Monday, July 7, 2008

Amy Crackhouse and the folks at A&E

What the F*&k is wrong with this girl? Amy Winehouse, who was recently the hospital/rehab (again!), checked out after a few days and then performed in Rio with a glass of Chardonnay (and later, Cabernet) in hand. Today Britain's "Telegraph" reports that Amy has admitted to doing drugs while in a previous rehab stint. 

OK, I get the allure of drugs - you feel almighty and painless; the world is your oyster or whatever. But then you have to wake up the next day feeling like a cat has shit down your throat and shaking like Nicholas Cage in "Leaving Las Vegas". At some point, doesn't that become kind of a drag? I think it's time for Amy to have a little visit from the crew of one of my favorite shows: A&E's "Intervention".

I love everything about the show, from the fact that the addicts never have a clue that their family is gathered in a hospitality suite at the Fairfield Inn (for the record, if you're ever led by a camera crew to a hospitality suite at any limited service hotel, get ready for the family reunion of a lifetime) waiting to disarm them of their heroin or meth and send them down the road to a cruddy rehab center in Tallahassee, Florida - to the creepy Intervention specialists who never speak above a whisper, overseeing the entire process like Dr. Phil on Valium.

The fact that the show is shown on A&E (the "Arts and Entertainment" channel) also baffles me. Watching people shoot meth in a bathroom at a train station strikes me as neither artistic nor entertaining - although I must admit that watching a 45-year-old crack addict dancing naked in trailer full of clutter can be mildly entertaining.

Now, getting the A&E crew to follow Amy Winhouse around for a week would definitely be both Artistic and Entertaining. Between her renditions of "Rehab" and "Back in Black" we could catch a glimpse of poor Amy smoking a crack pipe behind the dumpster with Pete Doherty and one of his many feral cats. While she lay passed out in a pile of her own vomit, the camera crew could zoom in on one of her many classy "naked woman" tattoos or her elaborate mite-infested hair bouffant. At the end of it all, we would be led to a shabby hotel conference room where she would be confronted by her enabling music producer Mark Ronson, even more enabling husband Blake, and her n'er do well pop, Mitch (it's frightening that I knew his name without having to Google it). We'd sit back and watch as they'd try to make her go to Rehab and she'd say, "No, No, No."


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