My Lame Whitney Houston Story

In 1992, my life was between acts. I was between marriages, between jobs, teaching myself this whole new computer graphics thing that was changing the world. I was sad and depressed and things were still two or three years away from beginning to work out again.

I occasionally went to movies alone, mostly romantic comedies, for distraction.  In 1992, I went to see “The Body Guard” at the theater closest to my apartment. It was a two-screen movie house in the parking lot of a shopping strip on Midlothian Turnpike, not far from the channel 12 tower, far from upscale. That whole part of the highway was going downhill fast as businesses fled west.

I was not a fan of Whitney Houston. I sort of liked Kevin Costner, almost entirely for “Bull Durham.” I had never been to a mainly black movie theater before, and realized once I got in the lobby, that’s where I was.

The first thing I noticed was the food. Unlike other theaters, this one didn’t mind if you brought in your own food. The usher didn’t stop a single person. The theatergoers had bags of food, buckets of chicken, even coolers on wheels with food and beverages in them. There was even beer! They brought children and babies. The children ran loose through the theater throughout the movie, as if it was a McDonaldland play area. The babies cried.

The second thing I noticed was no one settled down in their seats once the movie began. Throughout the showing, people were up and walking around and talking. They talked to each other in loud voices. They talked to the screen. They ate meals. It was a regular picnic with just a movie incidentally playing in the background. I tried to follow the story, but there were so many distractions. This was a cultural difference for me. I don’t know if there are any theaters in town like this anymore. I haven’t experienced this since.

Where I go to movies, the only illegal food that gets in has to fit in a purse. People with babies and children are reported to the ushers for eviction unless it’s a children's movie. And talkers are stared down or get their seats kicked.

I remember nothing about “The Body Guard” plot now, and when I saw it on TV recently, it was all new to me. That's how distracting that theater was. It's not there anymore, and that part of town is still waiting to be rehabilitated.

Not the World's Biggest Breasts After All

As a child, I was fascinated by Marilyn Monroe, whose movies I saw on TV. In my child brain, I thought she was famous because she had the biggest breasts in the whole world, and that was an amazing thing. I was several years into adulthood before I realized that wasn’t the case. Many women had bigger breasts, even in the days before fake ones.

This realization really came home when I was just the right weight…for maybe a year. I had finally gained enough weight to have a chest, and my waist had not given up yet. When I measured myself, I discovered to my shock I had the same dimensions as Marilyn Monroe! Almost! (She had a smaller waist.) How come I didn’t look like her? How come I wasn’t a sex symbol now that made men giddy?

Because there was so much more to her than her measurements.

If you look at photos of Janet Leigh from the same era, she was just as big in the bosom as Marilyn, if not more, but she didn’t dress provocatively, and she had the face of a wholesome girl next door. She wore her hair shorter and straighter. From the neck up, she was a librarian. Where Marilyn sold it was her face, her hooded eyes that she knew just how to squint to appear post-orgasm; her generous, pouty smile that was sly and beguiling. Watch how she keeps flexing her lips, even when she's not talking. Her hair was short, too, but not too short. It was soft and tousled looking. Up until the last years of her life (from “The Misfits” on) when she adopted an unflattering, brittle, helmet bouffant, she looked fun to be with, someone who didn’t mind getting her hair messed up.

She and Jackie Kennedy shared the same breathy voice, but Marilyn had a sighing baby-like tease to hers, while Jackie’s was guarded as if she was trying to enunciate very carefully. You couldn’t imagine Jackie calling a man “Daddy.” Marilyn looked and acted like a woman who liked men and liked being with them. Jackie looked like she’d rather be sitting on a throne someplace…alone. Marilyn looked like she liked to laugh. Jackie did not.

So Marilyn was special, but not for breasts. They were just part of the package. In her last years – and you need to remember she had just turned 36 when she died – she was already looking worn out. Her girlish voluptuousness had faded away and the notorious nude photos she did for photographer Bert Stern at the end reveal an ordinary body, thin, with drooping breasts. Nothing magical there. Her too blonde, too straight hair isn’t helping the illusion. Only her eyes still deliver the sex appeal. Her eyes always had it.