Oy. My friend Lisa (who made the incomparable Flav Cake) notified me yesterday that Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock are getting married, and that I needed to write about it. Now, the response of most people to this news is probably either (1) Well, water seeks its own level or (2) Well, at least they're out of the dating pool. But my response is a little trickier, because of a slightly shameful secret of mine: I have a major soft spot for Pamela Anderson.
I know. I know! On one level, she represents so many things that I rail against: the notion that a woman's worth is measured by her cup size, the concept that "sex kitten" is a wise career path, the idea that plastic surgery will fix everything. (Before long, we'll have a whole generation of That Guys who wouldn't know a real breast if it pulled a gun on them. "Why's it all sloshy?" [poke, poke] "Ow!" "Wait, you mean it has nerve endings?")
But underneath all the surgical scars, unfortunate makeup choices, big hair and tiny outfits is a genuinely sweet woman. Pam has done a lot of advocacy work for animal rights and donated to a number of causes. In 2004, she gave Mohini Bhardwaj $25K to help the 25-year-old gymnast make the Olympic team. Even on her sex tape with Tommy Lee, she came across as bubbly, kind and girlishly cute, albeit none too bright. She doesn't seem to have a mean bone in her body. (By comparison, a full 65% of my bones have been medically diagnosed as "mean" or "cruel," with 4 receiving the coveted "sadistic" designation.)
But she also doesn't seem to have much self-esteem -- which isn't surprising, considering that most sex objects generally don't like themselves very much. When she finally left Tommy Lee, I took heart in her relationship with surfer Kelly Slater. I figured what she needed, what would work best with her personality, would be a laid-back, goofy, sweet younger guy who'd treat her like a princess and cherish her girlishness. But no. Before long, she was back in the swirling vortex of rock-chick stupidity: dating Kid Rock, coming down with hepatitis, reconfiguring her face, lips and implants a few times, considering reuniting with Lee -- just basically doing everything she could to make herself miserable. I mean, look at that picture. "Help me," her eyes are pleading. "Save me from my own horrible choices in men."
And now she's going to marry Kid Rock in just a couple of weeks. I'll say this for him: I don't think he'll physically abuse her. He will, however, drink like an unemployed stevedore, commit infidelity within a few hours of the ceremony, make a sex tape with that cheeseball from Creed, endanger Pam's compromised immunity with God-knows-what from assorted groupies and strippers, and always have a thin film of something on his skin and/or tongue. As an online buddy of mine put it: "Kid Rock looks like a possum -- diseased and blinky." (Game, set and match, my friend.)
Ah, well. They'll divorce in a few years and maybe by then I'll have perfected the Jason-cloning process so everyone can get the amazing boyfriend they need and deserve. Pam, you're first on the list to receive one.
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