It was 1994, summer was over and I was feeling depressed. To lift my spirits, I took a cheap vacation down to my friend’s house in West Hollywood. My buddy was a former San Franciscan and over-the-top little gay guy who I just loved. He was a would-be designer, but, in the meantime, he worked at a really chic boho-funk clothing store on Rodeo Drive. He constantly met celebrities and movie-stars. He was going to take a few days off, but the day I arrived he had to go in. I decided to get their about mid-day and meet him for lunch. I walked in wearing my road-cloths, while he looked clean and glorious. At the restaurant, I asked him if anyone famous had been in lately: he said some of the girls from “90210” and “Friends.” I was envious as, at that time, I adored Shannen Doherty. They were my pagan gods. After we finished up, I became mesmerized by all the shops and boutiques that we passed by on our way back to his job. I hadn’t been in Beverly Hills for a few years. I told him I was going to walk about, perhaps wait for him to get done with the day, and then follow him back to his place. The last thing I said: “beep me” if someone famous comes in.
A couple of hours later, while I was marveling at the million dollar works of art in a nearby galley: I got paged. I quickly walked, but almost ran the few blocks to my friend’s place. When I entered, I tried to act all cool and casual. I scanned the showroom. Near the far end, I saw a very tall blonde-haired woman. That must be her, I thought. She turned around and she almost looked right at me. I froze, it was Anna Nicole Smith. It was as if I had just seen an apparition. Anna was the pinnacle of porndom: former Playmate of the Year, high-fashion model, now - a rising Hollywood film actress. I bought everything I saw her in: magazines, videos, calendars. One soft-core Playboy video bordered on hardcore; with a nude Anna straddling a male model in bed. But, to me, it was tame, and I was obsessed, for she also somehow resurrected a speck of the long-lost glamour from the 1950s bombshells: Monroe, Mansfield, and Bardot, and brought it into the modern world. She was what every desperate porn-player wanted to be: a legitimate star. She had seemingly made it. From poor Texan country-girl to the most photographed woman on Earth.
Acting nonchalant, I tried to browse my way closer to her. Once there, I said: “Anna Nicole.” She gave me a big smile and said “Yes.” She didn’t take her sunglasses off, she wore little make-up, and her hair was pilled on top of her head, but she was still undeniably pretty; not drop-dead gorgeous, but the combination of her height, big blonde locks, and large breasts made her stunning. I stretched the truth and told her I was an actor and how much I admired her. She beamed and gave me a hug. Wow, I thought - she really is a sweetheart. She truly loved her fans, unlike some of the other snotty celebrities I had come across. She wished me good luck and then she was gone. I was spellbound. But even then, I had a strange feeling. There was something ruined and sad about her; it was like watching a tipsy tightrope walker. She looked like she’d go down any minute. As if, while she was rising, she was also in the process of falling. It probably wouldn’t have struck me as odd, but it reminded me a bit of my brief meeting, earlier that same year, with porn-queen Savannah. I couldn’t explain it. Years later, I was watching one of those tabloid-entertainment-schlock TV shows and they did a profile on a down-and-out Anna. She looked fat and ill. I felt sorry for her.
Anna never entered my mind again, until I heard of her death in 2007. I avoided the coverage. It was as exploitative and sickening as the reporting which surrounded her when she was alive. Story after story about her drug use, endless stream of lovers, and the tortured fate of her poor hapless son. She tried to rise above her porn past, but never even got above the rooftop. The adoration was hollow and fleeting, when she essentially only wanted her mother’s love. She couldn’t escape the image that porn had created. Like many before her, she finally got taken over by the thing she couldn’t control; and it devoured her. I especially couldn’t stand the glib face of Hugh Hefner, who, like a vampire, lived on, without a spot of blood on him, while everyone else dropped. Then, just the other day, while flipping through the TV channels: I saw a Lifetime movie on the grid - “Anna Nicole.” I put it on. The actress was rather convincing in both looks and demeanor. Curious, I watched awhile. Apparently, to get through topless shoots, Anna was popping huge quantities of pills. Under the influence, she became another person; possessed by the soul of a drunken slut. That wasn’t the girl I met in Beverly Hills. The demons weighed heavily one her, and in the end, they won. God bless you Anna.