The Anna Nicole Show

The Anna Nicole Show


I grew up in the Midwest. Back there, we called girls like Ms. Smith “cornfed.” Blond, big boned, and bitchy, these girls knew how to suck start a Case model H. No need for mammarian enhancement, she’s correctly proportioned for a 1950s stripper at a poultryman’s convention. And, like many of the girls floating around in the mid-’70s, Anna seems doped up enough to make it thorough an entire Peter Frampton concert without exhaling. Is this Bad TV? Well, Bad TV is an oxymoron, but The Anna Nicole Show IS a local minima in the complex plane of cable reality TV. No RC death robots, no people clawing for survival by eating tree crabs, just chubmiestress Anna be-bopping around LA with her purple haired assistant Kim. We meet her decorator, Bobby Trendy, who attempts (successfully) to sell Anna a chair as tall as most mid-’60s ranch homes. We are shocked to discover Anna hasn’t had sex in two years. We learn the names of her breasts. We watch her micro-dog Sugar Pie have sex with a stuffed animal. We observe Anna’s bra straps peeking out from her Wal-Mart polyester ultra-stretch top. We hear Anna grieve for her deceased sugar daddy, whose ashes were split in half for some obscure legal reason. We contemplate her hair roots. We notice that either her navel or her clitoris is pierced, but not it’s not clear which — the camera angle is bad. We sympathize with son Daniel, embarrassed by his mother’s mere existence. In short, we enter the demimonde of a woman, who, like Oscar Wilde, is primarily famous for being famous. While I’m pretty certain she has some sort of salable skill, acting, talking, and choosing a lawyer aren’t among them. Oh, wait! I almost forgot! She married a wealthy but really old guy and outlived him! Now THAT IS a day job!

While I can’t really recommend you watch this show, I really can’t recommend you not watch it either. All I can do is comment. Watching The Anna Nicole Show is an adult decision, like taking heroin or not wearing a condom. You can watch the show, and lose just a bit of self-respect. Or you can not watch it, and miss out on this week’s microburst of hype. While addiction is a definite risk, missing the whole joke is an even bigger threat. Anna isn’t particularly shallow or self-absorbed or unlovable, not by LA standards, but she IS on TV and you’re not. And I’ll bet you don’t have a whiny voice. Or $16 gazillion bucks hanging over your head. Or look like an Estonian female weightlifter in the 1968 Olympics. Heck, you’ve probably got a real job, and have to show up on time Monday morning. See? TV can broaden your horizons!

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