I've been thinking a lot about beautiful, tragic, Whitney Houston and the price she paid for success. In her youth, she was regal, poised and perfect; in her final days, she was a pathetic addict, stumbling around L.A., hair and clothes akimbo, ready for a rumble. Last night Whitney was, once again, on full display at the Grammys, her image dominating the big screen, her songs belted out by the next generation of divas. A martyr to the cause, poor Whitney. I'm sure there were many tweaks, tokes and toasts to Whitney at the Grammy after party. And it won't end there. She will sell a lot of magazines. She will buoy the ratings of Entertainment Tonight as its producers delight in running and re-running slow motion images of her in various states of intoxication. Comparisons will be made to Amy Winehouse and Anna Nicole Smith. Michael Jackson. Dr. Phil will weigh in. Truth is, this is not a new story. The calf had been slaughtered long ago. Whitney's caree...
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