Odds and sods (i.e., oddities and sodomites)

Before the month gets away from me, I need to post, and yet I don't have the elasticity in my synapses to snap into place actual paragraphs, let alone stretch out my thoughts into anything that could be generously described as a theme or essay.

So, instead, I bring you random bits (odds and sods, as our friends the British would say) that occur to me before sleep, on the highway, in the shower, chatting with friends, or doing other things too delicate to mention in a "family blog" . . . .

* * *

First off, have I ever mentioned how much I hate the overuse of the word "family" in our current clime? What constitutes a family? Well, yes, we know the narrow phylum-genus-species that the American Family Values Junta uses to taxonimize a family for cultural armageddon purposes, and single me and my household of homosexual dustmites ain't it. But, golly, could you come up with a less inclusive-sounding term in this day and age, especially when the whole nuclear (or if you prefer, nuke-u-lar) unit has been up-ended and traditional families are, by all counts, the minority, not the majority? And even though I'm single and gay aren't I part of a family, too? I have a mother, a father, a sister, and two brothers, after all. Or was I derived via alchemy from two parts glitter, two parts Nutella hazelnut spread, and one part dry vermouth?

* * *

Speaking of vermouth, shaken as well as stirred, what follows is the transcript, more or less, of an actual conversation (edited for clarity and to fit this screen but certainly not for content) at lunch today between my friend No Rella and me--

Rap Licious: "What's that line from that James Bond movie, where one of the Bond girls refers to James as a 'cunning linguist'?" [Editor's note: Does anyone--especially my place of employment's human resources office--really need to think too much about why or how a reference to cunnilingus came up during a lunchtime discussion?]

No Rella: [Sarcastically] "Oh so clever! Doesn't the Bond girl do something with her tongue while saying it? Raps it around a flagpole or something?"

Rap Licious: "Probably! I wish they'd get a bit more radical with James Bond, though. Make him sound like a lager lout extra from EastEnders, 'Corr, darlin', I don't know nuffink about being a cunning linguist, but I do know that with a few beers--'"

No Rella: "Martinis!"

Rap Licious: "'Mahr-teen-ies in me, I'm brilliant at Gaelic!'"

"Gay lick"--Get it? We should really go on the road, No Rella and me.

Or maybe I mean the lam.

But for now I promise to steer clear of any untoward references to Goldfinger at work.

* * *

Speaking of close shaves, why did Britney Spears steal my hairstyle? I have so few options, and there she goes ruining the bald look for everyone.

Granted, it's one way to deal with split ends, and the look does show off her eyes more (specifically, her dilated pupils). But if the real reason she shaved her head is because Kevin Federline threatened to test her hair to see what drugs she was taking, what's to stop him from gathering hair samples from other parts of her body?

Oh wait. I saw those pictures of her desperate and panty-less with Paris Hilton. Never mind.

Except to say, Brits, if you have to shave your head as a preventative measure for rehab or to resolve child custody issues, really, your problems are perhaps a bit bigger than your 'do--or your sudden, self-induced need for a doo-rag.

* * *

Speaking of airing skidmarked laundry in public, are you beyond aggravated yet with all the celebrity news passing itself off as real news?

I tuned in to CBS's Morning Show the other day (the dumbest morning news program on American TV, this side of ABC's Good Morning, America), and the opening line from the newscast was--I kid you not--"Our top story this morning, the latest developments in the Anna Nicole Smith case . . . ."

And the latest development was that she was still dead. Very, very dead. Like John Brown before her, Anna Nicole's body lies a-mouldering in, uh, a morgue somewhere in South Florida.

Um, let's see if I can help you out here: We as a nation are involved in wars on two or three fronts at the moment, none of which we've handled expertly; there's global warming so rampant that I half-expect the government of Canada to start exporting dates to us in thanks for all the palm trees that have sprouted up along Lake Ontario; GM's about to go under or must be if they thinking selling part of themselves off to DaimlerChrysler represents a sound business decision; people are being murdered in Darfur for not being the "right" color or "right" religion; the Anglican Church is about to split wide open all because a bunch of ol' evening-gown-wearing, jewel-bedecked Catholic-lites in the African Sahel have more of a problem with homosexuality than they do with polygamy (it's all about how you play the game, I guess, and apparently a straight beats a pair of queens anyday); and the unequal distribution of income in this country must rival that of Batista-era Cuba.

Given all that to choose from and you go with Anna Nicole Smith as your top story?

Wow. This country is more decadent than I could have ever imagined or hoped for.

Life is a cabaret, ol' chum. And the setting for this version of Cabaret has been relocated from Weimar Germany to contemporary America. The role of Sally Bowles is now being played by David Gest instead of Liza with a Z. Starring in the role of Brian Roberts, formerly played by Michael York, fresh (?) from a long run on YouTube, we have Paris Hilton's g spot.

For an unlimited, unappetizing engagement.

* * *

Well, even bitter me can't resist following a trend.

What I keep wondering about in the Anna Nicole Smith case is the important stuff. Like how did an ol' piece of Shell No-Pest Strip like her attract two handsome-looking, reasonably intelligent-seeming guys like the cute and well-employed Howard K. Stern (a lawyer and a mensch, willing to accept her baby as his own when the chances that his sperm alone fertilized her egg are about as likely as my winning the PowerBall by playing a string of six 69s) and the dashing but much-too-highlighted-for-a-straight-man's-own-good Larry Birkhead, not to mention a Cecil B. Demented cast of thousands claiming to be her baby-daddy? All while I, reasonably charming and employed at something other than slurring my words and jiggling my knockers, remain dateless and undiscovered? There is no justice.

Is it just the $800 million inheritance that keeps the flies hanging 'round the kitchen door? Is it maybe the inheritance and the knockers, which seem to be repeatedly (and animatedly) featured in every video clip shown of the late Anna Nicole?

That's $400 million per knocker, by the way. Call me cynical, but if the term "fun bags" is bandied about by Howie or Larry, I'm thinking they're referring to the huge sacks carrying all that cash and not the physical effect brought about by overripe silicone implants.

* * *

Speaking of money, guns, and lawyers, this past Saturday I visited a new coffeehouse in the Harrisburg area. Instead of going to my usual, slightly funky Cornerstone Coffee in Camp Hill (great live music, if you're interested), I was trolling other parts of the West Shore in search of an Eastern European deli I'd heard rumors of, and in the process of trying to find some cheaper-than-normal weisswurst, I discovered this new place in a somewhat tony part of town (relatively speaking). The neighborhood brimmed with stately homes, three Volvos in every garage, and a rack of lamb in every pot. The clientele in the cafe was chiefly waif-like teen, mapping out a trip to Talbot's with Mom or comparing notes on potential colleges and their social scenes with their like-goaled friends.

The coffee and scones were tasty, especially on a blustery February afternoon. But what gives with the multiple issues of Guns magazine in the for-your-reading-pleasure racks?

Alongside of back issues of Time, Vanity Fair, and Susquehanna Life, Guns was an odd little somethin'-somethin' to page through while enjoying one's Mocha Chocha Latte Ya-Ya. Given the youthfulness of the clientele, I would have thought that the magazine selections might have leaned more toward Cutting Monthly or Sassy, Text Message Edition.

Regardless, leading a fairly caffeinated lifestyle myself and therefore understanding on a deep level coffee's potential for both good and evil, I'm not a big booster of the idea of people tanking up on high-test espresso beverages while thumbing through articles on the latest in designer holsters for concealed weaponry or advice on how to fell assailants in your home with body armor-piercing ammo.

But then I live on the West Shore where during the last election I was one of maybe 50 persons in my boro who voted Green (except for the races that counted, in which I voted Democratic).

Thus, I suspect rites of passage for some folks in these parts do indeed involve bulimia, a non-stop circuit of frat keggers and sorority rushes, and a nad-tazer with a hair trigger.

Ah, which brings us back to the discussion of American family values. So I guess maybe I had a theme after all.

Quand fait le "ass-kicking" commencez?

[Editor's note: For you all Franco-phonies out there, that's Babelfish-supplied French for "What time does the ass-kicking begin?"]

The manic has been top-shelved once again. We've moved on to the under-the-counter depressive, I fear.

Clearly, my mind mistook all that snow on the ground this past week for some sort of mega-harvest of Bolivian marching powder (legal disclaimer: an illicit substance that I must admit to never having encountered personally--all my friends are paupers with no let's-get-this-party-started sense about them, thank goodness--nor one that I would recommend). I was obviously half-crazed in my last post, acting out from some sort of two parts Red Bull/two parts espresso powder/two parts home-processed Sudafed "classic" fliegerschokolade psycho-emotional escalation (or, if you prefer, surge) in my brain chemistry. 'Cause it's the only explanation for my rhapsodizing about Central PA's recent snowfall.

Well, that's not entirely true. I do love snow. There's the beauty it creates in my already charming 19th-century neighborhood, the comforting downy white blanket it wraps the rolling hills and farms in, which I see on my drive to work, the invigorating crispness to the air, the satisfying scrunchiness to the ground I tread in my winter boots.

For a brief moment, I even had fantasies of making snow cream, a Southern winter favorite, at least in those regions of the South that allow for something as Yankeefied as snow. There are different recipes for this--my grandfather's, as I recall, was a simple plan of fresh, clean snow mixed with vanilla, whole milk, and sugar (yes, real sugar, none of that Splenda, Equal, Sweet-n-Low, or other self-loathing crap that some diet book would recommend). However, I recently learned of a recipe that involves adding eggs and cream (vegans need not apply), making a sort of custard before folding in the other ingredients. Mmmm, sounds yummy, other than the raw eggs = potential salmonella poisoning component, and brings back many good memories from childhood winters in North Carolina . . . .

But screw to tha En to tha O-stal-gie. All's well and good with the snow. It's the copulating-with-the-persons-who-give-us-life ice that's making me all Courtney Love in the head. Because this last week we really didn't have just a snowstorm in the Mid-Atlantic/Northeast U.S. We had a poo-poo platter snowstorm-sleetstorm-icestorm, which I believe is popularly abbreviated as "shitstorm" among the laboring classes. And clearly this tempest of merde has p.o.'ed me to a 20-below Fahrenheit windchill if I'm cursing in my blog, which I almost never do.

Yes, dear readers, in real life, it's a far different matter. And while I'd like to think that in real life I manage a certain panache and creativity with my cursing, I imagine that's a challenge to perceive when, say, you are an innocent passerby, watching a middle-aged man with the physique of an oil drum with arms, stuffed just so appealingly into his winter gear, standing in a parking lot cursing loudly and gesturing wildly because 1) he cannot find a decent, relatively ice-free parking space and needs to be at a meeting in 15 minutes, and 2) he decides he does not care about the potentiality of ice, reasons that it's just packed snow anyway, and will no doubt scrunch under the weight of his far more powerful automobile, 3) and slams into the space anyway, immediately realizing that ice is harder than white diamonds, and that the laws of internal combustion engines be damned, he's stuck on top of an ice boulder, wheels spinning, oil pan crying out in pain, axles threating to snap like his fragile, fragile state of well-being and balance.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid ice. Stupid running late as usual and in too much of a hurry. Stupid Rap Licious. The incident puts Monsieur Le Rap in the mood to do some or all of the following:

• Wreak havoc on the planet and buy the biggest mofo of an SUV unknown even to General Motors (Chevy Suburban? Please! I want a Chevy Economically Disadvantaged Inner City Neighborhood), one with a wheel clearance taller than the U.S.-Mexico border fence and the ability to burn gas with an MPG in negative integers
• Bitch slap anyone who looks at him funny, sad, happy, inebriated, serious, detached, gravely, fondly, or wryly
• Hire and fire and hire again at will, just because he can and because it will send the human resources office at his alleged place of employment into a paperwork perfect storm
• Bake and eat an entire pan of brownies, followed by an entire pan of blondies
• Oh hell, who he is kidding? He'd never make it past the baking stage and would just eat the batter straight from the bowl
• Punch Carol Burnett and Alan Alda in the face for making The Four Seasons
• Kick some ice
• Kick some ass

However, any kicking of ass events planned for this year's jeux olympiques d'hiver au Moyen Pennsylvanie will clearly feature the posterior of le head blogger.

We don't yet know the full extent of the damage of this self-induced idiocy--and perhaps, the gods smiled upon our petit tête de merde and decided to grant him and his oil pan a break (figuratively, not literally, speaking). But the event just seemed to solidify in the spinnng wheels of our Joe stupide's mind his belief in a killing, humorless, mocking karma.

A thin-lipped, bile-loving, could-try-harder karma that seemed to follow our anti-hero throughout the day and has done so throughout his life and, obviously, straight through his bottle of Prozac (legal disclaimer: a licit substance that I must admit having encountered personally--but one that I would, nonetheless, not recommend).

Still, it could always be worse. I could have been stuck on I-81 or I-78 somewhere between Fort Indiantown Gap and Ice Station Zebra, waiting for the roads and the bureaucracy of the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation to thaw, a hundred thousand truckers for companionship.

Well, on second thought, that scenario might have made for a more interesting ice day, imagining myself bundled up in a blanket with some burly, Quebec-or-bust bound, conducteur de camion, keeping me company on such a winter's day. Add in some Patsy Gallant on the stereo, a little vin chilling in a snow drift just outside the driver's side door, and a pot of fondue bubbling on the hotplate in the back of the cab, and, voilà! May I introduce you to Mr. and Mr. Beaujolais-Jones . . .

As an added benefit, the vehicle transporting the happy couple would easily clear any Everest-sized ice boulders obstructing the way home to Montreal.

[Editor's note: Perhaps I should stop listening to Radio Canada's Espace Musique when I'm home alone on winter days. It puts me in a better mood, but it does cause the mind to wander.]

The pitter-patter of little sleet

Finally, it's winter in Pennsylvania--I mean, real winter with snow and its natural consequences, skiing (sigh, maybe one day . . .) and, more realistically, snow shoveling.

I say snow, but what I really mean is Punxsutawney Phil's February friend, the dreaded "wintry mix" of snow, sleet, and freezing rain. And how would you like a little more snow on top of your snow? Oh and how about some high winds? And perhaps some closed highways? And then maybe some mixed messages from your employers about whether you should attempt to prove your commitment to the institution (you're committed alright, or at least you should be by now) by rattling your aging, all-wheel-drive Subaru with somewhat indifferent gas mileage and a general lack of aesthetic appeal over the slush and ruts of 30 miles of highway?

Actually, no real complaints here about winter or even about work. Any whining in evidence is just my usual, woebegone reflex to a situation that I perceive might not go the way I want it to. Said reaction comes down to being part of my personality or my psychosis, take your pick. Said reaction also comes down to the fact that I was banking on a snow day. And as luck would have it, I was able to cash in--I got the day off.

Despite the whiff of bitchin' in the air, I'm actually glad to have some snow on the ground and a chill in the air. Last winter was worse, not in terms of cold or snow, just in terms of dull, depressing monotony--leaden gray skies, chilly temps bringing the aches and pains of winter without any of the beauty of the season, and again with the blustery winds! What was I in the middle of, a polar remake of Hurricane? And me without my Mitangi to keep me warm and safe. Blech.

As I've noted before, I have come to appreciate winter since I went without it for so long. Snow and all that accompanies it is still a novel experience--I never really saw that much growing up in North Carolina and only a little more living in D.C. all those years. So it has come to pass that in just a few short years since moving back east, I've find myself looking forward to the season. It just doesn't seem right if there isn't some frozen precip on the ground and a few heavy snow warnings to stir things up. I like the primal struggle against the elements that winter provides--the butch routines of building fires, of shoveling snow, of maneuvering on icy roads, trying not to run off a slick spot and into a ditch.

But who am I kidding? I'm a gay man. What I really like about cold weather are the sweaters and accessories. Mind you, I could do without winter's bulky garments, but cashmere sweaters! Turtlenecks! Balaclavas! (Balaclava! Even the name sounds illicit! Somewhere on the continuum between nunchaku and profiteroles. Oh my!) Thus, winter offers up the perfect nexus of style-with-a-purpose and conspicuous consumption.

There are downsides to winter, of course--the pitter-patter (more like the terrible twos) of sleet on my bedroom window at 4 AM. The endless crawl of closings and delayed openings across the TV screen (apparently the owners of Flinchy's Diner, located somewhere in Cumberland County, felt the need to let everyone know they were closing at 3 PM today--Adam and Eve on a raft, frozen! Duly noted, Flinchy, duly noted--and excellent marketing, by the by, as now I am simply forced to look you up in the phone book and seek you out some Saturday morn'). And let's not forget, despite its butch street cred, the challenges of dislodging the layers of snow, sleet, and freezing rain from my deck, back stairs, and front door.

In the latter case, sometimes I got lucky with the shoveling, as evidenced in the photo above, and was able to break off great chunks of the stuff. At other times, well, let's just say I have a pretty nifty bobsled run off my back deck, down the stairs, and, when the door is open, right into my garage. Les jeux olympiques d'hiver au Moyen Pennsylvanie, as it were. With a little practice, I expect to medal in the flat-on-my-ass one-man luge competition.

Another downside for me is that I often feel SAD during the winter (seasonal affective disorder, or whatever, the winter blues, the winter blahs, the winter why-was-I-put-here-on-this-planet-to-endure-this-endless-inanity-known-as-modern-life?, the winter good-lord-could-you-be-more-full-of yourself?). But I've been trying little things to lift my spirits when the worst of it starts to creep into my system.

I get out of the house, if possible, and enjoy the sunshine, even if it is hovering around 20F with windchills in the negative numbers. I take a wine appreciation (more about that soon) or cooking class, then I cook or drink what I learn and eat it, too (not always recommended during the winter, but at least I'm well-fed and comforted). I rent movies or watch ones in my collection I've been meaning to for ages (series 1 and 2 of Little Britain, for example--anything funny, nothing depressing). I write (although, admittedly, inconsistently). I practice my newfound interests (and further proof of my middle-aged insanity) in origami and yoga. I plot my garden for the spring and watch the slow, steady progress of the container tulips I planted last fall, protected in my garage from the elements at least until mid-March.

And I try to find the beauty that is out there, as I hope these photos, taken from within and around my house earlier today, will illustrate.

I especially like the image of the two doves huddled together on a branch in the cold, which I shot from my dining room window this afternoon. Perfect for Valentine's Day, no?

To combat my SADness, I should note that I also try to find the humor in the season as well. The photo of the lovedoves, while in one view offering the promise of romance, represents more the perfect metaphor for my usual Valentine's Day, which more often than not finds me huddled up, out on a limb, in the cold, with some dumb pigeon, the two of us facing completely opposite directions from one another, and thus, with different, diametrically opposed perspectives on the world and life.

But even my subversive reaction to the dictatorship of Valentine's Day won't get me down today. We had snow! We had a snow day! I have a credit card with enough of a credit line to buy more sweaters online!

And when those realities fail to cheer me, I just keep reminding myself that spring--and allergy season--are just around the corner.

Naughty girls need love, too

Maybe, just maybe/
Naughty girls need love/
Too!

Samantha Fox, "Naughty Girls (Need Love Too)," 1988

I'm not sure I want to live in a world where I'll never again hear the phrase, "TrimSpa, baby!"

To be honest, I don't even really understand what TrimSpa is. Some sort of instant strumpet tablet, modeled after the concept of Fizzies? "Hey kids, try Floozies! Just drop into a glass of peroxide and stand back! With just one application, you'll be standing before the U.S. Supreme Court entertaining the justices with your overripe cleavage while arguing over your late husband's last will and testament!"

But now it's too late to even ask the question of that great orifice (ah, I mean, oracle) of trashy celebritydom herself.

Because Anna Nicole is dead. May she rest in peace. And may her piece take a much-needed . . . oh, never mind. Far be it from me to speak ill of the dead.

So . . . where shall we start?

* * *

It goes without saying that I find the whole National Week of Mourning over the early demise of Anna Nicole Smith (née Vickie Lynn Hogan and lately Vickie Lynn Marshall) a bit odd. Oh, to be sure, in our drunk-on-celebrity-effluvia culture, it shouldn't be too surprising that a modicum of attention has been paid to the early passing of that blonde, busty, famous-for-being-infamous Goldigger of 1993. But it's all gone a bit out of control, a bit above and beyond, so very OTT--oh so quickly and without the batting of even one false eyelash.

I knew we were in trouble when on Thursday night, 8 February 2007, the very evening that Anna Nicole's lifeless body was found in her room at the Hard Rock Hotel in Hollywood, Florida (a double whammy of celebrity trash-n-class, that is--if she'd only died while on the toilet as well), already MSNBC's Joe Scarborough was asking tough questions about the media coverage of Anna Nicole's death. Is it too much? Is it important enough an event to cover? What does it all mean?

If you have to ask . . .

Like a nymphomaniac who gets a job passing out towels at a sex club, however, the minds behind CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, et al., can hardly be trusted with a light touch or a reasonable approach to the latest trashfest. (Even when there's a perfectly good story about an astronaut driving halfway across the country bedecked in an adult diaper, all for the benefit of giving a mama-done-knocked-you-out to her rival for Spaceman Spiff's affections. Honestly. How could you not focus on that?)

Anywho, I come not to bury Anna Nicole, but in a weird sort of way, to praise her--even if it may seem like somewhat backhanded praise. But that's me.

Like the poor and red lipstick, I figured Anna Nicole Smith would be with us forever, so I was surprised to hear of her sudden death. There were so many loose ends to tie up in her life, or, more importantly, how would she next draw attention to herself?

Nonetheless, despite the ongoing saga of Anna Nicole's very public life, I follow the philosophical school that believes that public figures like Anna Nicole aren't really real, that in fact, they are figments of our collective consciousness. We as a culture, for whatever reason, need Anna Nicole Smith to exist, so we believe in her existence. We create her in our own minds. Anna Nicole = God. Too strong? Then perhaps Anna Nicole = Angel (of the "Honkytonk Angel" variety). Better still--Anna Nicole = Elvis on black velvet.

But now you're dead, Anna Nicole, and following the reasoning of my amateur belief system, that must mean we lost faith in you. But why? Was it something you said or did? That can't be it, Anna Nicole--you never said or did much of anything. It's hard to get too upset or offended by the unintelligible slurrings of a bleached-blonde Jessica Rabbit. "TrimSpa, bab--hunh, whut wuz ah sayin'?"

As far as I'm concerned, there's always room in the Church of Notorious Celebrity's hot tub/baptismal font for an icon of Anna Nicole's . . . uh, proportions. Thus, it makes no sense to me why Anna had to die. So young. So tragic. And so pneumatic. A blow-up doll come to life. A drag queen of Wagnerian dimensions. One part Mae West, one part Marilyn Monroe, one part drug-addled pole dancer.

Still, now that she's gone, who can we expect to replace her in our collective celebrity-worshipping consciousness? Certainly, we can't be expected to rely upon that scrawny, lazy-eyed Paris Hilton for the sort of trashy frolics and headline-grabbing antics that Anna Nicole provided us. And while Lindsay Lohan is certainly trashy enough and just as likely to show up drunk for work, Lindsay actually seems to take herself seriously, something I never thought Anna Nicole did, even as she was weeping crocodile tears over the death of her Texas billionaire husband on Entertainment Tonight. (But who am I to venture into the scariest place on early, Anna Nicole's mind, and determine her intents? Her father walked out on the family at an early age, so maybe she was attracted to J. Howard Marshall as a father figure? Or even a great-great-grandfather figure?)

Oh well, there's always Britney Spears. But note to Brits: You can only wear your vagina on the outside of your clothing so many times before America will become bored and disenchanted with you. You need to keep amping up the Gulf Coast crazy to make us notice you, darlin'. If you were to ask me for advice, Britney, I'd say it's about time you reunited with K-Fed just long enough for you both to travel to Burkina Faso to adopt a few Third World babies.

Anna Nicole, however, was no celebutard-wannabe, no blank amateur. She was the real thing--in as much as anyone whose major food groups are sillicone, peroxide, and spray-on tan can be real anything. She knew how to keep us guessing and gawking. She gave us tawdry marriages to men 63 years her senior! She gave us one of the first (and one of the weirdest and most entertaining) celebrity reality TV shows! She gave us fierce, interminable legal wranglings to rival those of Jarndyce v. Jarndyce in Bleak House! She gave us references on primetime television about her various itchy private body parts! Heck, she gave us a baby with one, no two! no three! no four! potential fathers--one of whom is Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband!

So much sturm und drang in such a short span of a life. Thus, I think I know the real reason Anna Nicole died: She just plum gave out.

I will miss that about you, Anna Nicole: Your sincere audacity, your outrageous honesty. Madonna faked it for years, trying to get us all to belief that she was some sort of Detroit raggamuffin-made-good, a beau sauvage of the pop world, when all the while she was just waiting to take up the life of a lord and lady in merry old Whatsit-upon-Thames. And take Paris Hilton--please! No matter how many home pornos you release of yourself on the internet, you're just a downwardly mobile poseur at heart, a bit of weekend rough, the sin forgotten as soon as the sun comes up on Sunday morning, and then it's time once again to have brunch with Mummy and Daddy Hilton in their little 33-room Hamptons bungalow.

But you, Anna Nicole, were the real thing--White Trash on a mission, a true Grit, scratchin' and clawin' your way out of the rotten potato patch and, with The Star and The Inquirer as your witness(es), everyone knew that, even with your yo-yo weight and oh-so-dubious talents, you'd never go hungry or nekkid again.

Unless the part called for it and the money was really, really good.

* * *

This is how I'll always remember Anna Nicole.

In my first job in Texas, in 1995 or so, I used to talk with this fellow new employee in the breakroom about various and sundry aspects of Texas craziness and culture. (Don't get me wrong, pardner, I love the Lone Star State, even miss it terribly every now and again. Nonetheless, you can't ignore the fact that people in the state "accidentally" run over their cheating spouses multiple times and try to bump off the mothers of their cheerleading daughter's rivals just for fun. It's the Texas mystique, y'all: Loco from the heat, wacko/Waco in the heart, until death or road rage do us part, forever 'n' ever, lord have mercy.) The colleague was sort of a native, in that she had been born in Texas, but her family was all from New York, so she fit in no better (and probably far worse) than I did.

One day we arrived at the topic of Anna Nicole Smith, probably prompted by the headlines emanating from Houston at that time and maybe an article in Texas Monthly (the state's seminal chronicler of Texas culture and personalities, not to mention the world's best magazine, imho) about the marriage of Anna Nicole to octogenarian lovegod J. Howard Marshall and the volcanic feud between père Marshall et fils Marshall over distribution of Pa's billion-dollar estate.

The colleague mentioned that she had once watched with her boyfriend the Anna Nicole Playmate of the Year (1993) video. Her favorite moment in the video was when a chesty, pre-TrimSpa-but-not-the-Anna-Nicole-Show Anna Nicole stood in front of the welcome sign to her hometown of Mexia, Texas. With bosoms front and center, Anna Nicole explained the nuances of pronunciation of her hometown's name as only she could.

"Y'all, it's not called MEX-ya. It's Muh-HEEEEEE-ya!"

When the colleague said this line, she swung her hips, heaved her chest, and belted out the name Mexia like she was calling hogs at Spiveys Corner. All in perfect imitation of Anna Nicole.

The colleague and I spent pretty much the next week going around our office belting out the same phrase. "It's not MEX-ya. It's Muh-HEEEEEE-ya!" [Editor's note: I've also heard it called "Muh-HAY-ya." Where the truth lies, I, a non-native Texan, cannot say.] Each of us swinging our hips and heaving our bosoms, especially when we got to the "HEEEEEE" part in Mexia. After a while, we just cut to the chase, yodeling only the "Muh-HEEEEEE-ya!" part, as if it were some Southern Plains war cry.

We did this every chance we got and, really, for no good reason other than it felt good, was entertainingly stupid fun, and, by our boisterousness and excessive calling of attention to ourselves, was irritating as hell to our fellow employees.

And that, dear readers, is what Anna Nicole Smith means to me.