Pondering celebrity status and need for continued affirmation is a bit like oral surgery: regrettable, sadly necessary for some, and best practiced under anesthesia. True, while having my scrotum massaged is preferable to both oral surgeries (no, dad never did, mom never did, but I was sanctioned for the practice many times…) and celebrity navel gazing we’ve taken the watching of the watched who want to be watched watching the watcher to a bonefide psychosis. This brings me to Anna Nichole.
If you’ve ever been to Mexia, Texas you’d know why she got the hell out. Dreadful little town, for fun you drive to Corsicana. Oil left that region hundred years before, upward mobility is a management position in the dog food plant. So I watched he story, thought the dancer hits it big with the old zillionaire had a certain Texan charm to it, and found the reality show watchable until the pork roast was done. At least the old geezer was smiling when he was with her. And the blonde, busty, giggling sex bomb part? I’d drink her bathwater.
But there was always the guy in the background, the schmuck-gali. Didn’t say much, weird forced smile, way too quiet for the role. Any actor worth his salts could have turned it into a winner, befuddled follower, playing off the dim-bulb, picking up the pieces, smitten. But not ol’ Howie. We now know more know about Howie than we want.
And two people are dead.
Try this test: be present when two people, family members, under your influence, stewardship, if not downright care die of suspicious drug overdoses. And you are angling as a million dollar estate benefactor. Try that in any county in America and you would be in jail, a grand jury looking at you. Ol’ Howie’s pretty smart, deadly smart.
And then there’s Baby Daddy. What a couple of tools.
Hey “E”!
Hey “Inside Edition!”
Have you people any Soul? Any Soul at all?
Brian in Powder Springs
