I’m not going to Tel Aviv. I’ve been insistent and consistent about this. My Sensei hasn’t listened, and now he expects me to fly to the Middle East just to spend some time with him. He’s telling me the same story he’s told me dozens and dozens of times—he even told it to Howard Stern in 2009, years before we met: when he was friends with Lindsay Lohan, he’s just met Eli Roth, and because Roth followed him everywhere he went, Lohan assumed that Roth was My Sensei’s assistant. “I didn’t have a cell phone then. I held out.” I know this about him; believe me, he’s still impossible to reach. I’m not surprised he spends half of the year in Israel—nothing’s getting through that Iron Dome.
“They don’t have Chicken Rico there. You’re safe.” I wasn’t aware I was in danger of becoming ensnared in a RICO case. What does “RICO” stand for anyway? That’s some politics-shit for policycels. I prefer reading contemporary fiction, especially abuelita tenderslop and profoundcore. Modern publishing is regularly criticized for underestimating and insulting the intelligence of its readers, and they are, but only the human ones. And the dumber animals, like dolphins and apes. “Chickens,” for example, can see through their lies. “Who’s ‘they’?” you ask. You know. You know who “they” is. Don’t gaslight me. There’s a magic word for you.
In the end, I decided to go. The Oscars are this weekend and I’m getting sick of hearing about them. I hope Chalamet loses, obviously. He’s a terrible actor with dead eyes. No no good man, he a bad man (patois).
Now I’m in Israel. Fear in the air. My Sensei can’t feel it, but I can, just from reading recent reports of his latest project, a “trouser dropping” British farce set to debut in London’s West End sometime next year, possibly even by the end of 2026. Our favorite inside source—some hoe named Alison—spilled the beans and revealed that My Sensei “has written this himself. It is not based on any of his films. It is a farce, in the British, Noises Off tradition.” Wonderful. Is he aware that Peter Bogdanovich already made a film of Noises Off in 1992 that did absolutely nothing? He must be—Bogdanovich was living on My Sensei’s property for a few years in the late-1990s and early-2000s. One of My Sensei’s favorite movies is They All Laughed, Bogdanovich’s 1981 comic romantic masterpiece. Bogdanovich even admitted that he had to tell My Sensei to be quiet when they were watching the movie—he was reciting the dialogue, all of it. Maybe that’s why he thinks he can star in his own play.
But I thought you were negotiating with “major Hollywood actors”? That’s what the “scoop” said, anyway. “What, am I not a major Hollywood actor? I was in Little Nicky. I was in Sleep With Me. I was the star of Destiny Turns on the Radio.” But that was the 1990s, things are different now. “Not on my sets,” My Sensei huffed, “and not on my stage.” Is he aware that the vampires are already out to get him? “Of course,” he says, “but why pay attention to people who can’t even figure out why they’re unhappy in the first place? If someone spends more than 10 minutes of their time slagging someone else, it’s because they’re not happy with themselves. And you know what? That’s not my problem.”
I tried to show him the opening and closing lines of the first paragraph of The AV Club’s report on his new play. “I don’t want to read it,” he said. I started reading it out loud. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to check the bomb shelter and make sure I have enough Len Deighton paperbacks.” So I read some bullshit by Matt Schimkowitz to an empty room, somewhere in Tel Aviv: “Perhaps realizing that Once Upon a Time… In Hollywood was the perfect endpoint for his career, Quentin Tarantino has yet to make good on the oft-repeated promise that his 10th film will be his last… Plus, he’s been keeping busy by ‘moving back and forth between [Hollywood] and Israel’ and publicly insulting Matthew Lillard and Paul Dano. Who has the time?”
Nerd alert! At least he recognizes that Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is a masterpiece. I’m confident that My Sensei can top it, and so is he; if people perceive his forays into theater and writing for other directors as “stalling,” that’s their problem. They have worms in their brain. It’s crazy. Who “stalls” by writing a screenplay and staging a play? They’re just mad because My Sensei got everything he wanted, and continues to do so. Winning is his middle name. No wonder he’s loathed by pussies and losers who hate Israel and use magic words to get each other in trouble. “I can say it,” My Sensei said on The Howard Stern Show, and many other places, in the 1990s; and we all know what “it” is. I think a lot of people are jealous that he gets to say “it,” because they would like to say “it,” or perhaps feel restrained by their pathological inability to say “it,” even when no one’s looking or listening. Is it a disease? No, just cult thinking: I finally understand how those people could be tricked into going to Jonestown.
My work on The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth is over, aside from some ADR and sound effects work I was promised back in Los Angeles by Mr. Fincher—they’re trying to get me into SAG. They’re nice, the Netflix people. But we’re not close. We’re not “buddies.” My Sensei is my buddy, and my teacher, and, of course, My Sensei. Will I be auditioning for his new play? “No need,” he tells me, “I wrote you a part.” Rehearsals start in May. Am I the cat’s pajamas or am I the cat’s pajamas? Neither: I am Bennington, star of screen and stage, ready for my close-up and the glare of the footlights. Trust me: London will never be the same.
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