Paninis of My Sensei

We’re editing. We’re in the cutting room. We’re “in the edit.” There’s lots of stuff landing on the cutting room floor, but rest assured, not a single frame of The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth containing me will be absent from the final product. I’m not a product of DEI, I’m not an affirmative action rooster—but I am myself, Bennington, and that causes problems. People really don’t like it when you’re an individual; when you question something they take for granted, they become suspicious. They begin to think you’re “one of them,” whatever that means. There’s no getting through to these people, but that doesn’t mean that you have to jettison them out of your life. There’s nothing wrong with a diversity of opinion—unfortunately, many don’t agree.

My Sensei and I get along on this issue. He’s an iconoclast, an individual, and someone who is not to be mothafucked with. He’s not susceptible to what Democrats call “fuckery.” He’s had to apologize and face the music a few times in his career—most notably when Harvey Weinstein was taken down and The New York Times obtained footage of a car crash injuring Uma Thurman on the set of Kill Bill—but his apologies were sincere. He meant it. At the same time, if anyone thinks My Sensei is going to take back his Paul Dano comments, oh boy, believe me, you are wrong. “Oh,” you say, clutching your pearls, “but he was so mean. He was so not nice.” So what? That’s his right. My Sensei didn’t say anything we haven’t said before. It’s not just frivolous to compare My Sensei’s previous misdeeds—for associating with serial rapist Harvey Weinstein and Uma Thurman’s injuries—to his recent comments on acting, it’s repulsive.

This is a brave man. He came from nothing, went nowhere for most of his 20s, and emerged in his early-30s as one of the premiere directors in world cinema, and has built a tremendous body of work since. And people who’ve done far less with their lives are always the first to criticize him. It’s not right. I mean, of course it’s their right, but what a terrible waste of time, energy, and emotion. There’s no point in getting riled up; one day, he might insult a friend or family member, and that’s when you’ve got to go gloves off. Remember, life is a cabaret, old chum, so take every opportunity to dance and bash someone’s face in when they deserve it (kidding).

My Sensei is making paninis, a sandwich you don’t hear about so much anymore. Why? “I think Panera Bread sort of lost it. They had a certain cachet in the mid-2000s, but they’ve declined in quality just like every other ‘fast casual’ chain. I only go to Chipotle when I’m on the road, and even then only when I’m really desperate, but I love Mexican food so sometimes you gotta bite the bullet. Wow. It’s horrible now.” My Sensei eats at Chipotle? My Sensei eats at Chipotle. You’re telling me this for the first time. “I usually get the jerk chicken, yeah.” They deserve rude roosters? I might be on the menu.

I thought My Sensei didn’t eat meat… I was wrong. I was very, very wrong. I asked him again why he thought it was okay to eat “chicken” as he calls it. Suddenly he affected an exaggerated Cajun accent, jumped up onto the table, and began singing the “The Trolley Song” in full Jamaican patois. I won’t risk my life by quoting it, but trust me, it was more entertaining than most movies I see in any given year. Except those by My Sensei.

I’ll have to ponder his troubling admission. Was I so blind? Could he perhaps just be “fucking with me,” as they say? No… like I said, My Sensei doesn’t engage in “fuckery.” This is a quandary that can be solved by only one thing: four hours of online chess and eight rounds of bootleg Wordle. The New York Times only lets you play once a day, which is insane, because I’m addicted to it and need more, always. You wanna know what yesterday’s word was on bootleg “Werdle”? The word was “BACON.”

Trust no one. The enemy is everywhere.

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