Anatomy of a Dickhead
THE WEEK FROM MY VIEW
My Shriekin’ Rican, Willy, has been very excited about today for a couple of weeks now. “Ju know,” he said the other day in the kitchen. “It’s berry good to start anything on this day. It’s once, once, once—eleben, eleben, eleben—which in numerology means…”
“Stop,” I interjected. “That’s too much bullshit for my first cup of coffee.”
“Okay. Anyway, we gonna have a pahty.”
I’m still trying to figure out if there’s some poetic meaning behind the Spanish spelling of eleven being ‘once’ and it being repeated three times today, but it just reads like a repetitious excerpt from a sentence in an early Hemingway novel. It has no meaning symbolically any more than it does numerologically. Still, we are launching this new segment of the blog on this auspicious day, 11.11.11, which is a sort of Week in Review the New York Times would never run, but which hopefully will be entirely inappropriate in an apropos PFC kinda way.
The “venerable” Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, always a bit of a giggle as a name to begin with, finally revealed just how out of touch it is with, well, everything in general by hiring and then basically firing über-crapmeister and major dickhead Brett Ratner, of all people, to produce next year’s Oscar telecast. The only thing that man should be allowed to produce is a sleazy orgy at the Playboy Mansion, if that. Ratner showed just how classy he is by declaring that “rehearsing is for fags” when asked how he was going to put together the show, which implies that it was going to be entirely improvised because as we well know Ratner is rabidly heterosexual and presumably means only perfectionist homos with a sense of showmanship and good taste would bother to rehearse something as insignificant as the Academy Awards.
This reminds me of an A-list director friend of mine, who is responsible for one of the more colossal box office flops of this past summer, who said to me while he was prepping to direct his first movie, “Filmmaking is for guys with small dicks.” I guess that making complicated Gatorade commercials means you’re well hung. Or even not-so-complicated ones for Ross Dress For Less. I’m not sure what this makes Ratner, whose recent piece of shit is Tower Heist. I can’t even wrap my mind around whether he is well hung or not.
Following the debacle and his resignation, Ratner said something to the effect that he was happy to have the opportunity to engage in a dialogue with GLAAD, or The Swish Inquisition, as I like to call the guardians of gay moral rectitude. I just cannot imagine Ratner being anything of the sort. The reality is, he’s sitting around Eddie Murphy’s stucco mini-palace in Beverly Park doing lines and making punny jokes about being “so glaaaad I’m outta that gay Oscar ceremony.” Because, let’s face it, the Oscars are pretty gay.
One thing GLAAD is certainly not glad about is the Sandusky scandal; there is nothing that defames us more than some granddad who has not just been molesting and raping boys for decades, he’s spent his whole life creating a structure to entrap them and have his way. When a straight pedo gets caught, nobody thinks that all straight people are pedophiles, but it isn’t the same for us. When Michael Jackson was on trial for the same thing, luckily few people made the association that he was gay, even though he clearly was. He was just too much of a freak to belong to any group other than himself.
The riots at Penn State over Joe Paterno’s firing were jaw-dropping, more embarrassing for Americans than soccer hooliganism is for the Brits. A man who turns a blind eye to the fact his second-in-command was seen by another assistant sodomizing a 10-year-old in the locker rooms not only deserves to be fired, he should be put on trial as an accessory to a crime and made to serve out the rest of his days in a federal penitentiary.
Personally, I just don’t find children sexy in the least. In fact, with the exception of my nieces, I find most of them annoying and avoid them at all costs. As the serial killer of serial killers, Dexter, noted on season two of his eponymously titled show just before he disposed of a serial pedophile, who was unwisely stalking Dexter’s own step-children, child molesters cannot be reformed any more than sociopaths can. It’s just faulty hard wiring in the brain. Throw them all in jail for life, I say, the Catholic clergy included.
So, Paterno gets fired for turning a blind eye, but what about Pope Benedict? He even got promoted, despite the fact he oversaw the church’s inquisition into sex abuse by the clergy, or rather pulled a wool cassock over everyone’s eyes. It is moments like this you regret there isn’t a hell.
Despite his evangelical beliefs and his muddled political stance, and the fact he is a first-class dickhead, I find Rick Perry attractive. I would definitely sodomize him in a locker room, provided he didn’t have that awful hairstyle, which hasn’t changed for white politicians or Goldman Sachs partners in over fifty years. His “Ooops” brain freeze moment this week during the Republican debates even gave him a dumb jock quality that makes me extra randy. If he started sporting a crew cut, I might have to stalk him.
I am watching Jon Huntsman keenly. He seems to be wisely giving his competitors enough rope to hang themselves, waiting for the right moment to step up to the plate himself, and conceivably give Obama, who doesn’t sport a white politician’s hairdo, a run for his money. I wouldn’t be thrilled, but I would feel comfortable with Huntsman in the White House.
To be absolutely honest, if there were no other choice but to have a Republican president, I would want Arnold Shwarzenegger. I have grown really fond of the guy since his stint as the Governor of California. He really tried his best to clean the state up, and failed, but failed cheerfully. I even like the fact he had a child with the fat bitch housekeeper. A bricklayer from Austria comes to the US… well, you know the story. It’s an amazing one, and something I admire from strictly a storytelling point of view.
Our last dickhead this week is Silvio Berlusconi. Finally, FINALLY, he is out. His was one of those surreal aspects of Italy that makes you realize that Fellini didn’t move from Neo-realism to surrealism starting with 8 ½, he simply moved to an even more realistic impression of Italian culture. Italy, like India, is another planet completely, without the Indian work ethic.
There is a reason I haven’t been back to Italy since my early 20s, and that I have no Italian friends left, despite growing up there. I just can’t think what that reason is. Perhaps I just had enough. I love the food, but I still cook mainly Indian and Chinese. Having said that, my favorite sandwich, or panino (it drives me crazy that Americans and Brits use panini in the singular when it’s plural), is still prosciutto, mozzarella and tomato, toasted and dribbled with olive oil. I had one yesterday at Bertoni’s on Biscayne here in Miami and it was perfection.
I hope the European Union holds, even though I am all for the ouster of Greece, and perhaps Spain, Portugal and Italy. Having grown up there—even worse having worked for Italians—I have no idea how their economy functions. It would seem to me that a country’s credit-worthiness should be based on income from taxes, so I’m a bit at sea as to how a country operates as a viable economy when everyone is successfully dodging taxes, and they proudly sum up their work ethic as dolce far’ niente, sweet doing nothing.
But it looks like both the Italians and the Greeks are going to have to pull their socks up, finally. It’s not going to be over night, but it’ll be interesting to see what will happen over the next few decades. Unlike sociopaths and pedophiles, cultures can change. As long as one always eats well in Italy, things can only improve.
I leave you with a Schizo of the Week, Ray, who allowed me to take this picture, but unfortunately he appears to be of the paranoid variety of schizophrenic because he became convinced I was a cop spying on him, despite the fact every time I passed him playing his guitar outside a pawn shop I was wearing gym clothes. I also doubt the Miami police force allows cops to look like me: