Things That End With "itney"

Last weekend I watched the Oprah-Whitney interview.

Whitney: overdressed, overstyled, raspy. Measuring out her life story in even doses.

Oprah: fine, fat, fantastic. I prefer my Oprah with a bit of plump. She's more humble; less smug. More empathy. Less sympathy.

My favourite thing about Oprah, though, is how she can bring herself to the brink of emotional breakdown on cue. Her ability to well up is not just remarkable ... it's Meryl Streep remarkable.

Oprah knows when she should get that point, how to get there, how long to stay there, and how to bring herself back. And no matter how close she goes to the line, she never crosses it. Michael Hutchence should be so lucky.

Alternatively, it's possible that she just brings along a knife and a bag of onions: chopping vigorously off camera in key moments. Either way, she knows what she's doing. You'll never find Our Oprah swinging limply from a coat hook.

Back to the interview. Most of it was pretty boring. It was the usual schtick ... divorce fame highs lows career success control pressure motherhood blah blah blah.

It became more interesting when we got to Whitney's very candid and revealing drug stories. She has obviously done a great job of fucking up her voice -- and much her life -- through years of abuse.

This goes to show that you should never name a child anything which ends in "itney". That includes Shitney. Also Clitney.

Whitney recounted her years of freebasing and speedballing and blowing and snorting and snowballing and sprinkling and I was impressed by her accomplished use of drug street slang. But as the interview wore on, I became more and more unsettled by the interview. As I listened to her drug experiences I could feel the dull ache of my own. My drug past is nowhere near as extensive and destructive as Whitney's, but there were some similarities that I could relate to.

I'm not sure where this ache came from, but the more she talked the worse it got. I couldn't work it out. Guilt? It wasn't guilt. That wasn't it. Regret? No. It wasn't even remorse.

Then I realised. This was not an ache. This was a longing. This was envy.

By the time the interview was over I was so jealous of Whitney that I was squinting.