Monroe: a monolith on the landscape of American myth. White skirts billowing about her hips in an eternal updraft, melodious giggle carried on a breeze laced with wisps of Chanel No. 5. Object of worship and obsession and dark desires, after all these years still Hefner's creamiest slice of cheesecake. The effortless pucker. The slight tummy pooch. One can calibrate instruments from the placement of the beauty mark . . .
In no endeavor has my generation invested so much energy as in its attempt to establish an iconography to equal that of our parents and grandparents. There were giants in the earth back in their day, and rather than accept their passing as the consequence of a changing world, we regard the dearth of equally towering figures among our own number as a failure in ourselves and attempted to construct our own mythology. Unfortunately, we went about it in insecure, derivative ways, borrowing and relabeling. Johnny Depp was supposed to be our James Dean, except he wise