Fucking Mel Gibson. Trump got him his gun back. So now Mel can take over from Clint as the Don't Fuck With Me Octogenarian. Pack a punch, pull the women and get a Cialis assist quasi philosophical hard on.
UH AH. UH AH
USA USA USA.
Deport the gooks.
But Mel is your visa in order? Doesn't matter. Mel is honorary MAGA. He embodies the Magawood trinity;Woods, Voight and Eastwood. But at times Clint did make our day. He could go beyond "grey hair can kill on the srreet and in the bedroom" trope and could occasionally drop some entertaining dope.
Whereas Mel is a non-stop twitchy.
Pure Vietnam vet with gooks permanently in his perimeter.
I'd prefer the Mayans myself, with jaguars, blow darts and chill blow jobs. Mel still had it back in those Inca days. But then he went and got himself hung up. Seems he couldn't get over getting crucified.
The crown of thorns.
The vinegar.
The spear jab.
Barabas blathering on.
Betrayed by the Jews.
Who else? says Mel.
So now he is out for revenge.
Is he ever otherwise?
Taking down Hollywood. One shit movie after another.
That'll teach the yids.
UH AH old men slay the babes.
As for the movie, whatever the fuck it is called, don't watch it.
Don't watch any of them.
Well you can start at Gallipoli and end in Guatemala.
Forget the rest.
If we all ignore Mel, he might calm down and act his age.
Rory Gallagher was my first rock gig. In the stadium in 77. And it was good. Afghani black, check shirts and McCardles Ale good. But the second was on another dimension entirely. The dark witty sombre timbre of Leonard Cohen in the boxing stadium reeking of home grown weed. The still stoic beauty of his deep sonorous voice. I then made it to all his gigs including the 7pm and 9pm shows in 88 - when Dublin was great until he went Omm and disappeared up a Buddhist mountain. It took 20 plus years before he reappeared a groovy cultural icon In Kilmainham.
The clouds of homegrown gave way to champagne selling Citroën vans. And the earnest poets in dufflecoats were now trendy cunts in pink cashmere. But I spoke or shouted to Leonard "Please don't make us wait another 25 years."He took off his fedora, placed it over his heart and spoke back to me: "I don't think I have another 25 years in me."
Swoon.
Elvis orgasmic.
Beatles squeals.
I forgot the cunts in pink cashmere. And Gerry Adams behind. And sightings of Bertie Ahern. And the minister of something and his slightly alarmed missus sitting beside me in the front row and probably the rightful owners of the empty seat I had just colonised, Klaus Kinski in Fitzcaraldo like. I try:
"I might not have a ticket but I have a right."
But the humourless bouncer from Northern Ireland didn't agree. And wasn't hip to Herzog.
Leonard was now mid song and probably too preoccupied to save me.
Apparently the show wasn't all about me.
So with bouncer forehead almost kissing my nose, I left the front row to the pink cashmere cunts.
And discreetly claimed an empty seat in row 4.
Beggers, choosers.
And so there was beauty. And he was wonderful. You could waltz with his generosity of spirit and his true sense of delight at performing and at being received in such an adoring manner.
Here's to Buddhism.
He went up the mountain.
And he truly transcended worldly goods.
In other words his manager spent all his money.
So he had to dump the saffron and sushi.
And hit the road, Jack.
Then once he was on it, it seemed he couldn't stop coming back.
Once more and more.
Until cancer and the armies of old age threw up insurmountable barricades.
It was all very sad and moving.
But I preferred the pre Armani days.
Just Leonard alone strumming a guitar with his deep deep voice weaving a hypnotic spell of barbituate beauty.
Sadness so deep it shimmered.
That was my Leonard.
"I found a silver needle
I stuck it into my arm
It did some good
It did some harm
But the night was cold
And it almost made me warm
How come the night is long."
That Lorca like lyricism.
That was my Cohen.
Sure I was thrilled to see in the black Armani, surrounded by female beauty and him, bizarrely, tinkling with.a synthesiser.
In lesser hands it could have been cocaine narcissism.
A total disaster.
But Leonard wasn't hanging with Warhol or sitting with Trump in Club 54.
No, he may have been in a glittering tower but he was talking to Hank Williams.
