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The time: 11 a.m.
The date: December 17, 2006.
The place: Tao, 42 East 58th Street.
Sighted: "Sat next to Sylvester Stallone and his wife surrounded by family at Tao. Mr. and Mrs. Stallone looked particularly plastic and Sly had a nice orange fake-bake going on. Sly's skin also had the consistency of a puffy catcher's mitt. Sly looked happy as onlookers gawked and took pictures."

Aw. Doesn't that just warm the heart? Sly, all man-tanned up and dining with his wife, Jennifer Flavin, and their family as appreciative fans marvel at the great talent in their midst. Thank God. Because, seriously, for the past few months we've been wondering if we needed to put the guy on suicide watch.

First, there was the musing about his death as an artist and how he feels like the parade of life has passed him by. Followed by the depressing revelation that perhaps he didn't live the life he wanted. The whole thing is very upsetting. Honestly Sly, we knew your career hadn't exactly been on fire lately, but how could we have known you were so filled with regret?

You should have told us, buddy. We could have done more to help. Bought some of your pudding perhaps. Or watched that reality show you did. And we would have done it too. Because you, Sylvester Stallone, are an American icon, and for our money, there is nothing better than watching Lincoln Hawk thrust his lower lip toward his chin, turn his hat around, and win the love and respect of his son as the opening strains of "Winner Takes It All" cue up in the background.

So brighten up man. Sure, your ex-wife is looking a little rough and doing it with a crackhead on television. But hey, your movie is getting surprisingly not-that-bad reviews and even had a respectable third-place finish at the box-office. And your fans still love you. There's always that.

Gawker Stalker

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