

injury quickly turns to vengeful insult when you realise however that your selection had fundamentally less to do with any prior accomplishments listed on your CV, and instead was so callously based on the Vegas-style gambling odds of how well you can tourniquet the gaping wounds of your party’s aspiring wannabe commander-in-chief. 

i know it’s hard to stay on scripted message when Public Scrutiny seems fervently adamant against appreciating all those wonderful assets you bring to table, and you’re left to envision the next 4 years of your life as looking like that of an ugly back-up singer to the world’s biggest pop star. (afterall, it’s no small thing when you’re being expected to inject humanism into an automaton-like ticket,…or when you’re shoring up the no-foreign policy/no-economic/no-executive experience defensive line).  but openly questioning the strategic intelligence of a playbook you claim to be in maverickian lock-step with gets you no brownie points. neither does directly crticising the leadership, experience, and resolve of your proud sponsor.  such actions make it clear that personal ambition has taken the great leap forward, and “putting country first” got ousted to the back porch. 

but as we voters get to our touch-screening, chad-punching, lever-pulling exercises next week, we should at least be entitled to a full awareness of the goodies that might be down in the Palin and Biden Political Black Bag of Tricks.  because when we’re all just a mere heart attack/natural causes/trigger pull moment away from a fantastical reorganisation of the starting line-up, we should know what to expect when second string comes charging onto the field.

afterall, this forever-winding one-way road to Decision 2008 has been peppered with enough West Wing/Wisteria Lane drama as it is; and potential dissention amongst the ranks–at this late stage of the game–is no way to inpsire confidence. so it’s best to take your B-side status in stride: the vice presidency isn’t much more than a lame duck exercise in mediocrity that often leaves you with nowhere to go once the game is over but down.

   …unless of course you’re Grammy-Oscar-Nobel-Peace-Prize Winner Al Gore.

blah dee blah, lah dee dah, peace and hairgrease.

i typically shy away from discussions of race, mostly because i rarely see the utility in them.  however, i was especially disturbed by a news segment on NPR earlier this week. 

West Point, in its infinite military wisdom, recently dispatched a mini regiment of cadets to New Jersey to live for three or four days amongst the minorities, most notably in communities of people they, as soldiers, will be apt to encounter while patrolling the streets of Afghanistan or Iraq.  the intended goal of this experiment in immersion was prefaced by a Major (and class instructor): we need to introduce our uncultured army-tykes-in-combat-training to the intricate, undiscovered facets of life that are the everyday experiences of peoples whose cultures they do not understand.  (this sort of thing is expected to come in handy while the Bush Administration strives to (1) bring democracy to their otherwise lawless native homelands, and (2) figure out why not everyone is so keen on its methods). 

NPR then trotted on a cadet, a young man from Arkansas, who prefaced his short-winded testimonial with a quick overview of his background: “white [and] from a town with 1500 people,” etc.  he then went on to describe the welcome-with-open-arms, amiable nature of these [pre-selected], [America-based] families and mosques, and how he learned that they have families (gasp!) and pray and eat dinner (you don’t say!).  granted, these might be valuable insights in the right context (they’re really not all terrorists!), there’s no getting around the superficiality of these revelations, particularly as they do nothing more than echo the typical talking points of culture shock.

the story, in its totality, amounted to nothing more than a bizarre exposé of “white ignorance” — the dissatisfied and disgruntled parent to “white guilt.” and i’m sorry, but this not news, nor is it worthy: everyone is ignorant to external (a.k.a. “foreign”) customs and cultures; that’s actually part of the point.  moreover, being a minority does not give you some special magical insight into the life experiences of other minorities.

NPR should have instead focused on the substantive new learnings these cadets acquired: what types of misinformation about Muslims or Iraqis or Islam have been corrected?  In what ways will Sir Cadet be better enabled to serve and protect the Sunni or the Shia? How do we respect fundamental distinctions amongst groups of people we so callously lump under the heading “Middle Eastern?”  simply knowing they have families just isn’t going to move the needle. and as the listener, how exactly have i been educated with anything of value?

it seems our military might be trying to undo some of the unfair, imbalanced, and skewed perspectives rampant in American culture.  but [American] media continues business-as-usual, inculcating a plethora of misconceptions and stereotypes with its oftentimes sensationalist journalism.  in the end, we get more “news reports” long on superficiality, short on substance, and absent on opportunity for public enlightenment.

the army has realised the quid-pro-quo is hurting them; will the general public ever realise we’re not being well-served by it either?

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“99.99% of what happens is not on the news.”  - Loesje –

testing the waters, getting his feet wet, or dipping his elbow into the bath water he may be doing.  but, really, to what end?  it’s a question i pose, as it will be fascinating to witness which of our would-be presidential Prince Igors (or their Karl Rove boy wonder consultants) will be the first to wise up and offer him the vice-presidential ticket.  because as a democrat/republican/independent can’t-put-baby-in-a-corner wise guy, there’s really no other reason for the mayor of new york city to be motoring into and out of oklahoma and new hampshire right now.

and were he to accept, a presidential candidate he still would not make; and therein, of course, lies the beauty. 
but, were he to decline, that too would prompt a rather telling press conference indeed.

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“…rhetoric never won a revolution yet.” – Shirley Chisholm 

you know, i’d like to believe sir roger clemens and his pontifications of innocent substance enhancement; but somehow, i just can’t.  his willingness for heartbeat depositions aside, it’s his self-serving inquest of ”tell me, where did i get ‘em?!” (the drugs, the steroids, the human growth hormone), that is pretty reminiscent of Whitney Houston demanding to be shown her cocaine receipts.

maybe we’ll all find out the truth after O.J. bounty-hunts the real killer,…or killers.

and though he’s back, it doesn’t seem as though he’s really returned. which isn’t to say something traumatic happened to him over there; but, clearly, he got used to “being over there.” and because of the nature of his job and the social environment, he’s adapted to not having to really deal with anyone on a particularly social level.

and so, it seems the rules of engagement for our friendship are no longer the same either. he’s remarkably less responsive: days pass between phone calls and emails. and he shares a lot less than he used to: i’m left to wonder if i’ll ever get those 3-minute voicemails again, or whether he’ll send my way those random inquiries on random topics he inexplicably expects me to be informed about.

he seems to not need me so much anymore, and perhaps my catalogue of complaints will self-correct themselves in time. but it’s also clear the derek i got back is not the same derek i sent off: a selfish desire to have wanted otherwise i suppose. but for right now, i can’t figure out what the rules are at anymore.

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BREAKING FREE AND SETTING OUT ON ONE’S OWN
IS NEVER THE MAKING OF A PRECEDENT.
AND TREATING THE WOUNDS OF A SUTURED SOUL
LEAVES SCARRED CONFESSIONS OF IRRELEVANCE:
WHAT WE WERE FORCED TO LEAVE BEHIND,
WE HAVE NOW FORGOTTEN HOW TO FIND.

i think adulthood used to begin when you got a job, moved away from the parental units, and started paying taxes. now it seems one embarks on adulthood when you get married, start having kids, buy some property, and start saying “my career” instead of “my job.” and when i look around, the mean focal point for all these activities appears to converge around age 30. sure, you get the early adopters: those upstart show-offs who get it all wrapped up by 26; but i’ve gotta say that the top of the bell curve is resting right above 28 and 29.  and after 30, you’re pretty much living on borrowed time; so you had better figure shit out before it’s too late.

and, clearly, i’m nowhere close to having any of these sorts of items checked off right.  not that i’ve been wasting my time…i don’t think.  but there is a list of things i want to do/have done before my own adulthood has to officially begin; and each passing birthday is just a hallmark card advisory informing me of the fact i have less time to do it all than i had the year before. true, it’s a conspicuously simple and obvious equation, but one that is no less annoying.

and, for better or worse, facebook is such the nifty little tool for letting you know what all your friends are up to: digital sticky notes reminding you of one more thing you’re just not getting done. and when all your friends seem to be on the same train — a train you seem to be watching just pull out of the station — it’s hard not to feel left out, and that I’m going to arrive at adulthood unfashionably late.

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“Wisdom doesn’t necessarily come with age.  Sometimes age just shows up all by itself.” – Tom Wilson

first up: hair. girls shed hair like the sun emits radiation. and all the more offensive is a girl’s seeming oblivious ambivalence to it all. i find it in the livingroom, behind the couch even. i repeatedly discover it in the kitchen — in the dishwasher no less. and, finally, it’s an omnipresent feature of the bathrooms: floors, sinks, the tub.  which brings me to my second issue…….

water. it, too, is everywhere. despite the presence of two shower curtains, water still, somehow, manages to escape to the floor, where it (of course) co-mingles with the hair to make an unsightly mess.  a mop has now taken up permanent residence in the bathroom to deal with these H20-based incursions…not that it is consistently used.

and little female devices like hair dryers, curling irons, gels, and tampons live a disheveled existence at best, and a nomadic one at worst.  on the off-chance one of these items is – scandal! – put back where it was found, it’s been tossed there, disrupting any establishment of order to the surrounding environment.  and things that should be thrown away — i.e., finished toilet paper rolls, empty toothpaste boxes — get equal treatment.

truthfully, the levels of ignorance and laziness astound me at times. and ever since my early retirement as the live-in maid, these issues tend to linger for indefinite periods of time.  usually one of them is spurred into action of the Mr. Clean variety when guests are imminent.

and, really, i needn’t approach the topic of bedrooms that are in an incessant state of disrepair.

it is true that everyone has different standards of cleanliness; and, those jobs that anyone can do, nobody will in fact do. but while i strive for a platinum standard, boys i’ve lived with always endeavored for at least a silver medal. so i say it’s time to reveal girls’ complacency with their bronze and copper tokens and demand they abandon the men-are-slobs campaign they all too frequently trumpet. it’s time the battle of the sexes got exercised on a level playing field.

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“My roommate got a pet elephant.  Then it got lost.  It’s in the apartment somewhere.” — Stephen Wright

it’s one thing to divide the plane into “zones,” to afford some semblance of order and decorum during the “boarding process.” afterall, why should someone sitting at the window be the last one in the row to get to their seat?  unfortunately, the handbook doesn’t indicate that for such a system to actually work, research shows that a touch of enforcement tends to work wonders.

i personally would like to see a university study commissioned to entertain the notion of whether prolonged air-cabin pressured travel at 30,000 plus feet has a negative impact on one’s temperament. an attitude-free flight crew seems to have been jettisoned; but then, with such tacky uniforms they get to wear, some leeway may have to be granted.  but still, i didn’t sign to judge an overhead-bin door-slamming contest either; so, clearly, some anger management sessions seem to be in order.

and speaking of the crew, the crew-passenger relationship probably would have a better chance of going well if the crew actually had a full grasp of their faculties.  i know at times such details like flight numbers and departure times tend be regarded as mere suggestions by we weary travelers, but i look to the crew for guidance in knowing to which city the plane will be flying next.  hearing my L.A. to New York flight announced as a “New York to L.A.” trip, only to be mis-corrected as a “L.A. to Atlanta” excursion, does not inspire confidence.  i have been on flights where a successful landing was met with applause; is this why these ovations occur?  it all makes actually reaching airborne status an achievement.

so, wrapped up in this “Change Is:” scheme of Delta’s is the prolific proclamation that you can now play video games or watch a selection of movies, HBO, and live satellite television from the “comfort” of your own seat.  somehow left out of the message and fine print is the fact the prices for games start at $3 (each), the movies cost $5 (each), the HBO programs are $2 (each), and the satellite tv coverage is not guaranteed. it’s arguably a cruel twist of fate to be promised NBC, TBS, Cartoon Netowrk and Bravo but to only find available Sci-Fi, every ESPN iteration ever imagined, CNBC, and the Food Network (which appears to be immersed in an asenine, insidious Rachel Ray marathon).

now i understand no love or prestige ever went into the preparation – not to mention distribution – of airline food. but i am uncertain as to how they’ve cultivated the audacity to charge you extra for it.  printing a list of the food available onto a piece of a cardboard in colored ink and calling it a “menu” does not a subsonic “restaurant” make.  and the first person who can explain to me how a 9:45am flight falls outside the realm of the breakfast menu just because the cart gets trotted out after 11:00 am gets a gold star. (the star’s not worth it’s weight in gold, sorry).

with call buttons that ring on a frequency that flight attendants can apparently no longer hear, and the mysterious disappearance of pillows and blankets (has someone dispatched a search party?), it seems Change Is: A Short Memory.

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“long voyages, great lies.”  – italian proverb

jamilla deria and i were discussing saturday morning the possibility of a loneliness epidemic spreading across the city of new york.

the idea came about when she sent out an invitation to an evening with talib kweli, which was soonafter clarified with the advisory that any guests one might want to bring would also have to individually RSVP.  and it was that clarification that ignited a flurry of response emails, a unanimous chorus if you will, that individual RSVPs really aren’t going to be a heartwrenching concern because nobody really has anyone [special] to bring. 

as someone with a seemingly symbiotic, or perhaps parasitic, relationship with singlehood, her notation of any impending trend didn’t quite resonate on any noteworthy frequency. but, it got her thinking, and me hypothesizing. 

singlehood isn’t a problem, as far as i’m concerned. american culture gives too much credit to the need of relationships than they deserve, much to the detriment of some rather basic human truths it so vastly ignores and underestimates. 

but loneliness is very much an issue.  if someone is lonely, a state i define as experiencing solitude while craving the companionship of a [special] person, then something proactive must be done about it, absolutely.  after all, loneliness is just a hop, skip and a jump from depression.  and when the side streets off of Depression Boulevard can only lead one to very unhappy neighborhoods, the only option is to do a u-turn and go back the way you came. 

simply speaking there are negative implications to loneliness not manifested in singlehood. 

jamilla agreed: there appears to be a singlehood epidemic creeping its way across the city of new york. with any luck, new york will become a slightly more fun city — with new possibilities abound — as a result.

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“Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow.”  – swedish proverb