I promise I will blog about something real and befitting of this great institution (BOTN... wait, actually NPR I guess), but first I must mourn something shallow. Remember when movie stars all had porcelain skin? As a kid, I was obsessed with the photographs of Vivien Leigh — her pinkish-purplish cheeks — I so badly wanted eyebrows that would look perfectly drawn on to a beautiful canvas. Last night, I realized those days were gone forever — on my brand-new, 32", high definition screen, I saw so much more of my favorite stars then I wanted to. You could see little makeup molecules settling into crows-feet, the bumpy coverage of less-than-perfect chins, the necklace of bones protruding from shoulders starved by Master Cleanse. It was terrifying. I gorged myself on pizza and beer last night — there's no Gaultier in my future — and felt rather good about myself. Except for one thing: isn't it sort of lovely to aspire? I did love that Ingrid Bergman and Katherine Hepburn and Gene Tierney existed in a sort of protected space. They would never grow old, never need Proactiv, and always have perfectly shaped arches. And though I could never look like them, I rather enjoyed watching them — the same way I like to look through the Cartier catalog. Sigh. Watching the Oscars in hi-def is more like looking through a Neiman Marcus catalog — everything is certainly expensive, but in the end, you're just as glad to be wearing your own stuff.