CLINT EASTWOOD BLASTS 'PUSSY GENERATION'

A mess of gnawed-open peanut shells litters the stoop of one of the Spanish-style bungalows on the Warner Bros. lot in Burbank, California. Since 1975, this bungalow, in the shadow of the massive Soundstage 3, has been the home of Clint Eastwood's production company, and when Eastwood and I walk up to the front door, we both notice the shells, bleaching in the hard-white late-afternoon sun.

"Those yours?" I ask him.

"Kind of," Eastwood tells me. "There's a squirrel around here. I like to put peanuts out for him. He's a nice guy. He comes right into the office sometimes. The other day, I opened the door and he was clinging on to it."

Eastwood is eighty-six now. But if you think he's devolved into that old man on your block who walks around talking to squirrels, you're dead wrong. Eastwood does not stop. Never has. Twenty years after most guys would be in full-on coast mode, Eastwood is still vital and vibrant, still pushing himself creatively. The guy is an inspiration, a reminder that we should always be evolving.

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