Amy Winehouse. Dear, dear, dear. My, my, my. Holy crap, crap, crap.

And what more can be said really? (Or snorted or swallowed or injected between the toes, for that matter?) I ask you.

As far as trajectories go—professional and/or personal—let us face facts: hers is pointed straight at the heart of hell and going faster than herpes through a seminary. Which has absolutely nothing to do with me personally, so shut up. Back to Amy Winehouse’s problems:

“Amy Winehouse has canceled all remaining live and promotional appearances for the remainder of the year on the instruction of her doctor. The rigors involved in touring and the intense emotional strain that Amy has been under in recent weeks have taken their toll. In the interests of her health and well-being, Amy has been ordered to take complete rest and deal with her health issues.”

Yes, she’s cancelled an entire tour, and that’s the official statement about it, and damn you all, that stuff about “stress” or whatever is TOTALLY, 100% true, with no shady embellishments or anything. She has a note. From her doctor. Doctor F. Eel Good. Lovely Swedish fellow. (You don’t know him.) But he’s the one to call. Dr. F. Eel Good. He’s the one that make ya feel all right. Ahem.

But what about poor Amy? What’s she saying? Well, what she’s saying is this, “”I can’t give it my all onstage without my Blake. I’m so sorry but I don’t want to do the shows half-heartedly; I love singing. My husband is everything to me and without him it’s just not the same.” Experts possibly agree that by “Blake” she means “heroin” and by “husband” she means “provider”. Which is probably a clever word game. Like “Pig Latin”, but with opiates and tenuous threads to Turkish prisons.  Which has absolutely nothing to do with me personally, either. So shut. Up.

Adrian Ryan

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