So yesterday I had to go up to the Bronx and I always get an earful on the 4 train. My favorite character was a guy asking for money with unmatched crutches who seemed to have been miraculously healed when a Beyonce look-alike got on at the Yankee Stadium stop.
To get her attention he started his soliloquy, louder and louder, rhythmic almost like a rap…and by 183rd St. he was going on about Anna Nicole Brown Simpson. That got me.
I have always been an Anna-Nicole fan. Not only is she the visual counterpart of a double-scoop home-grown peach-vanilla pure-cream deja-vu, but she’s southern and dumb and childlike and the ultimate version of 21st century innocence. The true Madonna. If Andy Warhol were alive he would have absolutely canonized her. This could be the closest thing we have to a Virgin Mary, and I am getting more and more sure that the whole paternity issue is getting so sticky, we may all discover it was an Immaculate Conception. Because our poor voluptuous Anna was so drugged and medicated out of her mind, I doubt she had any clue or memory of consummating any marriages. It’s a good thing nearly every staged moment of her poor recent life is on film, or she would have had absolutely no idea of what she’d done or with whom. Not to mention the fact that, like Mary, she had to witness the excruciating crucifixion of her son.
Or for the Old Testament fans among us, just imagine, like Isaac, Anna Nicole lounging in her voluptuous pink satin bed, and here enters Howard, her protector/lawyer who had been by her side, maybe ear-prompting her for years, hanging in there through thick and thin (literally), for the ultimate pot of gold at the end of the Anna Nicole rainbow. How did this sudden role- change come about? It’s not as if poor Howard wasn’t tempted before; I can imagine there was little modesty in her household…but somehow, he went from employee/father-figure to husband/lover. Okay, she apparently trusted the guy. But how about the other contender? What if he glued a little extra pelt of hair onto his arms, a little sandpaper on his cheeks, and slipped inside the luscious Anna who was moaning for Howard, or maybe it was that Bahamian bodyguard. Undoubtedly she was in her usual semi-comatose state and found it hard to distinguish between reality and reality-show.
So who gets the birthright—or, in our case, the baby with the billionaire bank-account? In the Bible, there was no trial. Of course, Jacob had to pay later on for duping his old father, even though it was his mother’s idea (most of the villains in the Old Testament are women), duped by his father-in-law with the unattractive Leah who he managed to impregnate nearly constantly, no doubt fantasizing about her fair sister, while he grew biblically older and maybe less passionate. But the birthright went through Jacob, no matter how unfair. And Esau, unlike Cain, didn’t take revenge on his brother. He was just hairy. No tabloid trial. People had lives then, things to do. And Jacob was smart. That used to count. But for that matter, so did goodness and virtue. In modern times, such things are neither insurable nor bankable.
While America waits on pins and needles for DNA results which may or may not paternalize the dark and hairy one or the blond guy, I choose to believe that the conception was immaculate; that Anna Nicole herself, had she lived, couldn’t have been
any more informative than the whole parade of clowns who made her death and funeral not just spectacle and sensational but disrespectful to the very fragile human body which does not age well post-mortem no matter how much botox and silicone has been injected.
Not to mention participating in the ultimate Great American Quiz Show. Do we want the verdict? Deal or No Deal, Howie? In the newest Gospel version of the story, not only the poor son was sacrificed, but his mother who, in the purest maternal fog, grieved herself to death and was subsequently crucified and humiliated by the media. Saint Anna. Warhol might have silkscreened her with a crown of diamond thorns.
And hey, has anyone suggested cutting the baby in half?