You’ve seen it. The Pink Corvette. It’s changed with the times. But it’s still pink. And it’s always a Corvette. That belongs to Angelyne.
Or, rather, her Sugar Daddy – who used to billboard his betrothed to fast track her way to stardom.
But Angelyne’s star must have fallen. Like most these days. Her Pink Corvette is dinged up and held together by tinfoil tape. Or at least her rear bumper.
Beneath the sound and the fury–she’s plastic, too. Or, at least her car is.
I wonder if Angelyne’s Botox has finally sealed what’s left of her inside a non-responsive sarcophagus. If so, it would explain her slow reaction time. Maybe she is at last encased in Botox and unable to drive.
Even a standard shift.
What never ceases to amaze me is that in a city of nine million (counting all the sprawl) a week can’t go by without at least one Angelyne sighting.
She is a statistical anomaly.
And a singular event. She is our very own U.F.O.
Growing up in the midwest,a bluejay or winter cardinal outlined in fresh snow on the bough was more rare. Which leaves me to wonder if Angelyne has dumped her affinity for plastic surgery and opted instead to replicate herself with synthetic clones.
Maybe she is an A.I. test model. And her Sugar Daddy is Elan Musk or Bill Gates.
Advance mathematicians who master game theory and compute God in the probability of pi must have some formula and value for this random occurance. I surely don’t.
I’ll leave the math for those more qualified. I deal in symbols anyway. And Angelyne is definitely that. A mascot for all that remains truly Hollywoodish.
She embodies our obsession with youth and fight against time. All the illusions of Maya.
I take comfort in spotting her ageless embalmed Barbi-car on the open road. A certainty in an ever changing world. She keeps the myth and the glamour alive. Or at least pumped up with collagen.