The Vintage & Handmade Market Some weeks it's tough to be a columnist-like this week, for instance.
Anna Nicole Smith. There. I wrote her name. I shouldn't have to write anymore. The late Mrs. Howard K. Stern is her own punch line. The only thing more tragic than her death is her life, and that's something Prince Frederic Von Husband of Zsa Zsa can't take credit for even if he did give her a dose of septuagenarian baby batter. For the record, I don't think any of the public pretenders to Dannielynn's paternity is actually the father. I think O.J. did it. Also for the record, it's no wonder one of the truly incredible beauties of my generation got strung out on drugs. She spent a year married to a 90-year-old. You shove a 90-year-old penis in my mouth one time and I'm taking up heroin, I guarantee you.
Now, one might think that this week, of all weeks, would be a wonderful week for a columnist. One would be wrong. It's a bad week for two reasons. First, other than the foregoing paragraph, what could one possibly write about Anna Nicole Smith that hasn't already been written? It's the zaniest bit of news to come down the pipe in months and I have nothing new to say about it. Secondly, her unexpected demise drowned out what should have been two other really good stories that now lurk in the shadow of her luscious, leggy corpse, and although I'm going to write about them anyway, they aren't nearly as interesting now that Anna Nicole has pulled down the curtain and joined the choir invisible.
Houston, we have a problem. It seems that an astronaut drove 900 miles from Houston to Orlando to hunt down a sexual rival in an airport parking lot and I'll be damned if that's not a great story, Anna Nicole Smith or no Anna Nicole Smith.
There are actually three space cowpokes involved in the tryst: Capt. Lisa Nowak, the stalker; Capt. Colleen Shipman, the target; and Commander William Oefelein, who should have kept his space suit zipped. Although we don't yet know for sure, one has to assume that something happened between Oefelein and Nowak because the fact that the former is now romantically involved with Shipman was enough to motivate the latter to don a trench coat and wig and head eastward on a five-state quest. In addition to the attire, Nowak had some pretty smart confrontation gear in her car and on her person when she was arrested by Orlando police on Feb. 5. Her arsenal included a BB gun, a steel mallet, a 4-inch folding knife, rubber tubing, garbage bags, pepper spray, latex gloves and $600 in cash-all the essentials.
Notwithstanding that impressive collection of goodies, the one item that has gotten Nowak the most media attention is the diaper she sported on her Gulf Coast junket so that she could drive non-stop. That's right, she wore a diaper, evidently in the belief that one could travel 900 miles on one tank of gas. She should have called me before she left. I would have told her, “Lisa, honey, here on earth 900 miles is a really long way. You'll need to stop at least once.”
I was reading the Nowak story last Tuesday and thinking, “How much nuttier can this get?” when it got a good deal nuttier. Mike Schneider of the Associated Press must have thought the whole mess needed to be painted in more sensible colors because right in the middle of his story he included the following paragraph:
“Astronauts wear diapers during launch and re-entry.”
Thanks Mike. Now it all makes a lot more sense. But if that was a NASA diaper, I think Nowak needs to reimburse the taxpayers. I don't care if she did operate a robotic arm during a space walk last July; she doesn't get to take government property for her own private urinary issues! She needs to give the diaper back.
And speaking of giving things back, have you heard about Cynthia Sommer, who was convicted on Jan. 30 of poisoning her Marine husband so she could use his life insurance benefit to buy herself a set of fake tits? Well, that's not acceptable to me. I think she should have to give the boobs back. She's in prison for the rest of her life; she doesn't need a perky set of sewn-ins.
I have heard arguments to the contrary. A few friends have explained to me that most breast implants have a fairly short lifespan. Over time, they degrade and they have to be replaced. So in 10 or 15 years, Sommer might find herself in a cell with a sharpened toothbrush trying to carve her own pectorals open to get a pair of leaking bags out of her chest. Maybe that's a fitting punishment for offing one's spouse.
But I'm not into punishment. I believe in justice. And it's not just that there are millions of poor, flat-chested women running around the world with no husbands to poison. I think we need to yank those fun bubbles out of that murderous bitch and give them to a woman who can use them. I know several women who need fake tits and can't afford them. I'm sure they're not too proud to take a slightly used set.
Anyway, like I said, some weeks it's tough to be a columnist. Dead centerfolds, crazy astronauts in diapers, husband killers with ill-gotten boobies-it's just too much. I'm hoping that next week things will get back to normal and maybe a congressman will grope a seventh grader or a minor celebrity will say the n-word or the mayor of San Francisco will have an affair with a muppet. You know, normal stuff.
I realize that it's my job to poke fun at public oddity and I realize that I should be grateful for so much oddity at which to poke fun. But honestly, this much oddity is just too much.
Write to tony@SDcitybeat.com and editor@SDcitybeat.com.
