A brief, disturbing mash note to Diane Keaton

Dear Diane Keaton:

You don’t know me. We spoke once, on the phone. About Hanging Up. (I want you to know, no one holds that against you.) Anyway, I’m just sitting here in my bathrobe, thinking about you. And then this comes over the wire.

Congrats on the gig, first off. L’Oreal sounds like a great place to work. I’ll bet you get lots of free stuff. Don’t worry about accepting it — it’s not stealing, Diane. Don’t feel guilty. These are gifts. The world wants you to have nice things.

So do I. You see, Diane, you’re 60. Which will now, in your honor, be renamed “SEX-ty.” Because that’s what you are: Sexty. I know that doesn’t sound very good, but keep saying it. It gets better with repetition, and I get a nickel everytime someone uses it, per my blog contract.

Seriously, Diane: You are what I like to call “a happenin’ older lady.” That’s a tag I reserve for only the sextiest sexty-something makeup models. Your quirky, glove-wearing, creatively-chapeau-ed ways have always beguiled me. And now I get to watch you in a series of ads for products I will probably never buy, unless EW Drag Night is reinstated.

No matter. It’s the messenger, not the message. La-di-da, Diane. La-di-da!

Chaste (but negotiable) hugs,

Scott

addCredit(“Diane Keaton: Jean-Paul Aussenard/WireImage.com”)