Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto

  I can’t seem to find a definitive source for Anderson’s physical dimensions. The numbers once ran at 36–24–34, but those obviously changed after her 1999 breast reduction. Her height is listed as either five-foot-seven or five-foot-five (although—oddly—never five-foot-six), and her weight is generally placed at 107 pounds. She has what women refer to as an “impossible body,” a claim that’s only partially contradicted by the fact that her body actually exists. There are scientists (goofball sociobiologists, mostly, and also Desmond Morris) who argue that men are visually (and one assumes unconsciously) attracted to the “two-thirds ratio” in nature, which is why the cliché dimensions for ideal women somehow became 36–24–36. Man’s affinity for this ratio supposedly shows up in everything he creates—architecture, auto chassis, the circumference of an Absolut vodka bottle in relation to its height, etc., etc., etc. This is an interesting theory, especially since it would seem to explain why male artists in the sixteenth century were attracted to obese women (one could argue that they were interested in the same 2/3 body ratio and simply inverted the modern-day proportions). Of course, this is a very male-o-centric theory to advocate: Guys would love to somehow prove they want to have sex with Pamela Anderson because of math.

  Still, I can’t help but partially believe in this hypothesis, probably because I’m secretly ashamed to be attracted to Pamela Anderson. Somehow, it makes me feel stupid. It’s almost like desiring Pam Anderson is like admitting that—sexually—you have no creativity. I would feel much better about myself if I would prefer to go down on Kim Deal or Ellen Barkin. I would somehow feel smarter if what I wanted was even just a model with a mantis-like skeleton body, like Kate Moss. I profoundly prefer to be turned on by any woman who looks vaguely fucked-up; that’s much more intellectually satisfying. And I know dozens of men who have completely talked themselves into this way of thinking, so much so that they don’t even realize they’re overcompensating; these are the same people who insist they prefer Mary Ann to Ginger. In fact, I once worked with a guy who told me that he thinks Pamela Anderson is a fundamentally ugly, plastic woman who’s “antisexy.” His claim is that it’s not just that Anderson doesn’t excite him—she actually makes him want to recoil. And every woman in our office seemed to like him more after he said that.

  What I’ve come to realize is that a remarkably high percentage of everyday citizens—and this applies to both men and women—actively despise Pam Anderson. Moreover, their dislike for this woman is a completely conscious decision: They’ve decided to hate Anderson on principle. But what they really hate is the modern world; what they hate is that Pamela Anderson is the incarnation of the perfect, idealized icon we all sort of concede is supposed to be impossible. We’ve established this unrealistic image of what we want from the human race, but it angers people to see that image in real life. It sort of shows why most Americans hate themselves.

  Every so often I stumble across The Man Show on Comedy Central, a program where two semi-charming jerks insist that men are brilliant because men are idiots.1 It’s the apex of that whole “we men are magnificent bastards” movement that began in roughly 1992—I think Tim Allen probably spawned it—and it suggests that true guys can only like beer and football and pork ribs and strippers. Now, granted—these are things that many men genuinely adore—but not in the rote, unilaterally Sasquatchian manner this kind of shtick always implies. A program like The Man Show is legitimately negative for society, but not because it’s misogynistic; The Man Show is socially negative because it actively tries to prove an inaccurate hypothesis that too many women already believe: The premise of The Man Show is that all men think exactly the same way. And that consensus makes it difficult to write about Pam Anderson, because everyone assumes you’re just a perv who adores tits. And that’s not true (at least not for me). In truth, you can adore tits and you can love Pamela Anderson—and without necessarily associating the former with the latter.

  Am I physically attracted to Pamela Anderson? Of course. But the more I see her, the more I realize I’m not looking at a person I’d like to sleep with; I’m looking at America. And I’m sure a lot of guys who masturbated to black-and-white photos of Marilyn Monroe during the Korean conflict had the same experience, even though they probably didn’t think about it in those terms.

  Answer this question. Let’s say you were given two options: You can either (a) have sex with the world’s most attractive person, but you can tell no one and no one will ever know, or (b) you can walk through life with that person hand-in-hand, creating the illusion to everyone alive that this individual is your lover—even though you will never so much as kiss.

  Which would you pick?

  If you’re like most people, your immediate gut reaction is to take option “a” Everyone seems to say this at first blush, mostly because we all want to imagine ourselves as visceral beings (this is especially true of men, who always pick “a” immediately). However, if you keep talking to someone about this question, and you start pointing out the specifics of what these two scenarios mean, you’ll find that everybody eventually admits that the second alternative would be more satisfying. And this query always makes me think about Marilyn Monroe and her 1954 marriage to Joe DiMaggio.

  Despite lasting only nine months, the Monroe-DiMaggio union was probably the most perfect marriage in American history. In a way, it seemed like an example of how life is supposed to work: The sexiest, most desirable woman on the planet fell in love with the coolest, most beloved stud of the Greatest Generation. Yet this marriage was doomed; in fact, my suspicion is that the relationship was even more of a nightmare than we know. The more we learn about DiMaggio, the more he seems like a cold, sullen badass who was always alone (even in a roomful of people).2 And as for Marilyn…well, she personifies every beautiful/crazy/sexy/suicidal woman I’ve ever met (and you know the type of person I’m referring to—this is the kind of girl who’s depressed by the irrational notion that men only want her for her physical appearance but who still cannot shake the equally irrational fear that she is somehow overweight and repulsive). I am certain that having sex with Marilyn Monroe was four minutes of ecstasy followed by five hours of frustration. This is one of the reasons why DiMaggio couldn’t make his marriage work, yet still felt compelled to decorate her crypt with roses for the next four decades. Remember that question I posed two paragraphs ago? Joltin’ Joe is just about the only man in history who faced this hypothetical for real and somehow picked both options. And it’s that second option—the lonely, painful option “b”—that matters metaphorically. What’s compelling about the idea of the Monroe-DiMaggio relationship—and the Monroe–Arthur Miller relationship, and the Monroe-JFK relationship—is not the idea of them being together. It’s the idea of them not being together. It’s the hollow reality of things not working out. It’s about Monroe being unattainable to everyone—world-class athletes, brilliant playwrights, and the only movie star president of the twentieth century. She was above them all.

  Oh, I know: Every one of those guys had sex with Marilyn, so it’s kind of a naive notion to think of her as pure. But it’s not so much that Monroe seemed virginal; it’s more like she seemed too overtly sexual to actually participate in the unseemly process of intercourse. Trying to picture Norma Jean (ahem) “getting her freak on” is like trying to imagine Bruce Lee getting into a bar fight: Even in my mind, I can’t conceive anything that doesn’t seem like cinema. It’s impossible to think of Monroe having sex like a normal person. I always imagine a breeze blowing the curtains over the bedpost, and all her naughty bits are hidden; her hair is perfect, and she’s sorta smiling with her eyes half closed. It’s even PG-13 in my brain. Norman Mailer used to tell a (possibly) apocryphal story that claims—upon signing her first lucrative contract with Twentieth Century Fox—Monroe sardonically said, “Well, that’s the last cock I eat.” I really hate that story, even if it’s true. Marilyn Monroe is the definition of the old-school American sex symbol, and part of that definit
ion is that it’s unfathomable to picture her giving anyone a blow job.

  Conversely, it is not particularly difficult to envision Pamela Anderson doing this. It’s actually happening on the TV in my living room as I type this very sentence.3 But what’s weird is that my ability to experience Pam enjoying an act I can’t even imagine Marilyn performing is not an illustration of how they are different; it somehow makes them more alike. And I think this is because we all unconsciously identify iconic figures with whatever social philosophy they represent (I suppose this is what makes them “iconic”). Monroe and Anderson might suggest totally different worldviews, but they both seem like victims. They’re both sexually tragic figures. Looking at the life of Pam Anderson in the present tense tells us as much about ourselves as looking back on Marilyn Monroe tells us about our fathers and mothers.

  Monroe’s men were generally the kind of people I wanted to be until I turned about fourteen: a great athlete, a president, a writer, etc. Anderson’s men are the kind of people I want to be whenever I watch documentaries about KISS. But both Marilyn and Pam desired what their world valued: Men in the fifties wanted Monroe because she made love to the men they respected; modern men want Anderson because she makes love to the concept of celebrity.

  There’s no way the modern-day version of Marilyn could date the modern-day version of DiMaggio. Today, there is too much of a chasm between sexuality and “classic greatness.” DiMaggio wasn’t necessarily the finest baseball player on the planet in a technical sense, but he was always the greatest player, inasmuch as he defined what was beautiful and noble about the art of the game. He was classically great. Even when Ted Williams was hitting better than Joe, Ted was only striking a leather projectile with a wooden stick; DiMaggio was defining what Americans loved about democracy. Through the 1990s, the closest thing there was to a DiMaggio-esque figure was Michael Jordan; M.J. is the DiMaggio of his age, just as Pam is the Marilyn of hers. But it goes without saying that Michael Jordan could never date Pamela Anderson. That would cause the apocalypse.

  If Jordan dated Pamela Anderson, it would destroy him. He’d still be remembered as the greatest two-guard who ever lived, but his iconography would never be the same. In the eyes of people who obsess over celebrities without really thinking about why they care—in other words, in the eyes of 90 percent of America—Jordan would be dating a slut. It would be like the rich, big-toothed high school quarterback showing up at the prom with a Goth chick who’d dropped out of community college to buy a used IROC. America’s greatest athletes can no longer date America’s greatest sex symbols unless said athletes are willing to become freaks (case in point: José Canseco and Dennis Rodman). But back in Monroe’s day, it was normal for vixens to date dashing sports stars; Jane Russell was married to Bob Waterfield, and they slept in a Murphy bed in downtown Cleveland. That seemed normal and kind of sweet. Today, that would seem unnatural (and not just because of the Murphy bed). There are a few exceptions, but none of them matter. Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter used to date Mariah Carey, but nobody cared; she’s crazy and he’s not crazy enough. Chris Webber hits it with Tyra Banks, but C-Webb refuses to talk about it and T-Banks evidently can’t speak. Canadian hoopster Steve Nash supposedly dated Elizabeth Hurley, but she’s about ten times more famous than he is, even in Canada.4

  The reason Pam Anderson can’t date M.J. is because being the modern Monroe means there is nothing understated about your sexuality. At all. That’s what I mean when I say the gap between sexuality and classic greatness has expanded beyond recognition; there is something inherently understated about the term classical, and there’s obviously nothing understated about Pammy. Sleeping with Pam would destroy Jordan’s ethos; you can’t be the hero to an eight-year-old boy in Duluth and the paramour to 107-pound public orgasmatron. But the larger problem is that dating the Michael Jordans of the world is not part of Pam Anderson’s job description. Since Pam is the hyperaccelerated manifestation of contemporary sexuality, she is socially obligated to deliver her most intimate gifts to those who represent contemporary America. That’s what Marilyn did; she gave her body to the post–World War II archetypes of sport, art, and politics. She was the lover of—at least for—classic greatness. Pam’s in the same position, but she has to be the lover of post-modern greatness. That’s why we all had to watch her give a blow job to the drummer from Mötley Crüe.

  The newfangled postmodern sex goddess can’t just sleep with a cool guy; she needs to sleep with the entire “concept” of celebrity. For people born in the seventies and eighties, the “concept” of celebrity has replaced people like Joe DiMaggio. On the surface, this probably seems paradoxical, since DiMaggio was a celebrity. But DiMaggio was a celebrity when “celebrity” wasn’t a concept; it was merely a designation. If you asked anyone in 1951 why DiMaggio was a celebrity (or even if you asked someone that question today), they could undoubtedly give a satisfactory answer. However, it’s impossible to explain why Tommy Lee is a celebrity. You can’t say “because he’s a rock star,” because he’s not; the last record Tommy Lee made that lots of people liked was Dr. Feelgood, which came out in 1989. Yet Tommy is far more famous now than he was in 1989, and it’s because he’s directed his energy into being a celebrity in the conceptual sense. He is famous for being famous, and for behaving famously, and for taking drugs, and for having his relationship with Pam Anderson available on the pay-per-view menu of most hotels (which makes him more famous, but which only happened because he was famous). And he is exactly the type of man Pam Anderson should be with. This is not a criticism of Pam or a backhanded compliment to Tommy; it’s just sort of true.

  Pam is the embodiment of modern female sexuality, and that embodiment is a Barbie Doll. But that’s not necessarily bad; it’s what intellectual men want (because she can be appreciated lecherously and ironically), and it’s what intellectual women want (because it provides the opportunity to rail against Barbie dolls). She’s an intellectual symbol of what every forward-thinking feminist has warned us about, and she’s a physical symbol of all the things men find alluring (some of which are rudimentary, some of which are complex). Society’s relationship with Pam Anderson is exactly like its former relationship with Monroe. What’s different is how they respond back.

  Ultimately, both women serve the same role, and that role is both shallow and profound. People use Monroe and Anderson as a kind of cultural shorthand for understanding the most important sexual mores of entire generations. Marilyn and Pam succeed in that capacity because they’re not complicated; they’re sexual for reasons that are only about sex. Everything else just muddles the equation. I mean, there’s probably never been a sexier woman than Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, but that wasn’t just because she looked incredible—that was “acting.” She made herself sexier. Monroe never needed to act. In a sense, Taylor was too complex to be an icon of this magnitude. The same thing happened to former MTV personality Jenny McCarthy, a peer of Anderson’s, who—for roughly seven weeks in the summer of 1995—was everyone’s Woman of the Moment. But her problem was that she became too normal; McCarthy seemed completely aware of who she was and what her breasts could be extrapolated to say about society. That self-awareness killed her career. At this point, Jenny McCarthy is a likable bombshell who’s only slightly more interesting than a bucket of shark chum. She could have been a supernatural pictogram of the new sensuality, but elected to merely become a “person.”

  Not Pammy, though. She’s never been a person, and I’m glad. Pam doesn’t just have sex with guys; Pam fucks reality. As I type this, she has divorced Lee and is involved with mook musician Kid Rock.5 Here again, Pam has made the perfect romantic decision. Here’s a guy who actually named himself after youth and rock ’n’ roll. Here’s a guy who openly aspires to be the new David Lee Roth. Here’s a guy who operates within the idiom of rap metal, an art form that critics despise and normal people adore. Here’s an underrated antigenius who represents the redneck renaissance and what’s great abo
ut music, pot, and popular culture (and, I suppose, America). Kid Rock’s not a person either. I sure hope those crazy kids make it!

  My eyes have drifted back to my TV just now, and I spent a few moments looking at Tommy Lee’s penis. I realize this is no brilliant insight, but Tommy Lee’s genitalia is stupidly huge. In the scene I’m watching right now, he appears to be beating his penis against the steering wheel of a boat. It’s oddly reassuring. In fact, it’s making me think about Joe DiMaggio again: DiMaggio used his 36-inch, 36-ounce bat to hit safely in fifty-six straight games, and Tommy used his 10-inch, 13-ounce bat6 to hit Heather Locklear, Bobbi Brown, and the single-most important woman of our times. World-class sex kittens no longer date sports heroes because modern sports heroes have joined heavy metal bands. Tommy Lee is our “Joltin’ Joe.” Most of the guys I know would much rather have sex with three of the world’s most beautiful women than hit .325 career against American League pitching. Now, it’s possible this was always the case (perhaps young men in 1953 felt the same way). But the difference is that admitting that choice in the 1950s meant you were profoundly honest and a little pathetic. In the twenty-first century, it still means you’re pathetic, but that’s considered normal.

  That’s the weird irony that makes Pam Anderson so essential to our times: She’s not a real person, but she’s still more real than any sexual icon we’ve ever had. Pam Anderson is a mainstream, nonsubversive porn star who actually does all the dirty things her disciples fantasize about. Marilyn Monroe was the perfect vessel for an age where it was wrong to want wild, easy sex; Pam is the perfect vessel in an age where not wanting wild, easy sex makes you a puritanical, born-again weirdo. It’s not enough just to talk like Mae West. Anybody can do that. We need proof. Pam has the proof. In the short-term, the Tommy-Pamela videotape sullied her already sketchy reputation. But it was probably the greatest thing that could have happened to her long-term legacy—it made her transcendent and organic in the same breath.