âAND IN THE END, THE LOVE YOU TAKE, IS THE LOVE YOU MAKEââTHE BEATLES
It was past midnight when I glanced up from a barstool in the smoke-filled lobby of the Seminole Hardrock Hotel and caught the Beatlesâ lyric etched above the entrance where paramedics six weeks earlier had rushed Anna Nicole Smith out on a gurney, the always-looking-for love, love-starved little girl who took very little with her, leaving behind a namesake who will be searching for a mother’s love for the rest of her lifeâŠ
âThe love you take is the love you make.â
I kept thinking, Anna was deader than Elvis when she rolled under those words to the ambulance that would take her to the ER and etch her forever into pop culture history, a woman famous for being famous, dying like so many hard rockers — immortalized, idolized, symbolized, serialized, dramatized, laid, relayed and parlayed and, perhaps one day, marketed in these halls and on the walls of her last heartbreak hotel.
Even though she didn’t sing or play anything, she was taking dance lessons in her final days. Not that it has anything to do with how or why should died, but it did give the medical examiner a clue… she didn’t mean to kill herself–that she had plans to dance, romance, even marry Howard K. Stern, and, maybe, have another baby.
In the elevator, I asked a 60-something tourist, a retired college professsor, if she’d been following it, and, she asked me, how could she miss it? Paramedics had almost knocked her down, she said, racing by with the dead celebrity. She’d actually spied Anna Nicole under the sheet, she told me, but didn’t know she was dead until she watched the news later, a media obsession that’s obscured and eclipsed other contemporary human tragedies, but the public can’t get enough, as her celebrity ratings in death, sadly, soars beyond any she ever got in life.
How fitting I’d be sitting in front of a garish slot machine called, what else, WHEEL OF FORTUNE, feeding it ten dollar bills, then slapping the button, not caring whether I got cherrys or other tropical fruits, trying hard to lose fast so I’d have an excuse to get to bed, grab a few hours sleep before the autopsy presser and my interview with Broward Medical Examiner Dr. Joshua Perper for ET; WHEEL OF FORTUNE was spewing tacky calliope music that reverberated about the lobby, mixing with stale second hand smoke stealing into my lungs and smelling up my clothes. I felt desperate, but I was trapped!
As hard as I tried to lose,…I KEPT WINNING!
It took 20 minutes of intermittent jackpots, before vultures started circling, smelling doom, clucking how the WHEEL would bury me; I remember hitting $5.50, my grubstake dwindling; then it was gone, and I bolted, abdicating to a crowd of cigar-chomping, made-for-Trimpsa, polyester gamblers, rolling the dice with their lives, too. Read the rest of this entry »