Anna Nicole Smith

The death of Anna Nicole Smith on Thursday at the age of 39 has given us all a chance to examine the morbid curiosity we have for celebrity, in particular those celebrities, like Smith, who have come to seemingly only exist for use by tabloid journalism. Smith had no discernible talent, and her life was a roller coaster of outlandish proportions, feeding the beast of the gossip subculture and the secret need for all of us to tsk-tsk the likes of her while at the same time consuming news of her trashy exploits with an unabated zeal. "Train wreck" are the words used most often to describe her life, even the title of an upcoming biography of her by a half-sister who hasn't seen her for ten years, and it is probably apt, as Smith's life and a locomotive disaster have qualities that resist turning away from, no matter how gruesome.

Of course I didn't know Smith, but I knew some like her during my tenure at Penthouse. Women who from their early years had nothing to speak of except their looks, women who were frequently teen brides and/or mothers, and were emotionally unequipped to handle any kind of success that came their way. Smith, though, reached giddy extremes that no Penthouse Pet could have imagined. A Playboy Playmate (and then Playmate of the Year), a model for Guess? clothing, and then the bride of an 89-year-old billionaire, who subsequently died, leaving her in a perpetual squabble for his fortune that went all the way to the United States Supreme Court. Along the way Smith, or her handlers, for it is uncertain how much control of her life she ever had, given the evidence of her near constant sedation, turned her stormy circumstances into a joke. This culminated in a two-year stint with a reality show chronicling the general insanity of her life.

The last act of Smith's life was undeniably tragic, as the son from her teenage first marriage, Daniel, whom she appeared to be exceptionally close to, died just three days after the birth of her second child, a daughter. Daniel died of a drug overdose right in her hospital room, and she was so drugged that his death didn't immediately take hold with her, so she had to be retold the news every time she awoke, giving her several opportunities to experience the grief all over again. Her daughter Dannielynn, now five months old, is without a mother, and will be the object of a predictable series of court cases, as her paternity is questioned. If this thing couldn't get any more surreal, the husband of Zsa Zsa Gabor, who was sort of the Anna Nicole Smith of her day, has thrown his DNA in the ring and claims to be the baby's father.

I feel a great deal of pity for Anna Nicole Smith. She was clearly a woman of limited ability who by dint of a great face and physique and a cock-eyed optimism managed to obtain wealth and fame, but the cost turned out to be too much. I am not immune to wallowing in the mud of grotesque fascination, either, tuning in to Entertainment Tonight's coverage of her death, with the waxen Mary Hart putting on her serious face while clips of Smith¹s last interview, her gaze unfocused and words slurred, were broadcast. Contrasting the woman of two weeks ago, who was clearly on some sort of pain-killer, with those of her when she was first on the scene are striking, as back in 1992 and 1993 there is no sign of intoxication, just an optimism for the future, a chance to make a good life for her son and maybe be a star, which is the dream of so many in this country. An American tragedy, indeed.