Last night Whitney was, once again, on full display at the Grammys, her image dominating the big screen, her songs belted out by the next generation of divas.
A martyr to the cause, poor Whitney.
I'm sure there were many tweaks, tokes and toasts to Whitney at the Grammy after party.
And it won't end there.
She will sell a lot of magazines. She will buoy the ratings of Entertainment Tonight as its producers delight in running and re-running slow motion images of her in various states of intoxication.
Comparisons will be made to Amy Winehouse and Anna Nicole Smith. Michael Jackson.
Dr. Phil will weigh in.
Truth is, this is not a new story. The calf had been slaughtered long ago.
Whitney's career had died from neglect.
When was the last time you saw Whitney Houston sing?
Years. Troubled years.
And yet, last night, she was offered up as music's homecoming queen who had just gone out for smokes and came back dead.
Everyone cheered her and wished her well in her journey into the twilight.
But the bigger question is this: where were her friends when she needed them?
Off looking for the next new thing, evidently.
Drug and alcohol addiction are dangerous hosts, guilty of over-serving, long into the night. But addiction didn't kill Whitney Houston.