We will surely get far, far too much media coverage of Anna Nicole Smith’s death. I hesitate to add even a droplet to the gushing torrent, but there is (at least) one thing that bears mentioning.

What’s interesting is how she captured our attention, how she stepped into the glaring famous-sphere without any discernible skills. She was apparently famous for being famous. But in truth, she earned it.

She managed to marry that billionaire old coot, he was like 150 years old, when she twenty-something. I can only chuckle at how effectively she made that naked money grab. A brilliant feat.

It’s touching when you realize her real name was Vickie Lynn Hogan, and she was born to a single mother in Mexia, Texas. At 16 she married Billy Smith, a fry cook, who, according to her obit, “specialized in chicken.” Oh God, that’s mythic. Pulling herself up from a poultry specialist to a $474 million inheritance award in federal court.

It’s really the American way. Set your sights on an Olympian goal, maneuver cunningly, litigate aggressively, make no apologies, and elbow out the competition for what’s yours. No wonder we liked her. To Ms. Smith I say, you lived life largely, and properly. Good for you.