I went to over to visit my new fake niece. Well the baby is real, but my relationship really isn’t since I’m not blood related or anything. But for all intents and purposes, I’m the big fat gay uncle Jimmy.
[By the way, that baby pictured above is not Niecey.]
For many years I’ve had a very cynical take on the childbirth mythology, that it was a beautiful a thing, a miracle even. Bullshit. I’ve compared it to looking like a murder scene, hours upon hours of pain that results in an exhausted mother and loud crying baby.
Anyhow it was nice to see Niecey even though she’s a shriveled red thing that just cries and sleeps. It was nice seeing mother doing well though battered by the 36 hours of labor. It was nice seeing father being a good husband. It was also nice that it stirred no paternal or maternal instinct in me. I didn’t want to touch Niecey, hold Niecey. Nothing like that. So that’s nice to know.
So with a new life on the planet, it makes it odd to realize that Whitney Houston is dead. Say what you want about her life and her art. But her voice was a treasure for this planet. I still get chills listening to her National Anthem sung at the Super Bowl in 1991 at the Sombrero in Tampa.
Okay, it’s her fault that we get singers trying to ham up the song. What people need to realize is that Whitney did it the best and no one will ever come close to it.
I just remember how revolutionary her rendition was. The song is in 3/4 time, but she added an extra beat to make it 4/4. Still gives me chills over 20 years later.