Moltisanti, I eagerly await your review.
Some excerpts-
So I'm sitting in my Beverly Hills home, the one I bought in 1965, watching the Golden Globes, looking at all the fresh young faces (to my eyes, sixty is fresh and young!), and thinking, If I were starting out today, what kind of parts would I be playing?
Given my size—five-foot-nine and hefty—chances are good I'd be offered roles like that big guy, the Thing, Michael Chiklis played in Fantastic Four. Or maybe that part John Travolta had in Hairspray. It's been a long time since I played a role in a dress or a toga. Not that anyone has a Web page calling for more of Ernie Borgnine's legs.
I've died onscreen almost thirty times. I've been shot, stabbed, kicked, punched through barroom doors by Spencer Tracy and Gary Cooper; pushed in front of moving subway trains, devoured by rats and a giant mutated fish; blown up in spaceships, melted down into a Technicolor puddle, jumped into a snake pit, and I perished from thirst in the Sahara Desert. I bounced around a capsized ocean liner, beat Frank Sinatra to death, impaled Lee Marvin with a pitchfork, and had my way with Raquel Welch.
Once the town made westerns like Shane and The Searchers and The Magnificent Seven and had larger-than-life leading men like Gable and Cooper, Bogart and Cagney, and the tall cowboy everyone called the Duke. Today, I see our so-called movie stars in People magazine and most of them look like they belong on the FBI's Most Wanted List wall at the post office, all tattoos and body piercings.
