I'm worried about little Amy.
I'm not a huge fan of her music, but I liked Rehab and her whole downtown, big hair, hard partying girl schtick. She's the antithesis of the fake-squeaky clean, "I'll pretend to be a virgin," blonde plastic Barbie Hollywood crams down our throats everyday.
But that was when I thought she knew what her limits, however stratospheric, were. Clearly, she does not. Way she's going, she's gonna wake up dead one day, as a grizzled old west Texas cowboy I used to know put it.
Girlfriend, fresh from a collapse and a grim diagnosis, just spoiled her reemergence by cold cocking a fan during a concert. Now, it's every woman's right—nay, her duty—to slap the crap out of any man who gropes her, but given the increasing likelihood that record companies may rethink their investment in what may be a very short career, Winehouse might oughta have let those enormous bouncers flanking her flatten the twerp. Amy, Amy, Amy—what are you doing?
But here's what I also dread: That bad-ass Amy Winehouse will get straight...and then go straight.