Pigeons bathing in a puddle in Fortune Street Park, London.
When I was a freshman at the University of Georgia, my roommate was a senior from Macon named Robert Pitts. We had absolutely nothing in common. I listened to R.E.M., the Indigo Girls and a new band called Pearl Jam. He listened to gospel music and Whitney Houston, of whom I heard more at the time than I have before or since.
She sang the national anthem at the Super Bowl that year, shortly after the start of the Gulf War, and blew the roof off. Not caring about sports, Robert didn’t watch, and I took too much pleasure in telling him about the amazing performance he’d missed. But he had his revenge a few weeks later when he bought the single; I heard it dozens and dozens and dozens of times until we parted at the end of the school year.
Living with Robert was one of the most important parts of my college education, and he and Whitney, who died today at 48, are forever linked in my mind. Robert, wherever you are, this one’s for you.
Shameless self-promotion for The Post’s new iPad app. I’ve heard quibbles about the use of the paper’s history to promote its future, but I think the ad is just endlessly entertaining.