|Current mood:|| depressed|
|Current music:||The Real Don Steele, MG Kelly, KTNQ Ten-Q LA March 18 1978 (|
Dreams Always Turn Into Dust And Blow Away
L.A. is a great big freeway.
Put a hundred down and buy a car.
In a week, maybe two, they'll make you a star
Weeks turn into years. How quck they pass
And all the stars that never were
Are parking cars and pumping gas
You can really breathe in San Jose
They've got a lot of space. There'll be a place where I can stay
I was born and raised in San Jose
I'm going back to find some peace of mind in San Jose.
Fame and fortune is a magnet.
It can pull you far away from home
With a dream in your heart you're never alone.
Dreams turn into dust and blow away
And there you are without a friend
You pack your car and ride away
~~~Do You Know The Way To San Jose
~~~Music By Burt Bacharach
~~~Lyrics By Hal David
This is going to surprise and shock most people but I am assuming that Whitney Houston killed herself, making her not just the second major celebrity to die in 2012 but also the second to die by suicide. Because that's what all the evidence says so far, so it is subject to change but I don't think it will.
And since most people are surprised, shocked and upset with me anyway for assuming suicide right away, I might as well showcase a truly great song---Rather than one of Whitney's---immortalized by her cousin, Dionne Warwick, that perfectly sums up what happened because while it doesn't explicitly say so, it doesn't take too much imagination to see the implication that even if you don't end up parking cars and pumping gas, dreams, after you make them come true, can and often do still turn to dust and blow away, anyway.
Which makes San Jose a metaphor for Heaven? Some see that as unlikely but I've had what could be described as some Heavenly good times there, so I say, why not? Of course, I've had some equally good times in the big freeway known as LA which under this model is a metaphor for Hell (Which very few people find hard to believe for some reason) so that just goes to show you that you should never make snap judgements about anything, no matter how overwhelming the preliminary evidence is.
Unless you're me, because I'm so good at this sort of thing. I am also 48, the exact same, plus or minus about six months, age Whitney was until yesterday afternoon...She was born on August 9, 1963 and I was born on February 2, 1964...and if you ask any Numerologist worth her Soul Number, she'll tell you that makes me infallible in these matters.
So if you want to try to impeach my unimpeachable credentials, that's very noble, Don Quixote and I bet today is the day you're finally going to slay that windmill. In the meantime, let's take a brief look at something that isn't likely to interest you at all but really fascinates me: The parallels between Whitney Houston and Frank Sinatra.
They were both born on the wrong side of the river (New Jersey, Frank in Hoboken and Whitney in Newark) and started out playing grueling cross country tours in dingy nightclubs (Frank with Major Bowes---Kids, that was one of the first incarnations of American Idol---and Whitney with her mother, Cissy) where they toiled for years before becoming "Overnight Successes."
At the same time, they had to deal with racism (In the 1930's and 40's, being Italian was nearly as big a crime as being Black and if you were also branded as being a communist and mobster, it was worse than being Black) and in the process they impressed a lot of people, set a lot of records, won a lot of awards and made shiploads upon shiploads of money. All without ever becoming happy.
And becoming more and more suicidal. Yes, Frank tried to kill himself---Both physically and professionally---many, many many times and that he failed every single time doesn't make him any less suicidal than Whitney. I contend that you can't have that much talent and not be suicidal.
Of course, plenty of people with no talent at all want to go to San Jose as quickly as possible but it seems that the uber talented want to get there even faster than the rest of us. And, as Frank demonstrated, we all get there eventually, no matter how many failures we have here and the only real question seems to be, "Is San Jose all it's cracked up to be?"
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