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The Truth About Naked Stars
by Stan E. Colfax As I see it, there's just one big difference between Tom Cruise and me. You'll probably never speak to Tom Cruise in person, but you can rent his shiny naked butt any day of the week at Blockbuster. Conversely, you can call me anytime you want, but ask me to drop my pants and I might come kill you.
Am I the only guy who thinks there's something a little twisted about all the on–screen nudity these days? Something that promotes a feeling of—er—false intimacy between a star and his/her fans? Maybe I'm just another red–blooded American pervert (i.e., presidential material), but consider my stormy and passionate feelings for Jamie Lee Curtis. No, I don't know her. But how can I help but feel stormy and passionate about a woman I've seen naked 35 times, just in the last week? AND I happen to find it kind of creepy that she's so eager to peel off her shirt in front of millions of tongue–lolling American guys, when I can't even get her to return my calls (I mean really, I just want to take the woman out for frappucinos).
Last week I dialed Ms. Curtis's number repeatedly (after I stole it from my boss's office in a brilliant, aerobatic stunt which I don't have time to discuss here, though it included hanging from the ceiling by a thin black wire which my best friend held in his teeth). Each time I dialed, a secretary connected me to a guy named Frank. Frank claimed to be Ms. Curtis's publicity rep. I said, "Listen, do you know who you're talking to, FRANK? Do you know the power I wield in the press, FRANK? Do you know that I can take little Miss Smarty Britches apart in the media if she doesn't call me before midnight, tonight—FRANK?" After I finished, Frank asked me out for a date. (I might go.)
I don't think celebrities get it. Or maybe they do. Maybe they're really a little jaded, a little cynical about their status in American society. A while back, Brad Pitt sued Playgirl for running his nude photo (taken without his consent). According to press reports, he felt violated and used. Yeah, right, and all us guys were standing right there with you, Brad man—right there in that beach house with GWYNETH PALTROW!! Maybe when it comes to nudity, stars see their bodies as just another commodity to be bought or sold. Could it be that they're not really concerned about dignity or privacy at all—just money? Whaddaya think????
Well, anyway, I want the whole Hollywood crowd—and especially certain female offspring of bad actors from the fifties—to know that, like it or not, it's just been announced that this here columnist is going to be a presenter—a PRESENTER—at the upcoming Oscars. That's right. Me, you, the Academy Awards, it's going to happen. And think about this: I'll be standing on stage with one hell of a chip of my shoulder, and one hell of a beautiful woman on my arm (if my sister agrees to go), AND I happen to have seen you naked, which is more than you can say about me, baby. Hope that leaves you shaking in your $10,000–dollar shoes.

Sister Mary Sebastian finished reading her nephew's column, then tucked the magazine back under Jean's icewater jar and glanced out the window at Ed Flint sweeping off the sun–bleached driveway below. Though she usually wore a white habit at the convent school, Sister Mary took it off nowadays when she visited Seaborough. One afternoon, a few years ago, she had walked into this bedroom in her black dress and habit and Jean had screamed and passed out—nearly dropped right over the edge of the home health–care bed. Ida had come running in, embarrassed. "She probably thought she was back in that hospital, Sister. They gave her electric shock at the Catholic hospital in Washington."

Jean lifted her sunglasses and squinted over at the icewater jar and the magazine soaking up condensation. She looked both younger and older than her identical twin. She was as fat and smooth–skinned as a baby, but her hair had already turned white: she had a pink spot on the back of her head where the pillow had worn the hair off. Sister Mary stayed wiry and tan; her hair hadn't changed color, but her face looked like a crumpled brown napkin.

"I haven't read anything Stannie's written lately," Jean said in a raspy voice. She licked her lips. "You want to read that one to me?"

"I don't think you'd care for it," said Sister Mary.

"I wouldn't?"

"No, honey, I don't think so. It's about Hollywood people. You don't take any interest in Hollywood, do you, Jeannie?"

"I used to. I adored Cary Grant, and Paul Newman, and his wife. But I can't remember her name. That picture All About Eve or what was it called? I just can't keep track of the movies, anymore. It hurts my head even to watch TV. Who's popular these days?"