The frenzy over the various tidbits following the death of this Marilyn Monroe wannabe -- who gets the body? who gets the money? who fathered the kid? ad nauseam -- brings out the worst in American pop culture. I'm reminded of the Blake takeoff an Army buddy used to recite as often as circumstances warranted, which was damn often: what the hammer? what the anvil? WHAT THE FUCK?
My personal tastes are so far adrift from the mainstream that I didn't consider Marilyn Monroe "sexy," let alone an imitation. Give me Kate Winslet or Nicole Kidman any day.
However, I admit it is tempting to call a news conference and announce that, in fact, I am the father of the baby, conceived during a secret meeting we had in which I gave the dear lady writerly advice since her secret passion was not to be Marilyn Monroe but Virginia Woolf, the details of which will be revealed in my upcoming memoir. Secretly, at the time of her death, she was working on a novel in the tradition of To the Lighthouse, which had the working title of To the Bank.
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