In Defense Of Charlie Sheen
I imagine that up until recently, Charlie Sheen’s days went something like this:
Noon or so: Awakening in a mansion to wonderfully raunchy sex with a drop dead gorgeous model and a dead-sexy porn star, perhaps with a few stout hits from a crack pipe in between orgasms.
Whenever: Heading to the studio to make 1.8 million per episode via playing himself on the most popular show on television.
Some time after: More cocaine, champagne, and additional sex with “his goddesses.” Upscale partying. Some meals in there somewhere. Sleep. Repeat.
That said, the average American man’s day unfolds like this:
7 a.m. or so: Waking up in suburbia to an out-of-shape wife who was probably never especially interested in sex to begin with. Prozac or equivalent. Bacon and eggs. Traffic on the drive to a run-of-the-mill 9-5.
Some time after: Miller Light. Spacing out. More food. Dozing in front of the television while watching Sheen smirk on the screen. Shitty sex under the covers, lights off, after Conan O’Brien. Sleep. Repeat….
Given the choice, most men would rather wake up in a mansion, smoke crack and have many a menage a trois with straight 10’s, hit the town in style, and get paid millions to amuse people on camera, than swallow shitty beer after coming home from a tedious job to have lackluster sex with a chubby wife. And that chubby wife would rather have much of the same, including wild sex with a coked-out, Viagra-chomping media monster bad boy, as opposed to uninspired missionary with her near-flaccid, disinterested husband. Period. But regular human beings feel subconscious guilt for desiring what they think they shouldn’t, so when someone – a star – makes a circus of himself, pointing their fingers and rolling their eyes makes them feel just a little bit better about their remarkably ordinary lives, and less bad about wanting exactly what the man they’re watching has. Focusing on “that madman” allows them to detract from their own discontentment, as well as their shortcomings. But I’ve got news: Charlie isn’t mad. He’s funny, ironic, struggling with a lot of demons (they seem to run in the family), and absolutely fucking brilliant. But again, he is not insane. Insane people aren’t aware of their various psychological malfunctions. Sheen is perfectly cognizant of what he has let himself become, of what others (fans, the media, Hollywood) do and do not want him to be, of what is and is not expected of him, and so on. And he doesn’t give a fuck. He says and does what he wants, is completely honest about his numerous indiscretions, hams things up, embraces the image, laughs at people laughing at what they don’t understand, laughs at himself, parodies himself, flips off the system, manipulates the system, and then sits back to watch it all unfold. Sure, he was recently fired. But who gives a shit. Not him. He’s broken a world record with Twitter hits. He’s secured a deal with them (Twitter). He’s announced that he’ll be making a tour, on which he’ll be spouting off his very witty and often hilarious one-liners. He’ll make plenty of money, much as he has done for AIDS and cancer research. At the end of the day, he’s crazy like a fox. So shut the fuck up.