11 de Octubre, 2006
Mel Escapes Oaxaca But Abandons His Soul
HERE ON THE UNAPOLOGETIC MELWATCH®, we have been alerted to the reemergence of The Gibson by various sources, and as we have sworn a life-long vow to call attention to la locura de Gibson Jr., the path remains clear. While some of our dear readers may protest and think we're just being too hard on the young Holocaust-denier, others will cheer our tireless quest on, for they know: there is not now, nor shall there shall never be, any rest for the wicked, Amen.
Don't mistake the agenda. I knock these bones against mi Meleffigy not to disparage the alcoholic members of the audience. I am not against alcoholics. Some of my best friends, dearest family members (and favorite writers) have been alcoholics. Shit, who here hasn't woken up married to a prostitute from Vegas with a strange tattoo on their face all because of a drink they couldn't turn down?! We (here at The Unapologetic Melwatch, etc) don't point out his idiocy based on the prodigious amounts of booze—per se—he drinks before assaulting policemen. Given the humble admission of that spiritual faultline that digs and zags across the pretty (metaphorical) cheek of every human be-ing; the admission of one's wrong, and an honest attempt at a better Way are the behaviors displayed by the best of us. If only every person with a shortcoming or flaw could face it so bravely and boldly.
But Mel "Alcohol brings out the Jew-Hater in Me" Gibson does not approach with truth in his palm. He does not enter the sanctum of confession with a willingness to blow up his own spot in the Name of All that Is The Real Dealz. No, Mel remains, after his sleighride through a treatment facility (don't ask me why a sleighride the image just pleases me) blames the bared moments of his philosophical breast on Oaxaca! This shameless bastard, not satisfied with pillaging the history of the Mayan people, now makes the devil-like qualities of Oaxaca and her brew the scapegoat for his own inner ghosts and marauders.
Clean shaven and casually dressed in jeans and a blue checkered shirt, Gibson tells Sawyer he began drinking two months before sheriff's deputies arrested him in Malibu on July 28.
'Years go by, you're fine,' he says. "And then all of a sudden in a heartbeat, in an instant, on an impulse, somebody shoves a glass of Mescal in front of your nose and says, `It's from Oaxaca.' And it's burning its way through your esophagus and you go, `Oh man, what did I do that for? I can't put the toothpaste back in the tube.'"
—Oaxaca survivor, Mel Gibson (Diane Sawyer interview)
And with that earnest admission, the joke ends. Because what Mister Gibson says ought to be minded by each and every one of us.
Sure, you think you're fine, now. Report to camp, get your medals, hit the lights on time, memorize all the right lines. But one day when you're not expecting it, some wizened, patchouli-wafty, twinkle-eyed devil from Oaxaca may (on his own "impulse") sidle up next to you and slip a brain-bullet under your tongue. And before you know it, you'll be staggering in traffic, and espousing views that you never knew you had; views that you find detestable, and monstrous. There'll be nothing you can do, after that, except Blame it on Oaxaca (like the song). After all, who can argue this? Any sensible person understands that a good ole fella like Mel "Good Clean Fun" Gibson exposed to the lawless, limitless, hedonistic, potion-brewing notions of Oaxaca would instantly be corrupted.
Keep on the watch! Be on guard for those words of hypnotism that will warp and melt your personal steadfast vows with thier ancient, hypnotizing beat:
It's From Oaxaca. . .