Last night, while doing work, I had Oprah’s 2009 interview with Whitney Houston on as background noise. This is it, in case you’re curious …

The 45-minute chat drove me crazy for 8,000 different reasons. No. 1 on the list, however, is the utter bypassing of a wonderous opportunity. Oprah had a truly fascinating, truly riveting, truly (to be polite) unstable woman sitting before her … and she whiffed. Big time. She asked puff questions diguised as good questions, and never followed up with important details. For example, Whitney discusses how she and Bobby Brown used tons upon tons of drugs after their daughter was born. Then … nothing. Like, for example, “So how did you parent?” or “Didn’t you feel incredibly guilty?” or “So, it sounds like you placed getting high above caring for your child. Is that fair?” She never asked about Houston’s fading voice; about why would a singer smoke two or three packs a day, every day.

Worst of all, Oprah basically guided Whitney into saying what she wanted her to say. Oprah explained to Whitney how surely she (Whitney), never liked dressing up all fancy. Whitney agreed—while being dressed up all fancy.

Arg! Not sure what this irks me, three years later, but it does.

OK, back to work.

PS: Please, GOP, make Rick Santorum your nominee. Pleeeaaasssseee …

I often hate myself.

Not in any real self-loathing, on-the-verge-of-suicide sort of way. No, I just find myself annoying. And irksome. And overbearing. And, without question, too negative (Dammit, stop nodding along with this list). I don’t like the way I avoid cheek kisses from my parents’ friends. I don’t like the way I always think I have some fatal disease. I don’t like the way I often think of Republicans (well, the really conservative ones) as dumb.

Mostly, I don’t like myself in the middle seat on an airplane.

Today, for example, I sat in the middle seat. On the right, my beautiful little daughter. On the right, a man who made horrible, horrible noises. When he slept, he snored. When he read, he burped and snorted and grunted. When he slept and when he read, he made this awful sound with his lips—sort of a saliva-influenced puckering. Man, do I l-o-a-t-h-e that sound.

So here’s what happens: Because the man makes these noises, and because he stole my arm wrest (which, via unwritten law, belongs to the middle occupant), I hate him. I detest him. I sit there, seething, wishing bad things upon him. Not bad things like, say, death. But bad things like a wedgie, or hair loss, or a missed taxi. Which isn’t cool. Because we all make noises. And snore. And grab that arm wrest.

Which is why I hate myself on airplanes.

Because I’m irrational.

My son turned 5 last October. To mark the occasion I bought the sort of toy he seems to love—Marble Mania Twin Turbo Track 3!

Sure, the thing cost $50 at Costco. But, again, it’s exactly the sort of toy Boy digs. A winding path, marbles, intricate and detailed thinking, bright colors. Hence, I plunked down the dough, brought the big box home, wrapped it and smiled as he wailed, “Coooool!” upon seeing it for the first time.

And the good times pretty much ended there.

First, it took my father and law and my wife approximately six hours to put Marble Mania Together. By the time it was ready, Boy was thrilled. And, indeed, that thrill lasted—for about an hour. Then pieces started falling off. And falling apart. The marbles would reach certain points and cease to roll. Literally, they’d stop in their tracks. Gradually, Boy began ignoring the toy. Too many tilted pieces, too many popped joints. It quickly became an albatross around the neck of our play room. The wife hated looking at it. I hated looking at it. It could have been fixed, but only to a certain degree. It was, simply put, a shit toy.

Well, today I threw it out.

This pains me. That’s $50 in a trash can. That’s a toy I thought my son would love. But, like old T-shirts and faded boyhood trophies and the like, there comes a time when one must let go of possessions.

It just doesn’t tend to happen four months after purchase …

PS: Yes, I spelled “losses” as “loses.” Oy.

Before we all officially move past Whitney Houston, I beg of you to click here. It’s a link to Houston’s isolated vocal track from the “How Will I Know” recording session—and it’s friggin’ off-the-hook insane.

Seriously, tell me it’s not awe-inspiring.

I’m still sad about this one. She was my first crush. She was one of my all-time favorite singers. She represents a simple, beautiful time in my life. She was, to me, gorgeous and energetic and vibrant.

I know … I know—it was a mirage. But, to me, that matters not.

Sigh.

In the minutes before I wrote this, two things happened:

A. I watched Whitney Houston’s funeral.

B. I learned of the death of Danielle Thurston.

Houston’s funeral is being broadcast everywhere. News channels, entertainment channels, the Internet. Predictably, it’s a Who’s Who of famous people, from Clive Davis and TD Jakes to Stevie Wonder and Kevin Costner. The church is packed, the outfits are expensive, the message is that God has a plan for Whitney, and that—as we speak—she’s with him, singing atop a cloud.

Danielle Thurston and I attended Mahopac High School together (Her last name was Ramundo). We were both born in 1972, both survivors of the mean streets. Danielle went on to Westchester Community College, then worked as an estimator at State Farm. In recent years she lived in Clinton Corners, N.Y. with her husband John, and their two sons. Her life ended after a three-year battle with cancer.

I wasn’t close with Danielle, but I do know this. She didn’t sing as well as Whitney Houston. Probably didn’t dance as well, either. She couldn’t hit a baseball as hard as Gary Carter once did; didn’t develop the iPod, a la Steve Jobs. She lacked Etta James’ resume. Her life, however, was no less valuable or noteworthy or momentus. We, as a culture, gravitate toward fame, and bolster it with undeserved meaning and importance. We tend to forget that, come day’s end, it is a flawed measure; that it’s the so-called “little people”—we of the anonymous sect who make small differences (without drawing attention to ourselves) in our families and our communities—who allow the world continue to spin. By all accounts, Danielle was a magnificent mother and wife; a friend you’d want to have; a person of character and compassion. I would take those qualities over a No. 1 album or Gold Glove any day of the week.

One of Danielle’s friends, Angela Amato, wrote something on her Facebook wall that, I believe, speaks volumes: “My mom said it best in her post; to Danielle cancer was not a death sentence, for her it was a life sentence—she didn’t let the cancer control her, she remained in control the entire time. In the three years since her diagnosis she has beaten odds; created memories with her children; showed all of us the real meaning of courage and fight; she inspired people who never met her and gave a whole new meaning to the word strong. A good friend told me God would not let us suffer more than we can handle. Danielle was tougher than nails and to me she didn’t lose her battle with cancer—God simply wouldn’t let her suffer her any longer. She won and for that I am very proud of her.”

You know how everything can be going well, life is swimming along, you’re happy and cool and chillin’ and planning and then—lights.

You’re pulled over by the cops.

That’s what happened to me a few minutes ago. I was ticketed for going 49 in a 30. Even worse, I was pulled over in, literally, the exact same spot a month ago. That time, the officer let me off with a seatbelt violation—no points. This time, I wasn’t so lucky.

I know … I know—how does one get two tickets for the same violation in the same spot? I’m not sure. All I can say if I’ve been driving this stinkin’ road for almost a decade, without ever getting pulled over. It’s long and straight, and while the speed limit is 30, I whispers out, “Drive me 50 … I can handle it.”

I’ve had tickets before, and 99% of the time the officer is pleasant and accomodating. Today, the guy was anything but. He was gruff and ordery, and as he wrote up my ticket I smelled cigarette smoke. I peered at my rearview window and saw him writing the ticket while taking a puff. When he returned, I couldn’t fully help myself. As he walked away from the car, I said, “Police officers are allowed to smoke?”

He said, “Yeah.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s surprising.”

He wasn’t pleased. “What does that have to do with you speeding?” he said.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just curious.”

Admittedly, my comments were dumb. I was just irked.

And I still am.

Two of my all-time favorite entertainers died within the past few days, and I’m struggling with the sadness.

Whitney Houston was probably my favorite singer as a kid.

Gary Carter was one of my favorite ballplayers as a kid.

Whitney Houston’s albums played over and over and over in my house.

Gary Carter’s statistics—especially with the 1986 Mets—remained glued inside my brain.

Here’s the weird thing: Even though Houston died last weekend, and Carter passed just yesterday, I am more disturbed by the loss of the singer than the ballplayer. I’ve thought about this, and I think it relates directly to lost potential. Carter was a brilliant athlete, and he milked everything out of that ability. He played hard, he played enthusiastically, he won a World Series title. When Carter retired, it was—without any remote question—time to retire. The tank was empty, and had been for a few years.

Houston, on the other hand, didn’t empty the tank via her abilities. No, she drank the gas. She apparently smoked packs upon packs of cigarettes, and her drug usage is now well-documented. And that’s why I’m sad. Because while watching Carter in his final season with Montreal could have probably been a tad depressing to some, it wasn’t—at all—to me. It was a celebration of a career; of a man; of a life. When he waved to the Olympic Stadium crowd that final time, well, a hero’s farewell could not have been better scripted.

With Houston, there was no hero’s farewell. In her final years, she looked tired and worn down; her voice a pathetic shell of what it once was. Though Elvis Presley was a few years younger when he died (42; Houston was 48), their final showings were strikinglu similar. People mocked the once-great King as he wobbled around the stage in an XXL white jumpsuit. People also mocked the once-great diva as she screeched out lyrics and desperately covered up the notes she could no longer hit. It was sad and sort of pathetic, and to watch those videos now is downright painful.

Gary Carter was, I would argue, the better person. Less selfish, less arrogant and probably—comparatively—less talented. But at least he got everything done.

He emptied the tank.

From today’s Wall Street Journal.

We all have strengths and we all have weaknesses.

I happen to be able to flip 40 quarters off of my elbow, then catch them in the palm of my hand.

On the down side, I shit blood.

Maybe this qualifies as TMI (Too Much Information), but, well, I’m OK with that. Hell, I’ve blogged about pooping red before, so much so that it even appears on my Wikipedia page (not by choice, but I’m too lazy—and amused—to change it). Why this morning, while teaching my journalism class at Manhattanville College, I explained how, yesterday, I had an exciting, wonderful, amazing colonoscopy.

Which is the official segway to today’s blog post—my colonoscopy.

Because I’ve been shitting blood for three months, and because shitting blood isn’t so normal, and because staring down at your bloody shit sucks, and because every WebMD knockoff equates “blood in stools” with “colon cancer,” I finally decided to undergo a colonoscopy and put an end to my worry—or confirm my worst fears. I arrived at the hospital at 8:30 am, fresh off of a hellish 38-hour stretch where all I could eat was Jell-O, chicken broth and chunks of ice. I was greeted by a nurse who clearly doesn’t care for the black people of America, or Bobby Brown. Or brushing her teeth. I was gifted with an embarrassing robe and an even more embarrassing beige pair of slipper-socks, then rolled into an adjacent room, where another nurse talked for 50 minutes about her new boyfriend, who proposed to her last week, but who she doesn’t want to marry, but who has a nice apartment in the city, but who is much quieter than her old husband. It was an oddly personal exchange, but one that kept me distracted.

After about an hour of hearing about the boyfriend, I was greeted by the doctor who would proceed, with great care and dexterity, to shove an object far up my ass toward my colon. A woman walked in, asked me about Jeremy Lin, then wrapped a tube to my nose. “You might feel some burning …” she said. “Nah,” I said. “Actually …. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

I woke up 45 minutes later. Nothing hurt. “You have inflamation,” the doctor told me.

I breathed a sigh of relief and changed back into my T-shirt and jeans. With that, an old man, probably 5-foot-4 and 120-pounds, came to wheel me away. I was forced to sit in the wheelchair, which may well have been the most humiliating four minutes of my life.

Upon returning home, I entered the front door, picked up the mail and checked phone messages. Then I went to the bathroom.

And pooped blood.

This is going to sound sorta dumb, but I don’t believe Gene Simmons is Gene Simmons.

What I mean is, I love the masked Gene Simmons and loathe the human Gene Simmons. The masked Gene Simmons is cool and intimidating and threatening and invigorating. The human Gene Simmons is a dorky old man with bad hair and an iffy wardrobe. He’s as cool as a beige coffee table; as threatening as a leaf.

Hence, I don’t believe they’re one and the same.

I’m actually being sorta serious. In the back of my brain, there’s a neuron that insists Gene Simmons, the demon, lives in a far-off cave, breathing fire and eating raw meat and plotting his next destruction. He is the Gene Simmons of the Destroyer album cover—a bad-ass motherf***er.

Which leads me to Whitney Houston …

Over the past couple of days I’ve watched a lot of videos of Whitney from the 1980s and Whitney from the 2000s. I have decided, once again, that they cannot be one and the same. The Whitney Houston of the 1980s was sweet and demure and angelic. She sang beautifully, and talked and walked with a Hepburn-esque grace. This is her …

Hence, a la Gene Simmons, I am once again refusing to believe that both Whitney Houstons are the Whitney Houston. Somewhere, perhaps by a Florida pool or walking along the boardwalks of Manhattan Beach, the Whitney Houston of 1985 is relaxing, speaking softly, sipping an orange juice and working on some new songs. She is forever young and pretty and optimistic. There is no Bobby Brown. No cocaine. No “crack is wack.” She’s on time for every interview. She respects her fans. She doesn’t smoke. Or drink. Or talk like a diva. She’s young. Alive. Hopeful.

Alas, I know the truth. And it hurts. To watch Whitney Houston’s decline over the past, oh, 15 years (and to now relive it in her death) was absolutely painful. She became something ugly and uncomfortable; she became someone you didn’t want to know. She lost her gift—her voice.

Perhaps that’s who she always was. Perhaps the early Whitney was merely an act.

I, however, refuse to believe that.

To me, she’s still alive. Somewhere.