strange radiation: the pool of radiance archive
Adventures with an unreliable narrator.
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Jan 3 05: attack of the 50-foot floozy
I was thrilled out of my mind when I saw the Trimspa billboard coming down last week. That Anna Nicole Whoozis doing some sort of low-rent Marilyn Monroe thing, looming over Times Square and pitching diet pills? She put me off my protein shake in the morning.
So imagine my delight as I came up out of the subway this morning, fresh from the gym, on my way to grab some food and then off to the office, sailing along sidewalks now blessedly free of the mindbending mobs of tourists. And then I came out of the Jamba Juice, bucket-sized Blue Banana Blast in hand, and there she was. Anna. In a new, even trashier billboard.
Anna honey, let’s talk for a minute. This Trimspa thing was only going to burnish your image so much. I mean, your claim to fame was that you were an exotic dancer who inherited a serious pile of cash from a wizened husband, had a brief fling with a modeling career, and then starred in what is said to have been the nadir of reality TV. (I never watched it, but word gets around.) And now?
Now you’re making faces over 7th Avenue. Please, for the love of god, stop. I mean, queen-of-the-porn-stars Jenna Jameson has her own, bigger billboard half a block away, but you the one who look like a skanky-ass ho.