Eastwood

I saw a picture of Clint Eastwood on a magazine at the beauty shop today - I think it was on the cover of "Entertainment Weekly" or "People". That poor, poor man. He's had so much Botox and laser-resurfacing that he looks like a burn victim. Seriously - the man is smooth as a rosary bead - his ears and nose look bizarre and out of place on his skeletal head. His flesh is mottled, like an old man's, but stretched so nineteen-again tight over his bones that it looks like it's about to make a spectacular POP! and spring free completely, leaving a only a naked cranium behind. Clint looks like he's in pain. I reckon you would too, if your plastic surgeon had just run you through the physical equivalent of a belt sander.

You want to know a secret? You're going to get old, if you aren't already, and all the plastic surgery in the world isn't going to keep you from it. You are going to die, and there is no getting around it. A little plastic surgery can slow the journey into that good night, but when you start raging at the dying of the light by having yourself Michael Jacksoned, you simply look stupid. And I love Clint Eastwood. I don't want him to look stupid!

This is no blanket indictment of cosmetic enhancement, mind - I think a nip and a tuck here and there is perfectly acceptable. But these Hollywood people just go nuts with it; it's like all the money and all the fame and all the isolation from normal society that comes with such things make our stars lose all sense of proportion and reality, physically, emotionally, politically, romantically, you name it. These people can't look in a mirror and really see what they look like anymore. Their rubric for making such a judgement is broken.

Poor Clint. Baby, no matter how old you got, we'd still have loved you. You didn't have to put yourself through all that just for us. You could still get pussy, Clint - you're Dirty fucking Harry, for crying out loud! It's not like you can't get work - hell, you've been known to write, produce, direct, and star - you can make your own work. You've got gravitas. But you're still gonna die, dude, and we all know it, because we're tied to the same wheel.

Let it go. Enough with the pressure-washing, the Restylane gun. Make my day and stay who you are.