I met her at Houston, Texas, during her court battle for her inheritance, something short of a billion dollars. The courtroom was peopled by her relatives, the Pierce Morgans, sadly and venomly sitting through proceedings. They had relied on a brain physician, who painstakingly reviewed the tycoons brain in slices, projected against a wall and exclaiming that there was no evidence whatsoever for his alleged dementia. The judge heard him out and Anna Nicole alternated between her long-legged victimness and her protestations, that she had loved her husband, and please, please, would they all believe her love, and her being a distraught widow. The court reporters convened on her after each session, whilst she strode out into the blazing texan sun to a minibus, protected by her lawyer, Howard Stern, a lonely girl, very much at odds with her own existence, and the huge breasts that hovered above the mens´heads, filling them with greed and longing, a sad symbol of pop culture, her very frame the sole reason for her tycoon-husband to have chosen her. Do you know my new girlfriend, he had boasted at Houstons prestigious Oil Club, well, then check the last issue of playboy. Anna Nicole seemed to me like a woman encaged in her appearence, an asset to male lust, over which she had lost control a long time ago. She was very vulnerable, and always surrounded by her personal vultures. I found myself in the same elevator with her, riding up to court, with her crossing herself on her way out, as if a deeply catholic girl had been caught lying, a short stunt for the press. I noticed the crude tatoo on her leg, and her dress, I believe, was a red one, with only shoulder straps to hold up her huge bosom. Sometimes she would sip from a styrofoam of coffee, sitting on the right far side of the courtrooms corridor, whereas her so-called new family ignored her twenty feet away on the other side. It was a most curious sight, two poles seperated by amounts of money, a himalaya of dollars. A family distraught by the eccentricities of its founder, a man who had called Howard Hughes his business friend, a very intelligent investor, as one of my New York friends analysed over some antipasti in Manhattans Aureole. There she was, Anna Nicole, a dish served cold over dinner, like a woman´s revenge, for all women hated her for fulfilling this female dream: becoming rich after marriage to a very old man, who undoubtedly adored her, smothered her in jewels, and then went, as if he had forgotten something at his oil wells, away, forever. It is this her claim to fame. A woman who did what she wanted, and, somehow, even managed to die on time.