Last night I watched a recording of the Golden Globes. On this television show, the Hollywood Foreign Press Association bestows ugly looking trophies on Hollywood’s fame-hungry fauna.
Like many people, I prefer to watch recordings rather than live shows.
When watching a recording, I use the Fast Forward feature to bypass all the commercial crap and keep my blood pressure in check.
That’s my small personal stand against crass commercialism.
Anyway, Sunday night was a gathering of Hollywood’s Who is Who, and Who is that Broad?
It is a good occasion for producers to parade their trophy wives or newly discovered nymphets.
Among that illustrious gallery I couldn’t help to notice some aging stars. Despite artful makeup, slick hairdos and beautiful outfits they could not conceal the ravages of time.
And that’s the hidden curse of beauty.
Beautiful women and handsome men who were once blessed (?) with good looks are suddenly engaged in a deadly battle against time and gravity. And everybody notices.
Beauty is the result of a pact made with the Devil a long time ago.
– Mister Devil, I want to be beautiful…
– Of course sweet child, I think that I can arrange that. Where did you hear my name by the way?
– On the Internet.
– Ah yes, they now me quite well out there. I will grant you your wish and I promise you that you will be noticed, forever.
– Thank you very much Mister Devil.
– De nada Chiquita.
The Devils speaks many languages.
Lucifer will grant you Beauty and the wish to be noticed, but this wish will cling to you eternally, even when you don’t want to be singled out anymore.
Average looking people (like me) don’t have this problem.
Nobody ever noticed me and nobody will ever notice the way I age.
I am not saying that in my heydays some women didn’t throw their panties at me, but I was never a “looker”.
When I started to mellow, nobody paid attention and nobody wrote about it.
But the press will note and blab about it when they see a puffy Sylvester Stallone or Arnold Schwarzenegger. Rambo and the Terminator are not what they used to be, they will say snidely.
And what about Elisabeth Taylor or Brigitte Bardot? Were they not gorgeous? Poor things…
Me? I don’t have to worry about the Beauty Curse.
My rugged look made me attractive without interfering with my life.
When you see me today, you never think of what I looked like when I was the toast of Club Med.
I can have my regular cup of coffee, unshaved and looking scruffy without fearing snoopy paparazzi.
My picture is not worth much and nobody will bother to plaster it on the Internet or on the front page of the local paper.
And that’s the way I like it.
You can have Beauty. I’ll take anonymity.