Let's get back to the Anna Nicole "who's the daddy" media circus. Could it be Howard K. Stern? He is currently being held out as evil incarnate.
Could it be one of the others? We seek concrete evidence, but without a narrative framework, and without multiple working hypotheses, nothing makes much sense.
Even with them, the multiple working hypotheses we're regaled with -- the conspiracy theories, and the fantastic speculations -- have more in common with fairy tales.
At the center of the maelstrom was Anna Nicole Smith herself -- a simulacrum of Marilyn Monroe -- a copy that serves only to reinforce its "copiness" and to refer back to the real. But, in this case, the real was a copy and a construction. What do we do?
The copy-Marilyn Monroe (Anna Nicole Smith) began to fold in on itself. It began to suggest the falseness of itself. The more vapid (slurring or incoherent) Smith's performance, the more she became a caricature. The more cartoon-like the image, the more it pointed to the real, the original -- even to the point it erases the real. It also simultaneously erases itself. It is the copy that, when held to the light, looks garish and cheap, and even makes the original seem garish and cheap -- not by association, but by pure action of mind.
What was the original anyway? I would argue that the original construct -- the Marilyn Monroe -- was a tongue-in-cheek lampooning of male visual fantasy. Yes -- the image was male visual fantasy lampooned -- "punked" as it were.
What is rather tragic about Anna Nicole Smith's simulacrum of Marilyn Monroe is that is seemed to lose the humor embedded in lampooning straight males. After all, we live in a rather different self-reflexive world, and television has made a history of making a visual echo chamber of itself. Let's think of The Simpsons, as an example. It is absolutely impossible to enjoy The Simpsons without a high level of television sitcom and popular culture literacy.
Could Anna Nicole Smith have been a better object of Borat's desire than Pamela Anderson? It's hard to say. Anna Nicole Smith seemed to be stuck right in the middle of an endlessly repeating scene from How to Marry a Millionaire. The pink she surrounded herself with in The Anna Nicole Show was punctuated by flashes of impossibly small dogs and exotic animal print throw pillows.
As Anna Nicole decorated and redecorated her house, she approached it (and her body) as would any good Hollywood starlet, which is to say she mutilated it.
But for some reason, we loved watching.
Anna Nicole Smith utterly effaced the boundary between the real and the unreal, the constructed and the re-constructed. She embarked on an endless reification process, an ourobourous-like self-swallowing, self-devouring metamorphosis. We could see the transformations occur as she bloated, shrank, bloated and shrank again, and as she slurred, stumbled, and drooped her eyes.
In the end, though, something strange happened. Anna Nicole Smith, although she was ostensibly simply a self-constructed copy of a self-construction (the Gatsby-esque Marilyn), seemed more real.
It was all about Daniel. Anna Nicole was a mother. She gave birth, and kept Daniel at her side. We saw him grow up. We saw her devastation at his death only three days after the birth of her daughter, the paternity-challenged Dannielynne (sp?).
The way she grieved was touching in a way that does not seem to have been a part of the Marilyn Monroe persona, and we had the sense that Anna Nicole disintegrated at the death of her son. The construction deconstructed. The grief was the ultimate effacing mallet of fate.
Perhaps it will turn out that Anna Nicole Smith is like the virgin Komodo dragon that gave birth to five Komodo pups on (of course), Christmas Eve, in a zoo in northern England.
That would be the ultimate irony and the ultimate gift to the media circus. The copy has finally been able to copy itself.