80's Diet Coke Commercial (Whitney Houston)

The quality's not the greatest, but the Time Warp effect is worth it.

I Sing "The Bodyguard" Electric

As a child, "The Bodyguard" was one of my favorite movies. Five years old when it was released in 1992, I believe I have some vague memory of watching it for the first time at home, once it was released on video. From then on I can recollect asking my parents to rent me the VHS tape from the neighborhood video store, and finally I remember shelling out about 25 bucks (a small fortune then) from a Blockbuster "previously viewed" rack. Then I could watch it as much as I wanted, and I did.

This film was not an ironic source of enjoyment for me in those days. I was not aware at such a young age of flaws in unified storytelling or verisimilitude, or the frowned-upon studio practice of creating blockbuster "vehicles" for music legends, or even that "bad acting" was something easily recognizable and quite distasteful. I only knew that some things I enjoyed, others I did not. "The Bodyguard" I enjoyed sincerely enough that I wanted to watch it repeatedly.

The musical numbers contributed most of the enjoyment, I believe. It's remarkable to me that "The Bodyguard" is so frequently classified as a thriller, when really it is as much a musical as "The Sound of Music" or "My Fair Lady." I see now that the dramatics of Whitney Houston's character being stalked and threatened, and the jealous sister's suicide, and the forbidden love between a black superstar and her white protector -- these were things I could barely understand as a child. (I'm the youngest of three children, and my parents were very hands-off when it came to supervising what I watched.) I didn't need to understand them -- I had what I wanted in this film: the spectacle of Whitney Houston, at the peak of her fame, taking to the stage and issuing forth a voice unlike anything I'd heard before (or since).

Whitney & Whitman, Mother & Father (Part 2)

Biological parents are in most cases easy to locate, and once you've reached the age they were at when they had you (me, this year), then they're pretty easy to figure out. I'm not saying all the mysteries of life dissolve like the unveiling at the end of a "Scooby Doo" episode, but for once I feel like I can put my childhood behind me. There are plenty of other topics to obsess over, such as: Who are my real parents?
    By "real" of course, I mean spiritual, supernatural, artistic. And by parents I mean those two figures -- one male, one female -- that contribute equally to the genetic makeup of your innermost soul. As is the biological case, you can't choose your real parents. And they don't choose you. At some point, I believe, they choose each other, but it is not a carefully arranged courtship. It is a heated seduction. It is the sliding open of a door and a look. There eyes meet, and everything -- your birth, your life, your death -- is foretold.
    My real parents are Whitney Houston and Walt Whitman. Names are everything, and what's in a name matters as much as what that name names. I think it's significant that my parents' names share the letters "W-H-I-T" in that order, and that word spells "whit," meaning "a small amount." There is literally a small amount of Whitney Houston in Walt Whitman, and likewise there is a small amount of him in her. It's also meaningful that "whit" and "wit" are homonyms, the latter being fit to describe both my mental sharpness generally and my playful aptitude with words specifically.
    As their real child, I represent not only the manifestation of the "whit" my parents share but also what they don't. From Whitman I have inherited the right to be called a "man," despite my emotional kinship with so many women. My mother gave me "Houston," the major city nearest to where I was born, and where I currently live. I will not live in Houston for the rest of my life, but as the location of my first real apartment, real job, and real experiment with adulthood, it will always constitute a home the way other future habitations won't. The remaining letters from my parents' names, "N-E-Y" and "W-A-L-T," can be recombined in a number of ways to form significant milestones in my life so far -- "YALE" and "NY" are two -- and, I can imagine, symbols of adventures to come (maybe an "LA" or a "NEAL"?).

Whitney & Whitman, Mother & Father (Part 1)

In a world full of plurals -- men, jobs, bills, "Golden Girls" reruns -- it's not always easy to find singular truths, but one thing is at the moment certain: every person in the world has a mother and a father. Only one of each. I'm speaking in biological terms because I find it consoling, in a way, to think that we all share this basic trait -- we arise from the union of one person and another, whether that union occurs on a heart-shaped honeymoon bed, in a petri dish, or underneath the light of a candid moon. In January of 2006, as a freshman in college, I wrote this about my mother and father:

"She sees everything as either in or out of place. I want to say my mother is like a pin cushion. Fluffed and folded, she holds things in place to prevent them from being lost, to prevent the pain of misplacement. But then she is constantly on her feet, folding clothes, fluffing pillows. She straightens and cleans so that everything in front of her looks immaculate, looks intentionally placed, prepared, perfect.
    My father is the opposite. He’s natural. Better, he is made of earth. His skin is leathery, sun-tanned. His green eyes look like glowing swamp water shining through two holes in a bed of dirt. He is like an earth-god who cannot be controlled, or rather, chained, nailed down. He lets on that nothing is serious, that everything is an accident of some kind, but I can tell he knows something about the world. How old it is. How things stop mattering after a while."

    These are still my parents, although today I'd propose a theory about what catalyst enabled these two opposites to attract: laughter. "Tumultuous" fails miserably to describe the kind of relationship shared between my mother and father, who met when they were children, and yet "tumultuous" is also the best I can do. Separately they beat strange drums; together they  are a loud, screaming burst of laughter -- part gasp, part squeal, part music. At once a barbaric yawp and a voice so refined it sounds raw.