As I was pondering what I might write about last evening one thing was certain: not Anna Nicole Smith. Yet, here I am.
We have a tradition in the department I run in which we post pictures of actors and celebrities that pass away on the counter near the door. I think it started out of my love of pop culture, particularly film and television and my sadness at the loss of any entertainer that's brought me joy over the years. The pictures have become sort of an office tradition with coworkers streaming in to talk about the deceased, and share their own favorite moments from that person's career.
Yesterday, I must have had five different people ask me if we were going to put Smith's picture up and I responded to each with the same quip: "We would, but we were afraid what a Google image search would bring up."
The truth was I simply didn't care.
The way I look at it there is no reason I even need or should know Smith's name. She has contributed absolutely nothing to national zeitgeist other than a few pages stuck together in the magazines of young men some years ago. Her death was the sort of slow-motion suicide that was inevitable and shouldn't be a surprise to anybody.
But a funny thing happened this morning after watching the news and reading the paper. My apathy turned to anger and disgust. The country has more important business than Anna Nicole Smith. Our media are an embarrassment.