When I read on my twitter timeline that Charlie Sheen was going to be on 20/20 all I could think was: This sounds more epic than the Whitney and Bobby interview. In my mind, up until C. Sheezy appeared in his Tiger God glory, Whitney Houston asking Diane Sawyer for her crack receipts was one of the most perfect moments in journalism’s history. As Whitney hoarsely denied all allegations of drug use and Bobby Brown literally drowned in his own sweat while ironically explaining that weed helped him deal with his bipolar disorder I remember laughing myself to hyperventilation. I don’t find pleasure in other people’s pain but I do find humor in their attempts to mask their faults. In the end though, the thought of never hearing another amazing Whitney Houston album saddened me to no end.
In the midst of all the jokes and prayers it always seemed that people forgot about the fact that Whitney and Bobby had a child. Bobbi Christina was an extra in the movie of her parents’ life, playing background to larger than life figures with outlandish problems. As a teen who couldn’t be bothered to care about anyone I didn’t physically come in contact with, it never occurred to me that the examples being played out in front of her might somehow affect her life choices. Then BOOM the pictures comes out of her snorting what appears to be cocaine while drinking with friends and all I couldn’t help but think: well, she did have that in the house.
Of course, Bobbi Christina is at an age where curiosity, rebellion and invincibility all meet up and blanket the brain in the wildest of hazes until it becomes a high within itself. Who knows why or even what she was snorting. She claims it was salvia dust and I automatically feel old because all I could think was: The hell you snorting that shit for girl? You should’ve been doing some foolery like crushing some chick’s soul via twitter beef! I’m obviously sad as hell not only because the teens of today can’t seem to do anything away from a camera but also that they even have salvia as a scapegoat. If I saw a picture of someone snorting substances back in high school there was no magical herb that you could have claimed to legally be trying— that shit was blow, be serious!
Never mind my jealousy, I’m more concerned about Bobbi’s role models. I’ll never be able to sort out whether or not her parents’ off the books and unproved drug habit ever had an affect on her. M aybe she’s spent too much time partying in the USA? I think she needs a better sour of inspiration, and like Morgan Freeman, am here to show her to the light. Bobbi: Whatever is it you’re up to I think it best stay in the dark no matter how legal it is. Maybe you really were snorting the magical herb dust of Tinkerbell but pictures can’t talk and you don’t want to be getting side eyed by your kids when they stumble upon this on their iPad 120. Take the Beyonce oath of life and remain steadfast in your cyborg public appearances until people tire of trying to break you and begin to wonder if you are the first example of artificial intelligence.
Whitney Houston was my greatest inspiration—a strong black woman with the greatest voice of our time doing it her way and when she fell apart I was crushed to think I’d never find that again. Bobbi technically doesn’t owe any of us a damn thing but I hope the cycle of tabloid fodder will stop here. Ole Tiger Blood has given us enough excitement for at least the rest of the year. Go enjoy being a fucked up teen quietly without anyone reminding you forever of the stupid shit you will probably continue to do.