The greatest tabloid detour of all: Whitney Houston

Shameful, yes, but trust me, I needed this. News-wise, it's been a heavy week, what with the immigration stir in D.C., the conservatives out-bitching each other like queens backstage at a Marc Jacobs show, the rallies and school walkouts, and everyone else sniping insufferably. Needless to say, history in the making is never pain-free; the country's divided, and so am I. Being able to see both sides of an issue can be a blessing and a curse, though, and this week's news overload has brought that to life, very much akin to being torn apart by two pit bulls. To be honest, I've wanted to lob pee-filled balloons at the the extreme wings of both camps, because they're all working my last nerve. Can't we all just move along here? The U.S. and Mexico simply can't live without each other, like the fabled old can't-live-with-'em, can't-kill-'em-either couple - not quite Bobby Brown & Whitney Houston, but an uneasy yet long-standing relationship nonetheless. And one I'm holding out more hope for than Bobby & Whitney's, for sure.

Still, I've been completely engrossed with the latest saga involving Whitney, in a back-handed effort to not get too bogged down with the other downer stuff. In these conflicted times, one needs mind candy to cope, so consequently it's been a fairly lightweight week in the reading department. I started with Marley and Me, the best-selling man-and-his-dog memoir written by Philadephia Inquirer columnist John Grogan (and a must-read for any dog lover worth their salt), and ended up INSIDE WHITNEY'S DRUG DEN! - sucked in while standing in line at Walgreen's, reeling at the screaming headline and accompanying images on the cover of that widely-respected beacon of stellar reportage, The National Enquirer. The inset photo shows a gaunt, dazed Whitney, while the main photo boasts what's purportedly her bathroom vanity area, covered in garbage and a plate holding obvious paraphernalia to the left of the sink. "Wow!" Danny remarked. "That's impressive! I never lived in such squalor even when I was drugging every single day."

The photos were taken by Bobby Brown's sister Tina, another former drug buddy turned opportunistic shithead. Freshly clean and ready to milk this trough of Whitney woe for all it's worth, she told a reporter from the U.K.'s Sun, "The truth needs to come out. Whitney won't stay off the drugs. It's every single day. It's so ugly. Everyone is so scared she is going to overdose."

Yeah, right. Call me cynical, but why do I have the feeling that everybody's just waiting for her to overdose so they can sell their stories to the tabs? Patronizing statements to the press should be the first clue.

Anyway, for those who've been following the sad chronicle of Whitney's rise and fall, it's painfully obvious that the person everyone should be worried about during all this is little Bobbi Kristina, the 13-year-old daughter of Bobs and Whits. Here's hoping there've been some interventions involving Mama Cissy at least, because adolescence is hard enough when your parents haven't been off smoking rock during a big chunk of your childhood. Here we have a girl who might be losing her mother to either death, jail or rehab - or any combination of the three - and who knows what she's already been though and how she's coping now? And as all this unravels before her, I do hope that Miss Bobbi Kristina has a solid support system and is surrounded by compassionate, loving people who'll let her thrash this out in a healthy way, so she won't end up in the loony bin or in jail for shooting some unlucky fucker point blank in some roadside motel altercation by the time she's 16.

Last summer, I admit to not being able to tear myself away from the televisional train wreck that was Being Bobby Brown on Bravo. We're talking three steps below low-brow, yeah, but I did take a special interest in the welfare of Bobbi Kristina, a rather shy and reserved pre-teen, obviously mortified and disgusted by her parents' behavior on camping trips and jaunts to London and Las Vegas, watching on in helpless resignation like one would with the elderly family dog who has a tendency to shit on the carpet in front of dinner guests. The look on her face always seemed to read: I really don't wan't to be here right now. God love her. I pray it doesn't turn out to be the kind of world where she and Frances Bean Cobain end up collaborating on a book someday, mashing up some Mommie Dearest with a dash of self-help and we end up with lurid 'adult children of rock and roll horror stories' titles in the cutout bins, though. You know these girls have stories the tabloids would spill blood for.

A few years back, one of the reporters from the Fort Worth Startle-Gram called me to ask what I thought of some silly Mariah/Whitney hoo-hah going on at the time, and I was quoted in the paper as saying that Whitney was the one destined for a comeback, that we'd seen it all and heard it all from Miss Mariah. Jeezus, was I ever wrong on that call. Mariah's the one who ended up with an armload of Grammys recently, and here's Whitney in this week's National Enquirer - in a snap taken at 4 a.m. as she was coming out of some Atlanta convenience store, wearing this freaky fun-fur coat, a crazy-hazy smile and disheveled hair, carrying an armload of what looks like candy bars, packets of cold tablets and God only knows what else. Anyone who's had experiences with substance abuse knows that look, and how easy it is to convince yourself that you must have a strawberry-kiwi Gatorade, even though it's 4 in the morning, your car has no gas, and the only other people out and about at that time are the after-hours drunks and the powder-tweakers like you.

Luke's convinced that all this stems from the media needing a new person to pick on, now that Michael Jackson's been run out of the country. When he mentioned that Whitney's best bet would be to head for France, or that some Gulf sheik probably wouldn't mind her hanging around, I immediately flashed back to that trip she and Bobby took to Israel a few years back, and briefly envisioned her enjoying a life of exile in Monaco or Dubai, hooking up with the son of some African dictator, someone flush enough to keep her in functional-addict mode.

Of course this wouldn't be the most ideal situation in this tragedy, and it's not one I'm hoping for either. But at the moment, it's keeping me from getting into endless and exhausting political debates, which is fine with me. My head's been spinning. It's really just another occupational hazard, like hearing loss.

So please, come back to the five and dime, Whitney Houston, Whitney Houston. And don't forget to say a prayer for little Bobbi Kristina.

RIP Buck Owens

I can't believe another guitar god is gone. Rest in peace, Mr. Owens.

Bush rejects Belarus election results?

Don't make me laugh, but please don't get me wrong, either. I'm all for doing away with the dictators of the world - abso-bloody-lutely - but George W. Bush coming out and saying these election results are unacceptable?

Isn't that a bit like the turd calling the diarrhea stinky?

Things to get excited about, even as the world goes completely batshit on us

The new Neko Case album. My first brush with the immensely abundant and heart-stopping talent of Neko Case came late, at the end of 2004. She'd already had quite a career by the time our music director gave me a spare copy of The Tigers Have Spoken, but nevertheless, that puppy didn't leave my CD player for weeks. Small wonder. This woman totally whips ass, and so does Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, her latest and greatest. Day-yumn! This the torchiest twang you'll be hearing for quite some time - 36 minutes worth of twists and turns that'll knock you helplessly into another sphere altogether. Not only does the girl have a way with that voice and her implements of musical divination, she also picks the cream of the crop to join in with her - Jon Rauhouse, Calexico's Burns and Convertino, Kelly Hogan, Howie Gelb, and Garth Hudson from The Band, for chrissakes! And (drum roll, please...) there's even the most fabulous original artwork I've seen for bloody ages. Definitely a score.

That massive 'Tom DeLay: Indicted Shitbag' poster I saw on a light pole in West Dallas. It's at the end of that loop-de-loop thing after Continental turns into Beckley, or vice-versa, due west of downtown off Commerce. Regardless, whoever's responsible for this, I'm in love with you already. And where can I buy the t-shirt?!

The return of Salma Hayek to the big screen. Did you see her at the Oscars, channeling the Mexican screen goddesses of yesteryear? Mamacita, you'd better throw some water on me before I faint, because lemme tell ya, Miss Salma never fails to enchant. This woman could throw on the most raggedy-ass burlap sap and still be the the most sizzling little dish in a room full of women in their best Balenciaga. JFC! She's a rare bird who just screams old-school glamour, leaving me speechless every bloody time. And she'll be back onscreen soon in the new 1930's L.A. flick, Ask The Dust. Is it my imagination or do we have some steamy scenes with Colin Farrell in store for The People as well? I mean, to be honest, who gives a toss about him, because it's really Salma who makes us want to get our freak on. Viva Salma!

Season Six of The Sopranos. So what'd ya think? Talk about a gratuitous kick-start to the season. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But poor Uncle Junior's truly going down the stony end (fuck you, evil Alzheimer's disease), and there's just an air of, how do I put this - disintegration here, maybe? I'm not at all worried about Tony - he'll pull through, 'cos the 911 people always come out if someone calls but doesn't answer. Either that, or they'll be paying James Gandolfini a cool million or two to lie in a hospital bed for a while. But I'm also looking forward to catching up with with the family and seeing what damage is waiting to be done this season - even though like Christo-fuh, I just can't imagine life without Adriana, god rest her laquered and leather-clad soul. One episode and I'm already missing me some Drea De Matteo, man. Sorry, but her appearance in Carmela's dream simply wasn't enough. Hell, her absence from the scene started to suck the moment she found out her friend Danielle was an undercover FBI agent - way, way before Steven Van Zandt's Silvio even had to take care of business in the woods that day. God, I hated him for that, but such is life in the waste management business, right? Besides that, his Underground Garage show seemed to work fine as far as his penance was concerned. I'm also eager to know what became of Furio, after he pissed off back to Naples? And who inherited all those loud shirts he used to wear?

Lebowski Fest is coming to Austin in May. Mark your calendars for marking it 8, Dude - May 19th and 20th. That's right - they're bringing it to Texas! Personally, I can't wait to knock back a few White Russians, roll a few games and/or j's, and enjoy the occasional acid flashback with the Nihilists and Walter Sobchak lookalikes. It'll be Achiever Heaven, and within driving range. What more could a girl ask for? I'm full of questions: During the screening, will people be shouting all the lines out at the screen like we used to do with Rocky Horror? Hell, I'm good either way. Lord knows my special man friend gets tired of my continual spewage of Lebowski lines - and he can even rattle off a few himself. Also, are there any special appearances are in the works? I wouldn't be shocked to see Jimmie Dale Gilmore - Mr. Mark It 8 himself - there, since he lives somewhere in or around Austin. That would be most far fuckin' out, man if he did. Cool guy. On that 2004 trip to San Francisco, we ran into him at the airport and Joe kept trying to get me to go up to him and say "Over the line!" - but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I did manage to say hello, though, and JDG was most gracious.

David Allen Coe & the surviving members of Pantera teaming up for an album, due in May. Boy, talk about a natural fit. I never paid much attention to either one, to be honest, but this could be magic, my friend, especially after nearly a fifth of Jack.

A possible Dusty Springfield biopic, directed by newly-minted Best Director Ang Lee. I'm so there. An amazing talent, delivered to us from on high, but sadly enough - from what I've gathered in later accounts of her life, she had a crippling lack of self-esteem to go along with it. Bless her heart. I've no doubt those pre-Stonewall days must've sucked big green monkey 'nads, too. And I don't know if it was in the liner notes to her Anthology, that Penny Valentine and Vicki Wickham book, an Advocate article or that Fresh Air interview, but I recall something about Nina Simone once either throwing a drink at Dusty or pulling some other super-shitty attitudinal snit with her, completely unprovoked. Wonder WTF that was all about? Both women being gone, I guess we'll never know.

Wildflower season's coming up. The irises are in bloom, and pretty soon we'll be seeing blankets of bluebonnets, buttercups and Indian paintbrushes alongside the highways, too. I can't friggin' wait. Where would Texas be today if it hadn't been for that adorable little Lady Bird Johnson? I ask you. The only downside to this is that bluebonnet season and tornadoes seem to go hand-in-hand. And this year, with the seasons being completely wonky - just remember, y'all, there's no such thing as global warming! - it's even come a bit early. Poor Kansas and Missouri, having just taken that huge hit - over 133 tornadoes at last count - and it's not even April. Also, snow in Northern California and raging fires up in the Panhandle, thanks to an unseasonably dry streak. Makes ya kinda antsy about the upcoming hurricane season, doesn't it?

To the Daniel Craig doubters in the house

Blow me already.

Honestly. Can I just vent for a moment here?

Anyone who makes the conscious decision to use their free time maintaining a website trashing an actor with a long and impressive resume, one who's unapologetically fearless when it comes to tackling meaty roles, and one who looks like this, emerging from the sea like a male version of Ursula Andress in Dr. No, is clearly not capable of being taken seriously. These CraigNotBond.com people come off sounding like Bill O'Reilly, if he were to suddenly drop everything and become a film reviewer:

In fact Craig's stock and trade has been playing the part of criminals, alcoholics, addicts, psychopaths, child murderers, thieves, perverts and gigolos. In fact, he is much more the type to play one of Bond's deranged nemeses, ala Robert Carlyle, than anyone remotely resembling the handsome, athletic and sinisterly smooth agent 007.

Oh my. It's called acting, people. And are the James Bond fans out there really that rabid and inflexible? One would think that if Daniel Craig was good enough for the Broccolis, who've only been making Bond films for over forty years now, he'd be a welcome change for the Bond fans, too, right?

Personally, I'm keeping my fingers crossed that Daniel Craig shall inherit the earth someday, despite having not seen even a tenth of the stuff on his resume. But what I have seen has made me fan myself and get all well, bless my little cotton socks, and rest assured we're working on that list. My friend and fellow Craig maniac Fiona and I have been planning a Daniel Craig Movie Night for ages now, when we'll be watching Enduring Love and The Mother. And there's so much more out there.

First thing I ever saw the man in was Love Is The Devil, the horrifyingly lurid but captivating biopic of the painter Francis Bacon, where Craig plays his doomed lover, George Dyer, a petty thief (and rent boy, if I'm not mistaken) - their first actual meeting takes place when Bacon walks in on George, robbing his studio. It took me a couple of years to put the two-and-two togther when I saw Road To Perdition, and couldn't get out of my mind how much I loathed the character of Paul Newman's son, this completely amoral piece of human garbage - and that's when it dawned on me: "Wow, that was the guy who let it all hang out in Love Is The Devil." By the way, the videocaps of that are out there somewhere, well worth the Google search.

Never saw Sylvia all the way through, as Sylvia Plath makes me laugh, but having read her Letters Home, her diaries and several biographies, and while flipping through the TV channels, I always make sure to stop if I see Daniel Craig getting all Ted Hughes on our asses. The real-life Ted Hughes just oozed sex appeal, back in his day, and this makes Craig-as-Hughes almost too hot to handle.

I couldn't help but adore his portrayal as a passionate, hot-tempered South African sharpshooter in Spielberg's Munich, and I loved him in Layer Cake, too. Nice chemistry between him and Sienna Miller, who I can't wait to see in Factory Girl. She's adorable. As silly as it sounds, that shot of her in this month's Vanity Fair gives me hopes that she might be able to pull the whole Edie Sedgwick thing off. It's about time someone did. Remember back in the early 80's - a few years after the book came out - when Molly Ringwald was making noises about wanting to play Edie, and later on there were a few rumblings about Warren Beatty buying the rights to her story? Don't know what ever came of that, but I just pray like mad that the Factory Girl version of La Sedgwick doesn't take the same route Oliver Stone took with Nico in The Doors. Never forgave him for that one.

Back to Daniel Craig, though, I just wish these CraigNotBond.com people shut the bleepin' eff up already and get on with their lives. The film's almost done, anyway. And why can't an actor make a living in peace these days?

Besides that, change is good, people. Playing with the formula means staying one step ahead. Fleming's Bond was no angel himself, and I'm hoping that maybe we'll see a little more of that in Casino Royale. We might see a completely brand new, slightly flawed and more human Bond - through Mr. Craig. And we might just fall in love with him all over again.


Two Things I Shouldn't Have Used My Debit Card Irresponsibly On This Week But Did, Anyway:

St. Etienne's Tales From Turnpike House - Bought the US version and haven't been disappointed, which is nice considering it's been a long wait since the last album. Not that I'm complaining, though. Several standouts: "Oh My" appears in its full flung glory, along with "Last Orders For Gary Stead" and "Stars Above Us," the single I can totally see Madonna covering someday. The London slice-of-life bits are nice, too - especially "Milk Bottle Symphony," which totally makes me think of of mushy Weetabix and steaming mugs of sweetened tea on cold mornings. Next on my list is the UK version, because the bonus disc includes six tracks which make up the children's album St. Etienne did last year, called Up the Wooden Hills. I've yet to feel maternal myself, but would love to hear this one, just for shits and grins. I have complete faith that Sarah Cracknell's voice could calm a bevy of bawling babies.

Over The Edge - Had to have my own personal copy of this 1979 juvie love-fest, about a group of teens gone ape-shit crazy in a Colorado subdivision. The soundtrack kicks ass, and while its young stars remind me just a bit too much of those teen terrors I knew growing up in East Fort Worth at times, they do take on their roles with relish. The young Matt Dillon makes his screen debut, which is ironic because the night I bought this DVD, we ended up re-watching Crash and here's Matt Dillon today, up for Best Supporting Actor for his role in that. Gotta love it when the world comes full circle. And the guy who played Claude, Tom Fergus, even has his own tribute site, featuring photographs of Over The Edge's fictional town, New Granada, in miniature. I shit you not.

Another thing I was delighted to pick up on was a certain riff in the song played during the crew credits, right after the kid takes a pot-shot at the cop car from that bridge - one I had to take a closer listen to before it hit me: it's the same riff lifted for use in "Beer & Ludes," one of the many gems on the Lovedolls Superstar soundtrack. Which reminds me, the 20th anniversary DVD of Lovedolls Superstar: Fully Realized comes out on the 14th! And Amazon's taking pre-orders! God bless America.