The coverage of Anna Nicole Smith's death has been ugly. The media has almost implied that she deserved it, or, worse, that it didn't matter what she did or didn't deserve, that she was here for no reason other than to provide entertainment and, by dying in an odd and dramatic way, she's just punching the clock. That her life had become a mess, her vapidity a public spectacle, her weight gain and loss pathetically public, is all the worse. Humans are always hungry for ways to judge and diminish those who're too beautiful, or too smart, or too something, and we got our chance with her, in spades. That's why I'm comforted by Larry Miller's remembrance of her, which is touching and warm and kind and generous. Amidst all the coverage to the contrary, she deserves at least a little affection.
