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While sitting in my living room (slightly stoned and full of sushi) I decided to watch The Grammys. Last week's Grammys buzz was all about Adele, Bruno Mars, Chris Brown, Taylor Swift and all the other superstars that had been set to perform in between the nominations. Some of us were dying to hear Adele. Others were wondering if Jay-Z was going to let Blue Ivy accept any awards on his behalf. And anyone sane was hoping that Chris Brown would fall off stage, fly into a dangerous set design and paralyze himself from the dick down.

Then, Sunday happened. We all found out that Whitney Houston had been found dead in her Beverly Hilton hotel bathroom. The internet flooded with R.I.P. tweets and video links to "I Will Always Love You".

When The Grammys kicked off with its traditional red carpet meet-and-greet, every celebrity from Robyn to Ice-T was not talking about their designer outfits, but instead about Whitney and her unexpectedly tragic passing. As the awards began, L.L. Cool J said a prayer for Whitney and as the night rolled on tributes, video clips, speeches and prayers were all directed to the late singer who's mid-life crack addiction became more famous than her extensive vocal range. I imagined the Sunday night pre-Grammys scramble. Speeches had to be changed. Teleprompter messages had to be revised. Tributes had to be added to the already tightly organized event. It was Whitney's final "fuck you" to the whole music industry and all those who ridiculed her for her turbulent marriage, her crack addiction and even her noticeable weight gain when she sobered up. Whitney died the night before the most highly publicized music award ceremony in American history and the whole thing had to celebrate her. It had to honor her despite her. It was the perfect "fuck you" to everyone who had turned their back on Whitney when she got rough, when she got real, when she wasn't so perfect. R.I.P. Whitney.

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