Seriously, you can hate all you want, but Helen Keller can see how gorgeous Stamos is, and she’s blind. And dead. What kills me about him is that it’s not only that he’s good looking- it’s that he’s gotten better looking with age. This cat is so much sexier, sleeker, and more chiseled if you will (I will) at 50 than he could have dreamt of being at 20. If he’s had work done, then he needs to do all of our eyes a favor and post his surgeon’s name in the back pages of Skank magazine, the grown folks’ section of Craigslist, or wherever his contemporaries will see it when they are shopping for tranny-hookers when their wives are out of town. I am so tired of seeing these plastic, reptilian looking men who front like the stretched, collapsible, Dalian faces they currently bear are examples of the natural, non-surgical aging process . “Bitch, I remember you in Rocky. You looked more human after being pummeled in the face then than you do now.” “Honey, I saw when your ass looked like a mammal in 9 ½ Weeks”, so on, etc. John Stamos has a face that has the wear and tear of 50 year old man who has loved and laughed and lived. And I, for one, am so happy to see it.
On top of him looking like your college roommate’s father who was your go-to fantasy on those special nights when you were your own friend with benefits, you never hear anything bad about him. Co-workers praise him. The ladies love him, girls adore him, I mean, even the ones who never saw him… Sorry. I digressed into the words of Rob Base, but seriously, this man CAN’T be this good, right? Maybe he was an incredibly selfless and kind, talent-free, Quasimodo in his last life and this is his karmic reward. I don’t know, but I hesitate to run on about how fabulous he comes across because it seems like as soon as I hit “publish” there’s gonna be breaking news about a riot of drugged up runaways found in his basement in deluxe puppy cages, attached to punishing benches, or locked to cock and ball pillories. That or his housekeeping team will find drying human skin in the eaves of his attic. Better still, the latest issue of Weekly World News will have a genuine replica of his Faustian Bargain, which was originally signed in blood, and its sinister details will be listed inside the rag next to the latest info on the Bat Boy. He comes off as being so good that there’s gotta be something dark and twisted that he has enough money to hide from the world, right?
Or, dare I say and believe, is he really just a dude who is following his passion so fully, that there is no need for the darkness to welcome him as an old friend? I am so jaded and judgmental, but I would really like to think it’s the latter, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t it be nice for a dude in Hollywood who has endured and come through seemingly unscathed, for once, to end up really being a nice shorty pop who doesn’t have a penchant for beating people, or abusing them when he’s nine kinds of hopped up on blow and Adderall? That’s kind of like believing in Santa Claus, unicorns, and that the fat, ugly girl who is the most talented is going to get the romantic lead in a film.
But you know what? I choose to accept that about John Stamos . I mean the man went against his own publicity machine when he was hammered during that 2007 interview in Australia and flat out threw the cup of their kool-aide (jetlagged, stomach flu, lie, lie, lie) against the wall and said, “I was f*cking drunk!” Standing slow clap for John. Until I hear otherwise, I am going to believe that John Stamos is not hiding anything. That John Stamos, who I thought would disappear from the small screen, every teenage-girl’s masturbatory fantasy, and the viewing audience’s collective memory after his role ended as Blackie Parrish on General Hospital, is the exact number of licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. That he is pink hearts, yellow moons, blue diamonds. That John Stamos is not just bacon bits or bacon flavoring- but that John Stamos is bacon.