Thursday, January 15, 2004

The Penn is Mightier than the Scimetar

Apparently the Penn is mightier than the scimetar ... The SEAN PENN! You better recognize, readers, the man who tied ... allegedly tied Madonna to a chair and walked away. American Spirits are wacky cigarettes ... ask Sean.

Anyhoo: Beat-poet wannabe extraordinaire Sean Penn (no, not Johnny Depp) pens the second part of his long-awaited freelance report on Iraq for the San Fransisco Chronicle. As expected, the report reads like Jack Kerouac doing melodrama (which is, I guess, Jack London) and, to borrow from alleged swindler Martha Stewart ... that's a good thing. Oh, how good for the shadenfreude:

"As darkness descends, the sound of gunshots intensifies. On this night I'm determined to make my way across town to meet with Rob Collier of The Chronicle.

(The Corsair sits close to screen, lotus-style, munching salt free popcorn, fascinated, yet simultaneously trying to concentrate on the Diamond Sutra)

"My taxi arrives at about 9 p.m., and one of the staff of the Institute for War and Peace Reporting gives the Arabic-speaking cabdriver directions to the restaurant where I'm to meet with Collier (I'll get a goddamn lamb chop yet). I grab my video camera, slip the button to 'night shot,' and my driver and I hit the road."

Lambchops notwithstanding, Our Man Penn's straightforward fly-on-the-wall reportage style gets into some ointment, Baathist-style (no doubt, checkit):

"As I am about to shut off the camera, I sense a bright light over my right shoulder. Keeping the camera to my eye, I pan past the windshield to where on the right shoulder, six armed Iraqis mill about beside a sandbag- fortified position, housing a long-gunner in front of a nondescript building. We are moving into some traffic as I pan the camera through the passenger-side window. One of the armed men screams something in Arabic at me and raises his rifle toward my camera. We are suddenly stuck in traffic."

(The Corsair inches closer, curiosity piqued)

Sean continues:

"I switch off the camera and drop it at my feet as more rifles and voices rise and move toward us. I suddenly fear that my driver might attempt to accelerate and somehow escape. Every instinct tells me that the soldiers would fire on us if he did. I know he doesn't speak English, so I use the universal, 'Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!'"

Whoa! What the fuck? Penn is quoting Jeff Spicoli in a life-death Mujehadein situation? Is that a method actor or what? Dedication: thy name is Sean.

Seriously, though: You mean that wannabe Beat writer Sean Penn is really in the thick of things? Okay, now let's get back to the narrative ... armed Arabic-speaking men are approaching the papparazzi-puncher. He tells his driver to whoa, and not gun the accelerator:

"(The driver) whoas and we are surrounded at gunpoint by six guards as they pull us from the taxi. There is a lot of shouting, and my driver looks frightened. We are ushered out of the illuminated area of the street and now, standing in a darkened Baghdad alley, my legs spread, arms extended, I am circled by six leather-jacketed Iraqis, their Kalashnikov rifles trained on me.

"Here is what comes to my mind: 'Dear Phil Bronstein, please accept my formal resignation from journalism. My understanding is that Giorgio Armani is sending a new linen suit to my California home, and I would like to supply it a body as intact as possible, as the suit is tailored. P.S.: I miss lamb chops.' "

Fucking Phil Bronstein! Mr. Sharon Stone.(The Corsair tosses his empty bag of popcorn in the air) I knew it. It was the macho that hit me as the tip off. Every wanna be tough guy journo is seperated from Phil Bronstein by Six Degrees!

But I digress. You have to read this account. It's actually really interesting if you can suspend judgement.








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