Goodbye Vicki Lynn: Candle in the Whirlwind
by Chloe Dinnerrolly (Feb. 10, 2007)
As they say in real estate, it’s all about location, location, location! And who’s to say the same rule doesn’t apply when it comes to the death of a celebrity? The first time I visited New York City, I took a picture of the floor outside the Dakota Hotel. Why do I have a picture of a slab of concrete?! Of course, it’s the symbolism of it all. This is no ordinary cement, it might as well be a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. And if I were ever to travel to L.A., outside the Viper Room is where I’m heading.
The deaths of John Lennon and River Phoenix were not predetermined, at least, not to them. These superstars knew how to die - and didn’t even need to kill themselves!- because it’s all about where it happens. That’s not something us normal human beings have control over. It’s called destiny, star quality, if you will. That little something that stars are born with (and apparently die with also).
Now, the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino? In Hollywood, Florida? Have you ever seen such a place? The city is the poor man’s Jersey Shore. The beaches are 50% seaweed, 25% urine, 20% HIV, and 5% lost Cuban rafters (“¡mierda, este no es Miami!”) Anna, Anna, Anna Nicole, you should’ve known better. Just a couple of miles south and you could’ve made a name for yourself somewhere classy, like The Delano on South Beach.
Dying is probably the worst career move Anna Nicole Smith has ever made. But it’s not surprising, since she’s always had trouble making good ones. How’s a corpse pumped with TrimSpa, silicone and various other chemicals going to inherit a dead husband’s millions? Why die when all this money is at stake?
From a feminist point of view, she allowed male dominance to override. Now her stepson's family is going to get what was already his and that is not girl power. Girl power does not include death --unless you’re Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, etc. etc.. (Really though, that is HER money, back off Pierce Marshall!! Oh wait, he’s dead too.)
In the fame game, sometimes dying is an automatic win -- if you had the talent. Take Anne Frank or Kurt Cobain; these people are LEGENDS and wouldn’t be considered so if they hadn’t died when and/or how they did. But what did Anna do? As a pre-teen she didn’t write quasi-philosophical diaries while hiding out as a Jew during the Holocaust or as an adult, launch an entirely new genre of music. She was a stripper from Texas turned billionaire wife-widow/Playboy Playmate/Guess model/reality show queen/diet-pill spokesperson. The classic rags to riches story, or g-strings to goldmines , rather.
Anna Nicole Smith was the sexiest widow of the 90’s (sorry, Courtney). My God, she was beautiful. The glam squad did their best at bleaching out her trailer trash roots. She was the icon for big booby girls (the BBG’s) everywhere, whether real or paid for. She milked those tatas for all they were worth. I wish I could do that. I mean, I have a killer rack but never once used it to my advantage. I’d probably be married to a 70-something millionaire by now, living in Malibu, walking around the poolside topless all day with a gold-paper-bag over my head.
Yet the 90’s soon turned into the 2000’s and amongst the magazine covers and court dates, Anna Nicole became America’s Screw-up (again, sorry Courtney.) We even based an entire reality show about it! Do you think anyone really cared about her and Kanye West making beauuuuuuuuuutiful duets? We just loved to watch and laugh.
Americans need that special someone in the limelight to criticize; the more tragic their lives are, the better we feel. Plus it saves us money on anti-depressant medication and all those trips to the therapist’s office?, please, Americans are as lazy as they come. (Cue video of fat people walking on beach boardwalks shot from the shoulders down. “America and Obesity: the Epidemic Continues” More like, “Fatties and Fannypacks: What’s the Deal?”) Who needs Prozac when you can sit in front of your TV with a case of beer watching Tonya Harding’s E! True Hollywood Story?
Anna Nicole Smith was a real person with real emotions, chemically subsided or not. Not everyone shines light on her accomplishments. As a single mother at the age of 26, she married a man that was 89 years old! Now they were married, so some sort of sexual activity is implied - whether once or 1000 - but once is enough. If that doesn’t show strength and determination, I don’t know what could. I applaud her.
Everyone’s concern now is over her five-month old daughter, Danniellynn. As if growing up without a mother and older brother isn’t already travesty, one of her two possible-daddies shares the same name with the [former] king of all media. School is definitely going to be a drag.
“Isn’t your dad that guy that gives away boob jobs to chicks that agree to have bologna get thrown at their ass over the radio?”
“No, my dad’s an attorney. Howard K! Stern. The K is not silent, you halfwit.”
When it comes to celebrity status, Anna Nicole was far from the A-list. She was more B minus/C plus, and I’m grading on a curve. Being that she didn’t commit suicide or wasn’t murdered by an obsessed fan, her celebrity death matches her celebrity status; ehhh…
But there have been much worse in Hollywood’s past. The worst kind of celebrity is the kind that dies in a hospital of some dumb medical condition like heart disease or kidney failure. Famous people should leave those kinds of things for the average working man with the $20,000 income. So thanks Anna, for giving us something to die for, like colon cancer
by Chloe Dinnerrolly (Feb. 10, 2007)
As they say in real estate, it’s all about location, location, location! And who’s to say the same rule doesn’t apply when it comes to the death of a celebrity? The first time I visited New York City, I took a picture of the floor outside the Dakota Hotel. Why do I have a picture of a slab of concrete?! Of course, it’s the symbolism of it all. This is no ordinary cement, it might as well be a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. And if I were ever to travel to L.A., outside the Viper Room is where I’m heading.
The deaths of John Lennon and River Phoenix were not predetermined, at least, not to them. These superstars knew how to die - and didn’t even need to kill themselves!- because it’s all about where it happens. That’s not something us normal human beings have control over. It’s called destiny, star quality, if you will. That little something that stars are born with (and apparently die with also).
Now, the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino? In Hollywood, Florida? Have you ever seen such a place? The city is the poor man’s Jersey Shore. The beaches are 50% seaweed, 25% urine, 20% HIV, and 5% lost Cuban rafters (“¡mierda, este no es Miami!”) Anna, Anna, Anna Nicole, you should’ve known better. Just a couple of miles south and you could’ve made a name for yourself somewhere classy, like The Delano on South Beach.
Dying is probably the worst career move Anna Nicole Smith has ever made. But it’s not surprising, since she’s always had trouble making good ones. How’s a corpse pumped with TrimSpa, silicone and various other chemicals going to inherit a dead husband’s millions? Why die when all this money is at stake?
From a feminist point of view, she allowed male dominance to override. Now her stepson's family is going to get what was already his and that is not girl power. Girl power does not include death --unless you’re Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, etc. etc.. (Really though, that is HER money, back off Pierce Marshall!! Oh wait, he’s dead too.)
In the fame game, sometimes dying is an automatic win -- if you had the talent. Take Anne Frank or Kurt Cobain; these people are LEGENDS and wouldn’t be considered so if they hadn’t died when and/or how they did. But what did Anna do? As a pre-teen she didn’t write quasi-philosophical diaries while hiding out as a Jew during the Holocaust or as an adult, launch an entirely new genre of music. She was a stripper from Texas turned billionaire wife-widow/Playboy Playmate/Guess model/reality show queen/diet-pill spokesperson. The classic rags to riches story, or g-strings to goldmines , rather.
Anna Nicole Smith was the sexiest widow of the 90’s (sorry, Courtney). My God, she was beautiful. The glam squad did their best at bleaching out her trailer trash roots. She was the icon for big booby girls (the BBG’s) everywhere, whether real or paid for. She milked those tatas for all they were worth. I wish I could do that. I mean, I have a killer rack but never once used it to my advantage. I’d probably be married to a 70-something millionaire by now, living in Malibu, walking around the poolside topless all day with a gold-paper-bag over my head.
Yet the 90’s soon turned into the 2000’s and amongst the magazine covers and court dates, Anna Nicole became America’s Screw-up (again, sorry Courtney.) We even based an entire reality show about it! Do you think anyone really cared about her and Kanye West making beauuuuuuuuuutiful duets? We just loved to watch and laugh.
Americans need that special someone in the limelight to criticize; the more tragic their lives are, the better we feel. Plus it saves us money on anti-depressant medication and all those trips to the therapist’s office?, please, Americans are as lazy as they come. (Cue video of fat people walking on beach boardwalks shot from the shoulders down. “America and Obesity: the Epidemic Continues” More like, “Fatties and Fannypacks: What’s the Deal?”) Who needs Prozac when you can sit in front of your TV with a case of beer watching Tonya Harding’s E! True Hollywood Story?
Anna Nicole Smith was a real person with real emotions, chemically subsided or not. Not everyone shines light on her accomplishments. As a single mother at the age of 26, she married a man that was 89 years old! Now they were married, so some sort of sexual activity is implied - whether once or 1000 - but once is enough. If that doesn’t show strength and determination, I don’t know what could. I applaud her.
Everyone’s concern now is over her five-month old daughter, Danniellynn. As if growing up without a mother and older brother isn’t already travesty, one of her two possible-daddies shares the same name with the [former] king of all media. School is definitely going to be a drag.
“Isn’t your dad that guy that gives away boob jobs to chicks that agree to have bologna get thrown at their ass over the radio?”
“No, my dad’s an attorney. Howard K! Stern. The K is not silent, you halfwit.”
When it comes to celebrity status, Anna Nicole was far from the A-list. She was more B minus/C plus, and I’m grading on a curve. Being that she didn’t commit suicide or wasn’t murdered by an obsessed fan, her celebrity death matches her celebrity status; ehhh…
But there have been much worse in Hollywood’s past. The worst kind of celebrity is the kind that dies in a hospital of some dumb medical condition like heart disease or kidney failure. Famous people should leave those kinds of things for the average working man with the $20,000 income. So thanks Anna, for giving us something to die for, like colon cancer
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