And she never let something nag at her or bother her or drag her down. What did you learn from her? How she treated people. So my question is: Why are we men so good at being assholes? It's God's fault.
And you have said that, in a way, this book is something of an attempt to make up for having been an asshole at certain points in your life, and with certain people. In your book, you talk about being an asshole. And recently, Reynolds has been talking about his new memoir, But Enough About Me, which is, of course, mostly about him. Sometimes he goes fishing with his local pastor, asks him about what lies ahead. He has a tight circle of friends and meets them regularly at a small cafe.
These days, the seventy-nine-year-old Reynolds spends his days down in his native Florida, in the town of Jupiter. (Reynolds cemented his image as a kind of high-redneck Lothario when he married Loni Anderson in 1988, then lost a shit-ton of money in their divorce five years later.) What's too easily forgotten is that there was a time (1978 to 1982), when Reynolds was the number-one box-office star in America-and anchoring landmark films that are not just classics of the male-experience ( The Longest Yard, Semi-Tough), but also on the National Film Registry ( Deliverance). It's easy to believe the real Reynolds is somewhere in that character (which won him a Golden Globe), especially when you go back one more generation and remember the schticky, toupee'd boob he perfected in the late-70s and early-80s: Smokey and the Bandit, Cannonball Run, Stroker Ace, Sharky's Machine.
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Nearly a generation has passed since Burt Reynolds's last movie of note: Boogie Nights, the 1997 Paul Thomas Anderson masterpiece in which Reynolds played, with disquieting authenticity, the porn titan Jack Horner.