Blurry, shaky cellphone snippet:

  James “JY” Young (Styx), my spiritual survival “guide”

(Yes, that’s me squealing) 

I was too sad/mad to write about Whitney the day she died. 

See, I have friends who knew her back when she was modeling.  And they told me that sweet young petticoated thing singin’ about wanting to dance with somebody had some pretty nasty “habits” loooooooong before Bobby B swept her off her feet and into the deep end for good. 

Some models and dancers do drugs to stay skinny.   I don’t know if that was how she got hooked or not.  But “how” doesn’t matter now.  And even if they don’t discover drugs in her system, it was drugs that dragged the “queen of the night” down off that stage and made it sooooo hard for her to battle back. 

A fight like that ravages the body, mind and soul.   And sometimes after years of abuse, you just don’t have enough strength left to win.  I know that.  I lost some much-loved celebrity friends that way.

But even knowing what I know about that life…I was still really, really angry at first.

And then true survivor Sir Paul sang his tribute t the very end of the Grammys…and the first line was so right for the night that I almost cried:

“Once there was a way…to get back homeward...”

And it reminded me of why I got out of the celebrity fast lane so many years ago, hoping I could get home again before I skidded out of control like so many of my famous friends.

I was lucky.  I had a choice.   Most celebs, especially the ones who really need to believe hype for personal reasons, don’t realize they need to have or create a home to go to ‘til it’s too late. 

It can be a metaphorical “home” you carry in your heart and soul.  But, swept up in the whirlwind of fame, you might just lose those ruby slippers and have to stay in Oz forever.

Bill Maher always talks about the “bubble” some rabid conservatives live in, where they can make up a fantasy about Obama or anyone else and never be challenged or questioned no matter how bat shit crazy that fantasy may be.

Celebrities are the original “bubble people.” Whitney was trapped in one.  As if to prove that, one of her best friends looked Piers Morgan in the eye the other night and said that because he’d never seen Whitney do drugs:  ”Whitney didn’t do drugs.”

I know he needed to cling to that, even now.   Especially now, perhaps.

But Whitney admitted to the media, after a long period of denial, that she was her own worst enemy, and that drugs ran a close second. 

Now…it’s true you cannot save an addict who doesn’t want to be saved.   It’s especially difficult to save a star who doesn’t want to be saved and has that bubble to hide in, surrounded by people whose sole purpose in life is making sure they’re not exiled from Bubbleland for pissing off The Star.

But I’ve also learned that making an addict angry can be very effective. 

They may cuss you out and tell you to mind your own damned business.   But sooner or later, usually after the Big Fall, it dawns on them that you had the courage to speak the truth and they may turn to you to help them do what must be done.  

You can only hope it’s sooner rather than later, and that they’re still sane enough to remember which of their long lost friends was the one who was more afraid of seeing them die than of staying in the bubble.

I always tell up and coming feature writers who will be dealing with celebrities, especially musicians, how the bubble is created, so that they will know what to do at every stage of the "game."

I knew lots of bands before they became icons.   And every single time, I saw the same pattern.

At first, I was one o’ the boys, and I could walk in and out of their rooms, backstage wherever I wanted with ease.  In fact, they were insulted if I didn’t "do the hang." 

It’s a heady time, when they’re full of hope and frustration that it’s taking so long.  And they need someone with a keen eye and ear to help them tweak things a bit—and to help carry equipment and wardrobe.

As the first sign of serious “buzz,” they hire a real publicist and/or manager to take over from the old friend, wife or other family member, and that real publicist calls you to hook you up for your ticket and pass, and lets you keep doing the hang if you’re a reporter for a major daily.  

Others start having to beg the new bodyguards for tickets and passes, and to show their credentials at the backstage door or may be blacklisted, period, if the publicist feels they can’t help the band move up a few more rungs.

When the “buzz” becomes serious bidness, the new manager hires newer and more serious bodyguards who may be directed to let you continue to have access.  But the band may change publicists and managers yet again—someone with real media savvy.  

If they haven’t already, they also get that professional road manager and crew.   From then on, they’re done hauling their own equipment for good, and probably travel either by plane or in a bus of their own, instead of with the crew. 

And when they have their first real bona fide hit, the road manager and bodyguards will be directed to be very, very picky about who gets backstage, etc.  

This is not necessarily for security's sake.  It is done because the new staff are often afraid that the old friends know the band ‘way better than they do, and might be a threat to their status.  So the band is usually unaware that this is happening, and may be truly saddened and perplexed by the “disappearance” of those early friends.

But the absence of those old friends will be neatly explained by the “bubble builders.”   The version those old friends eventually hear is almost always a fabricated tale of betrayal that makes the “bubble builders” look more loyal and loving than those old friends ever could be. 

And the stars that fall for those stories soon find themselves surrounded by sycophants who see, hear and speak no evil, ever.  Until the star dies or begins to fade.  At which time those sycophants will speak all manner of evil to anyone with a mic, camera or notepad.

In the final stage of the process, when the band has reached “superstar” status, no matter who you are, you may or may not get the “All Access” pass, depending on how many movie stars, supermodels, reality show stars, debutantes, billionaires and ballers are also trying to hang with the band. 

Often, the band members have started to marry “up” into the aforementioned celebrity circles--and that’s the real kiss of death.  Once they’ve got their famous or notorious trophy wives/husbands  in tow…they’ve got double bubbles.   Reality doesn’t stand a chance.

I got in no matter what—you didn’t mess with the Chicago Sun Times.  But “hang” time became more strictly scheduled, and I didn’t like some of the company I had to keep while waiting for the boyz to come sweep me away for some real fun on the town, or that heart-to-heart, “How are we really doing?” talk that the real musicians never failed to request.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

The healthiest of my bands of brothers either never left the old neighborhood or moved back to it, or created a new one far from the madding crowds. The Who’s front man Roger Daltrey once told me that it was easy for him to leave the bubble behind because as soon as he got home he usually stepped in a steaming pile of horse manure getting out of the car. 

And when he went "up the pub" later, to catch up on the local goings on with his local mates, they sometimes made him feel like a steaming pile of horse manure, "taking the piss" at him for his tour perfect locks and things they'd read about in the tabloids, too.

And he loved them for it.

But the best example of a “bubble buster” I’ve ever met is my dear, dear “brother from another mother” James “JY” Young of Styx.

We grew up in adjacent neighborhoods on the Chicago's Southside.   I wasn’t a fan of the band at first.   But even at the height of his fame, when the band was making the critics fume by selling out huge stadiums and collecting platinum albums one after the other, JY was--and still is--a working class hero to me. 

That “ax” he wields with such power and prowess is his hard hat. And his Midwestern values have never wavered—he had help with that.  Like most of the band members, he married before or just after Styx "clicked."  And the wives very often traveled with them.  You don’t trash a lot of rooms when the wives are along for the ride.  Or…Styx didn’t, anyway.

So they didn’t have a bubble.   They’re more like…a family business.  In fact, back in the day, and I’m sure it’s the same now, crew members got benefits and salaries even when Styx wasn’t on the road.  So they don’t have to look around for work to make ends meet between tours.

To make all that happen, Styx will probably tour ‘til they just can’t crawl onstage anymore.  And it really is mostly to keep The Business going, though they’re still crazy about their fans old and new--there still are lots of sweet young things dressed up for their favorite Styx man. 

They still get stoked playing the songs those fans have been coming to hear for more than 40 years, too.  They understand their fans better than many, and feel no guilt about giving them exactly what they want. And I like them now--they're not the "Lady, when I'm with you I'm smiling" Styx anymore.

This Styx kicks ass.  With Modern Drummer's best drummer of 2009, Todd Sucherman, bringin' the thunder.

But they’ve pretty much gotten over being treated and behaving like rock stars offstage. Consequently, after the “meet and greet” some fans pay big bucks for, there’s just a few other old friends and family members.   And if I'm there, “Uncle” JY loves to find a quiet place to offer my daughter valuable advice about life, love and the pursuit of a career that doesn’t feel like a job. 

My daughter and "Uncle" JY 

So we have come full circle, JY and I.  Once it was me he tutored.  I learned about the bubble and how to avoid being sucked into it from him, back when I was a 'way too young thing getting started as a rock critic.  And whenever I was in danger of getting into a “compromising” position, I’d think not “What would JY do?” but “What would JY think?”

The rock and roll grapevine is treacherous.  And I never wanted him to lose faith in me.   He was my touchstone. 

We lost track of each other when I quit the Sun Times to move West.   And when we found each other again a few years ago, we ran into each other’s arms, bear hugged...and started  right where we’d left off.   

When I take friends on a road trip to see the band somewhere, it tickles the daylights out of them when he calls and texts me every hour or so to make sure I haven’t taken a wrong turn somewhere.

When I drove to New Mexico to see him for the first time in decades, he held up the show, texting to see if I’d gotten my tickets and passes and found my seat—and where, exactly, my seat was. 

And when I became so seriously ill not long ago, he stayed in constant contact, offering very sound and practical advice culled from the medical research he’d done for wife Suzie, who had a catastrophic brain hemorrhage a few years ago.

Am I spoiled?   Well…yes and no.   If I ever began to act spoiled, JY would be the first to say so, with that acerbic wit at first, perhaps.  But more bluntly, to be sure, if I continued to disappoint him.

Somehow, despite all the heartfelt and soul stirring tributes I saw this weekend at her home going ceremony, I felt as if Whitney hadn’t had a JY to run to.  Or to talk to.  Or to text her every hour on the hour trying to guide her safely “home.”

And then, moved to tears by the joyful noise of the choir and all those wonderful, talented, loving people who spoke of her with such passion…I thought that perhaps she’s had lots of JYs, but ducked inside the bubble whenever they tried to speak the truth.

Or maybe by the time she truly wanted to hear that truth in preparation for that one last trip up the ladder of success…her body could no longer stand the strain. 

I only know that when Sir Paul sang, “Sleep little darlin’, do not cry, “ I cried. 

And realized I had no right to be mad.   Or to judge her.  Or her friends and family.  Lest I be judged for not being able to save the friends I lost even as I held on for dear life and risked my place in the pecking order to say and do what no one else would.

I just hope Whitney’s sleeping peacefully now.   Freed from the bubble at last.

And...thanks brother JY, for...well...everything.

Sir Paul with some of my other Chicago “brothers,” Cheap Trick: