The lowest point of my relationship with Jenna was a night back in 2001 when I came home, late and drunk, and our screaming at each other escalated into her slapping me in the face four times. I grabbed her slapping arm, pinned her to the wall by the neck with my forearm (hard, harder than was necessary to merely subdue her), and told her she better chill the fuck out or I’d fuck her up, etc. I asked her if she was finished slapping me. She said yes. I let her go and she nearly knocked me out with a steel toed boot that she threw at my head. That happened once. Most of the time, though, we just laugh our heads off.
I know what you’re thinking. I should’ve left Jenna for hitting me and you wish the rest of Jenna’s life was ruined and you hope she rots in hell for eternity. Oh wait. You weren’t thinking that? Weird.
Well, nevermind. That’s not even my point (even though it’s a good one). My point is that I’m glad my marriage isn’t defined by it’s lowest point. I’m glad that my whole life isn’t defined by its lowest point. And I’m glad your life isn’t defined by the worst thing you ever did. Because that would suck. It wouldn’t be fair.
What’s the worst thing you ever did? No. I mean the thing you’ve never told anyone. Yeah. That one. Now. What I want you to do is imagine that moment of your worst nastiness as your definition. Can you imagine? Stop. Really imagine it. Your worst moment. That’s who you are. You got it? Sucks, doesn’t it? And that’s just in your head. Now flash it around the world with the blinding speed of the gossip media. There. Now you’re Mel Gibson.
Relax. I’ll get to the tapes.
But first, Popular Opinion, could we at least acknowledge that a major chunk of Mel Gibson’s monstrosity is alleged? In spite of our desire and tendency to leap to conclusions that destroy people, we don’t really know what happened in the Gibson crib on January 6th. Just a little bit of Googling will turn up stories about there being no external or internal soft tissue damage in or around Oksana Grigorieva’s mouth, which doesn’t shore up with being punched in the face. Other stories say she was punched in the face. Or the temple. From what I can gather, she can’t make up her mind about where she was punched. The bottom line is that she says he smacked her, he says he didn’t, and we don’t know who’s lying.
But, and this is interesting, how many times have you imagined that he didn’t hit her? About none, right? And I’m wondering why. Maybe it’s just not as gratifying to imagine Mel telling the truth. Oksana being the villain doesn’t call out the mob like Mel. Less of a career to destroy? Hard to tell. But what if, as one of TMZ’s expert sources suggests, Grigorieva’s injuries were self-inflicted? I’m not saying they were. How would I know? I’m just wondering why none of us are writing stories about how this terrible woman faked her injuries to make Mel Gibson look like a woman beater so she could get full custody of their daughter? She’d have motive. Have you heard the way he talks to her?
Which brings me to the way he talks to her. The tapes. Obviously, there’s no way to defend the tapes. Have you heard them? He’s absolutely out of his fucking mind. However, in terms of your ability to relate to Mel Gibson, you’ve either been that angry or you haven’t. If you’ve been that angry, then maybe you’re less inclined to stone Mel Gibson to death. If you’ve never been that angry, then of course you retain your right to be self-righteous and better than Mel Gibson, dictating the details of his demise from the throne of your betterness. Congratulations. You have great self-control. You play well with others.
Or do you?
Battle rage, bloodlust, and slaughter are functions of Ares, the Greek god of war. He’s been around awhile – check your history books – and he’s not going anywhere – read the papers. He’s not going to be educated away with startling statistics, horrific images, and anger management techniques. He’s embedded in the foundation of our culture and he thrives inside our veins, making our blood boil. And if you think I’m trying to explain away and justify the actions of Mel Gibson, then you better find a mirror. The same rage that shouts rabid obscenities at Oksana Grigorieva calls for Mel Gibson’s head. It’s just more considered, better crafted, and refined. Refined violence. Bloodlust posing as justice. Truth be told, I’d rather be punched in the fucking mouth.
If you pause a moment and listen closely to all the talk about Mel Gibson… shhh… listen… it sounds like a telephone call from Mel Gibson.
*
I had this friend once. Best friend of my life. Used to lose his mind like Mel fucking Gibson. No shit. I’m being straight with you. He’s the reason I wrote this. Those Mel Gibson tapes. They brought back haunting memories. They made me gasp. Because this guy. When he drank, he’d go crazy. Out of his mind. He called me a bunch of names like “cunt” and “motherfucker”, accused me of absurd crimes, and sometimes he’d even take a swipe at me. Threw a footstool at me once. But here’s the thing. And on this you’ll just have to take my word for it. He was so purely good. He was so fucking good that, when he’d lose his mind like that, it was like you couldn’t believe it. It didn’t compute. It rocked you. When he was drunk and “in a mood”, he hated you with so much intensity that it was impossible to take personally. Don’t get me wrong. It was terrible. I’m probably still wounded by it. But it was way too intense to be about me. It was sludgy bile. Rage. Unbridled. He was crazy. And, eventually, he stabbed himself to death.
Now I lay no claim to Mel Gibson being, on his better days, the greatest guy in the world. I don’t know him. But I recognize his rage and it’s shortsighted and unfair to assess his character and condemn his life’s work on the basis of a few blind rages. When you consider that Robyn Gibson came forward to say “Mel never engaged in any physical abuse of any kind toward me before, during, or after our marriage [of nearly 30 years]. Mel was a wonderful and loving father [to their seven children].”, that ought to carry some weight. Now I know that for a lot of you, it doesn’t, that you genuinely believe Mel Gibson should suffer forever and sleep on a bed of burning hot coals (maybe he should stab himself to death) because he said a bunch of mean shit on the telephone, but you’re wrong. You’re caught inside your own muck of wrath and rage and desire for revenge and, frankly, you’re freaking me out.
Mel Gibson said some heinous shit. He couldn’t even breathe. He was winded by the audacity of his own outlandish lunacy. But honestly. I said honestly. Do you think Mel Gibson, right now, stands by all the venomous shit he spewed in a few frothy blind rages? Really? Of course he doesn’t. He was out of control and out of his mind and veracity of content wasn’t his primary concern. He was slinging arrows. You’ve never slung any arrows? I’m smiling at you. You’ve never went off on a lover? No? How about behind their back? You ever shot an arrow at their back of a lover who wronged you? No? Well maybe you really are an angel but Mel Gibson didn’t invent the whole “out of his mind lover going off” bit. Go read Shakespeare.
Mel Gibson is a bipolar drunk with some backwards opinions who makes lame movies. And from the sound of his rants, he’s a spoiled rotten jerk who’s probably right in the middle of realizing that he ruined 30 good years with a good woman for someone who loved his money more than him. That’s a tough pill. And probably punishment enough, unless he committed some crimes for which we have a legal system. But some of you would only be satisfied with a ruined life and career. Some of you would even be happy if he killed himself. And I just wrote this to tell you that wishing suffering and death on another is as crazy as Mel Gibson.
. . . . .
BHJ likes the way Mel Gibson gave Robert Downey Jr. a chance because we deserve them.


