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: Jose 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.[32]
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 Motley Crue.
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.[33] 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 about 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 bat[34] 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
