When my Luddite uncle finally bought a cassette tape player back in 1985, Whitney Houston was the first tape he purchased.
Moving right along … it was while listening to “Saving All My Love” that I first really began to understand unrequited love and loss.
This isn’t about a post about memorializing celebrities, burnouts, and addicts. It isn’t even about fame and addiction. It notes the talent and beauty of one amazingly talented female musician, and her songs and videos that were so much a part of our growing up. We had our Depeche Mode, Madonna, Thomas Dolby, Wham! and all the pop and New Wave you can(not) handle, but we had Whitney Houston and it made all the difference.
Yet, it’s sad how some of the same folks who don’t care for Whitney Houston’s downward spiral and untimely death because they “don’t mourn junkies” consider a trip to Graceland a must-do. Elvis sank and died in a very similar fashion, you know.
So not making this stuff up. I was at my desk this morning basking in the warm glow of the giant dual screen setup seriously scrutinizing seismic data when the iPhone spontaneously started to play Al Johnson’s “Carnival Time.” Not only is the girl growing scarily self-aware, she has good timing and great taste in music.
Basil Tikoff and Steve Marshak, my graduate and undergraduate structural geology thesis advisors respectively, meet coincidentally at the famous Van Hise Rock in Baraboo, Wisconsin.
Van Hise Rock in the Baraboo Hills | Wisconsin | September 2008
It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? A trifecta of geology. Basalt, fossil coral, and iron staining of the fossil. Snorkeling off the Kona coast, I saw thousands upon thousands of live Milleporidae (fire coral) and Faviidae (brain coral) growing on basalt boulders washed out to sea. Often, I’d come up to clean my mask, put it back on, and then half-submerge it to visually straddle two worlds – Planet Of The Apes above and The Life Aquatic below the water line of the Hawaiian islands. Next time, bring a waterproof camera.
I found this piece of that underwater world on a Kona beach and decided to keep it. John G asked if I knew what I was doing; did I really want to incur the wrath of Pele by taking a piece of her off the Big Island? When I brought the rock back to Waikiki, John’s assistant freaked out as well and said I was welcome to mail it back to her if my luck started to sour. Some of you may have heard of the belief that taking rocks off the Hawaiian islands results in bad luck. It’s big on the islands, having taken deep root even in otherwise rational people. Scientists don’t believe in any of that pish-posh hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo, or at least we ought not to. And, moreover, I’m a geologist, one who understands and appreciates Pele and her rocks, and didn’t steal it from a national park, so I get a pass.
Then why the sinking feeling inside each time I consider this sample? For Pete’s Pele’s sake, I have bags of Hawaiian beach sand that didn’t bother the Hawaiians and don’t don chains of Christmas past and future and haunt me like this damned rock. What, Pele is possessive of her rocks, but not their constituent minerals? What kind of dumbass logic is that?
