white_bear_chronicles

For those who were spared the visuals, a few weeks ago, Demi Moore was captured at the Cannes film festival in a shocking state of emaciation. Rumors have it that she abuses GLP-1 drugs or starves herself. Regardless of cause, the effect of the 63 year old's gaunt, skeletal appearance is extreme. Page Six and other goyslop/System propaganda outlets lauded Moore's petrified taffy arms as "toned". They have yet to realize that gaslighting of that nature won't help them regain lost popularity in an age of social media.

Demi Moore is still young as old people go. Her face has been frozen into an obscene mask of an oversexed 30 year old, complete with sluglike, rouged lips and artificially-inflated cheeks that are stretched so tight, you could bounce a quarter off them without so much as leaving a mark. She is a grandmother trying to look like a virgin ingenue, and to the myopic who have lost their eyeglasses and to superfans who have lost their discernment, she looks good.

To the rest of us, she looks scary and like she climbed out of a crypt. The wasting that is ravaging her body is a type usually only seen in advanced cancer victims and elderly folk in hospice. Cachexia, a syndrome that happens to deathly sick people that causes them to wither away to visible tendons on bones, seems to be an apt descriptor for Demi Moore's current state. She is strutting and pouting down the red carpet while at death's door. The only thing I can admire about her at this point is her commitment.

Diminishing returns

Celebrities are having an increasingly difficult time getting our attention. Personally, I had no idea Cannes was happening until I heard about it through TikTok, specifically in videos concerning Demi Moore's weight. Hollywood is dying and unlike Demi Moore, they seem afraid of death. The most recent spate of GLP-1 It Girls and It Boys are obviously puppets for Big Pharma, just as Shirley Temple was a puppet to sell war and volunteering to be a soldier and Marilyn Monroe was a puppet to sell divorce, childlessness, and broken families. Hollywood is big mad, because the advent of the Epstein files and the Diddy material before that, has caused its former victim-believers to emerge from the poisoned cocoon and wipe the sleep out of their eyes.

We are in a new game. They know it, we know it, and only a few naive slaves to the System don't realize what or who is being played. For the longest time, the Tribe of Cain has placed bets that we the pleebs are going to stay superficial. They did not foresee that some of us -- not many, but enough -- would see the soul. So when I see Demi Moore, I see someone who used to be considered very beautiful, but was always just an average, pretty girl who caught a great deal of attention by being in the right place at the right time. 

She is not particularly stunning, nor has she ever been, at least in my eyes.

Not exactly ugly, but . . .

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If Demi Moore with her raspy voice, medium height, straight hair, and girl-next-door appeal is gorgeous to you, then she was and is the cat's meow. Not everyone is into brunettes. Also, we are not in a contest, despite the protestations of Hollywood.

When I was younger, from about age 12 onward, I would occasionally encounter a man (and occasionally a woman) who was legitimately obsessed with me for my looks. I made the mistake of dating a couple of these guys. For them, I was the exact thing that they wanted. I certainly wasn't appealing to every man. Short, dark haired, and spicy isn't every dude's cup of tea. The ones who truly were into me, however, were almost at the point where they would stop at nothing to have me. I began to understand those women who manipulate men into handing over their fortunes for sex and the chance at love. I could have been that one of those courtesans (whores) several times over, and I had multiple opportunities to jump ship even when married and sailing towards middle age. The prettier you are, the more of these would-be willing victims you will attract. It is not necessarily a good thing, either, nor should it ever be a goal in life. There is an anger that accompanies being fetishized that I know well. The anger builds to a point in some women and men where they exact revenge by taking their worshippers to the cleaners. We all want to be appreciated, but to be appreciated mainly for one's looks is infuriating. For one, genetics are the main determinant of looks, and in most cases, no amount of self-control or surgeries can turn a genuinely plain person into a looker, cough Kelly Osbourne uncough. For two, looks fade. When someone or perhaps a significant part of the world population is obsessed with you because of the way you look, the clock is ticking the moment you start benefiting from wealth you did nothing to earn in the first place. With every year, your looks betray you, and when you get to the sunset of middle age like Demi Moore, the betrayals become faster and more furious. One month it's sagging eyes that need to be lifted with surgical threads and moored to distant places in the forehead as if each eye was a flaccid marionette. The next month, the implants in your breasts need replacement. (In Moore's Cannes photos, her implants are practically bursting out of her chest like the unfortunate Officer Kane in 1979's Alien.) The next month, you undergo an experimental treatment for veiny hands. It never ends.

Celebrities think we hoi polloi are jealous that we cannot afford constant "refreshments" on the surgical table or the dentist's chair. Honestly, I'm glad I cannot afford to be insecure enough to care about those things, because when I was younger and more vain, I might have started down that Wendigo of a path had I the finances to cover it. Crow's feet, a spare tire, and jowls seem a hell of a lot worse until you actually have them, and then you realize that being guffawed at like a delicious pastrami sandwich by creeps was overrated to begin with.

Looks come and go. For those of us who invite the vampires of natural aging over our doorstep, admiring glances start petering out as if they are being graded on a curve. I used to get crazy attention going to the gym and the grocery store. That no longer happens. I am fine with it. Demi Moore is not.

It's not that Demi Moore looks bad -- she looks nice enough, especially if you don't look too closely. If she were to wear a sweater and jeans we could only view her from a distance, we would presume she is a lanky grad student with great hair. No, it's not Moore's actual looks that make her ugly. The source of Moore's ugliness is her desperation. If you can read the soul, her appearance screams PICK ME from stem to stern. She is not at an age where she should need to be picked.

Demi Moore is at a level of fame that almost guarantees she has been through a clandestine mutilation ritual, MK Ultra programming, or something that rhymes with it. Her blank stare, rictus of a smile, hypersexualized pout, and long history of substance abuse speak to a lifetime of unprocessed trauma that she wears by flexing Starvin' Marvin chic on the red carpet. Though the celebrities who have been through this garbage think we don't see it, oh yes we do. They have counted on being able to fool us, and until only recently, they fooled most of us. They want to believe the It Girl schtick still works and that we can be sold Ozempic, NuvaRing, PornHub, and 1-800-DIVORCE as long as they put the right face to the right TV series or movie. They want to believe we cannot see the suffering human being beneath the false transcendence of celebrity glamour. They want to believe we are still buying.

Hollywood keeps trying to resurrect the illusion of its own youth, when it was at the top of its game. Right now, it is hedging its bets on reviving the Ally McBeal/young Ariana Grande/ ED Tumblr era of the 90s and early 2000s. Back then, Hollywood would say something, and if they said it enough times, the general public would absorb it as truth.

“It would not be impossible to prove with sufficient repetition and a psychological understanding of the people concerned that a square is in fact a circle. They are mere words, and words can be molded until they clothe ideas and disguise.” ― Joseph Goebbels

The roadblock they are hitting head on at the moment is that we are no longer in the Age of Pisces. We are in the Age of Aquarius, and there isn't a binary of famous person versus obscure person anymore. Andy Warhol's dream/nightmare of fifteen minutes of fame has been realized in every two bit TikToker, Instagrammer, and YouTuber. People certainly don't go to TV to get their news. They go to social media, and if one source seems problematic, they algorithm a dozen more to weed through within the speed of as many swipes. Celebrities are going broke and desperately flooding TikTok in order to sell hair pieces and perfume. They are up against legions of people who are more relatable, more fun, more entertaining, and oftentimes more talented than they are. Celebrities are being quickly and brutally replaced by common people who never sold their souls. The internet ushered in the Age of Aquarius for us human beings and the Age of Aquarius will last long after the internet is gone.

Demi Moore doesn't have to worry about me, a relative unknown who is keeping her day job. I don't have much influence and the things I am saying -- that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and that we see through the shenanigans of what is being sold and that it's not going to work this time. What she does need to worry about is that I am not alone.

I did not go to see the second Wicked movie at all. I unenthusiastically watched the first one about a year after its release. I found it bland and predictable. Stephen Schwartz's music was alright, but I think it was much more fun as a stage play with Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth. Perhaps it was the overproduction and perhaps it was the anorexia of the two female leads, but the first Wicked movie lacked energy. I doubt I will ever see Wicked: For Good. I don't want to support eating disorder culture with my time or money and from the sounds of things, Wicked: For Good is Ally McBeal on steroids and probably twice as boring. No thanks.

Dying Hollywood is trying to pound eating disorders down my non-bulimic throat. I'm not having it. They have overestimated our desire to watch people waste away. I don't want to see Demi Moore as a gaunt, stick bug person pretending she did not peak in 1991. I don't want to watch it, I don't care about it, and I am one of millions who feel the same way. I would rather remember old Hollywood stars fondly for their talents. That era is over now and no amount of pissing on our legs and telling us it is raining will change it.

I have changed things up a bit and to give myself more time to complete my next book, Sacred Beauty, I am putting up an Open Post on the second week of the month. 

One of my favorite pastimes is to play a game with Google Maps of dropping a pin in a random location and viewing pictures of other countries. I used Random.org this time to choose for me, and it chose what looks like a rural street in Brazil. Damn, Brazil is huge! It is 90% of the size of the United States. 

This post will be open until I post the next one in June.