There’s really no other way to describe something I otherwise wouldn’t blog about at all:
Anna Nicole Smith, a postmodern pinup for a tabloid age, died of unknown causes yesterday in a Florida hotel room, her sudden death at 39 delivering the same shock and uproar as the celebrity life she cultivated from the hardscrabble dust of small-town Texas.
Smith was in her sixth-floor room at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Hollywood, Fla., when her private nurse called the operator for help, according to Seminole Police Chief Charlie Tiger, who said a bodyguard attempted CPR but could not revive her.
The former Playboy Playmate of the Year was rushed to a hospital, where she died at 2:49 p.m., sparking breathless live news coverage from the Indian reservation. The Broward County medical examiner planned to conduct an autopsy today.
Breathless live coverage over someone who, quite honestly, was famous for being famous. I just don’t get it.
