This hasn't been a particularly good week for crazy people, has it? First, Astronaut Lisa Nowak tries to end a life. Next, Space Cadet Anna Nicole Smith comes to the end of her own. The first story is so sad because it is so unpredictable; the latter because it was not.
According to the 4,598 breathlessly urgent news reports last night, Anna Nicole's nurse found her employer unconscious. How she was able to tell is anyone's guess. Truly, it makes one despair for the state of health care in this country when a 39 year-old traveling with her own private nurse can't get a simple heroin dosage right. But we shouldn't be too quick to impugn the no doubt frazzled nurse's skills. After all, it must have taken a trained eye to discern that Anna was actually unconscious instead of just giving another cataleptic interview to Entertainment Tonight.
Between a baby-talking Anna in Hollywood and a diaper-wearing astronaut in Orlando, Florida has, once again, shown its knack for taking an unfair share of the available crazy. As my dear Sister-in-Christ Mrs. Patsy Ramsey, formerly of Boulder, CO, once authoritatively opined:
"A smart killer will take that extra effort to dress up and run a brush through her hair, lest someone recognize the handwriting on the ransom note and she winds up stuck with an unflattering mug shot on SmokingGun.com. That's the type of heat of passion that can make you regret the whole thing."
I realize that lady astronauts don't tend to dress any snappier than lady golf pros, but Lisa Nowak (verily the Capt. Alex Forrest of NASA) inexplicably completed her stalker/killer ensemble with a very-hard-to-pull-off pair of government-issued diapers. Frankly, I would never have confronted a younger rival with such an unseemly panty line!
As Laura "Pickles" Bush remarked to me at breakfast this morning:
"The killing? Now, that I can understand. Trust me. But the not stopping five minutes for a poop and a ciggy? Why, that's a big ole batch of bug-eyed crazy!"
I find myself reveling in the novelty of agreeing with our First Lady. While the bathrooms at Texaco stations tend to look like something you might encounter upstairs at one of Whitney Houston's repossessed homes, you'd nevertheless think a woman used to peeing in zero gravity would be adroit enough to navigate her lower lady parts to hover without actually docking with the filthy cigarette-burned, yellowed-plastic of a public toilet seat. Instead of even trying such acrobatics, familiar to any Christian lady who has ever used facilities available to strangers, she wore diapers all the way from Houston to Orlando. Frankly, outside of Iraq, it's difficult to imagine a more unnecessary, stinking mess!
After all, if Lisa Nowak had simply sprung for the drugs, cash and constant media attention it apparently takes to engage the resourceful services of Anna Nicole's pet lawyer Howard K. Stern, her rival would now be slumped over a steering wheel in the cheap parking at Orlando Airport. And Lisa would have been sitting pretty in her lovely home in Texas instead of sitting soggy in a jail cell in Florida.
In fact, I told President Bush this morning:
"Instead of sending tens of thousands of new troops to Iraq to kill time -- and, well, them -- until you are out of office, why not just send Howard K. Stern, the Dr. Kevorkian of the Bar Association? Just tell Howard that he stands to inherit every mullah's moolah and Muqtada al-Sadr's will be found on a sidewalk with a needle up his arm by weekend. Besides, what better way to put a perky spin on a losing war than have Mary Hart giddily reporting on Howard's latest victim each day from Baghdad?"
Helpful Howard probably needs a new purpose in life anyway -- especially since he is the only person left in his circle of friends who still has one. After all, he can't be feeling too secure right now. He must be rather cognizant of the Ed McMahon Rule of Celebrity: Parasites are at risk once the host dies. And I'm sure Howard will be no exception. Yes, he might be able to assuage his grief in that quintessentially 21st century American way -- by selling video of his loved one's dead body to the tabloids -- but with Anna Nicole gone, he must feel like a ship without a rudder. Or, rather, a pimp without a whore. At least he can take comfort in the wholly coincidental convenience of having the only witness to what Howard did moments before Anna Nicole's son died now gone. But how long before even the fawning Mark Steines finally asks: Who was supplying these dead people with their narcotics?