What was I thinking when I sent out an email alerting people that I had started a blog? I mean, really? Now I feel obligated to post and guilty when I don't, which means I've been feeling really guilty.
But I'm guessing not as guilty as Mickey Rourke's plastic surgeon, or at least not as guilty as he should be feeling. Have you seen him? Mickey?
When I was growing up, I thought plastic surgeons were employed only to treat accident victims. When my 10 year old brother wondered what it would be like to ride a bicycle while blind, closed his eyes, and careened into a thorn bush, a plastic surgeon put a dozen stitches in his bottom lip. There are no scars. I had never heard of breast implants, collagen implants, brow raises, or eye lid reductions. My grandmother told me that the lines on her face were a map of her joys and her sorrows, and I believed her.
I have watched in horror as plastic surgery has evolved into a fashionable pursuit, and when Michael Jackson's disfigured nose and ghostly complexion graced the cover of People magazine, I was revolted. Camera ready he is not.
Weird thing though, the images of Rourke's gritty train-wreck of a face make me want to go see "The Wrestler." I'm not drawn to anything wrestling related and were Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise playing the role, I would pass, but it takes a lot of courage to shoot a close up when you look like that. I saw Barbara Walter's pre-oscar night interview with Rourke and was struck by his fragility. He's not a happy man, and I admire his refusal to pretend otherwise. Maybe channeling all that personal angst into his character has made Rourke a damn fine actor. I intend to find out....as soon as The Wrestler is released on DVD.
Where would I be without Netflix?
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