I actually found myself staying up an extra 30 minutes last night to catch a glimpse of The Anna Nicole Show. Heidi was already tuned to E! and left it on because it was “like watching a train wreck” — she couldn’t look away. I dunno, a train wreck at least has some compelling human drama. Well, both are really sad and they both add to your list of people to pray for.
Not kidding, it’s gotta be the most unwatchable reality TV since Big Brother 2. They could do better with that slot by re-running the Different Strokes True Story episode. It wasn’t 30 minutes totally wasted though, as I was able to multiplex my attention between the TV and my latest issue of Esquire. I write off such mindless pop culture time euphemistically as “culture scanning.”
Anyway, Anna Nicole, minus the garish makeup and too-tight clothes, is my kind of woman. Physically that is. I like ’em a little bigger. (The women. I like the women to be bigger.) Women of substance I call them. But emotionally she is like this spoiled toddler who has no one in life to give her any structure. She basically has people follow her with a camera while she stomps around and does what she wants and says what she wants because she has big breasts and a big bank balance. From what I saw, I can’t imagine that she is a very happy person, which made me feel for her a bit. But sympathy does not a TV series make.
Surely there are rich voluptuous women out there who are more deserving of an hour on television than her. Man I hope so. Or maybe the solution is to watch less TV than I already do.