Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Charlie Sheen: Throwdown

Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.

At the risk of making us both sound as old as we are, I first saw you 25 years ago in Ferris Bueller's Day Off.  You looked like this:

"Damn, Martin Sheen looks good!" thought the audience.

I resembled a young Nicollette Sheridan (photo not provided).

These days I look like a middle-aged suburban wife and mother, but that's my problem.  Here are the latest images of you, Charlie:

This is what having tiger blood will do for you.
You're still a good-looking dude.  A tired, angry, crazy, coke-addled, megalomaniac good-looking dude.  You may be comfortable in your skin, Charlie, but the feeling isn't mutual.  Frankly, your skin looks like it's trying to pack the bags under your eyes and escape. 

You've been phenomenally entertaining over the last month or so.  More entertaining than "Two and a Half Men," which I watched once and decided it was OK but not compelling.  But your recent behavior is compelling.  I can't look away.  You may actually be, as you claim, a warlock.  Warlocks are insane, right?

Here's the thing, Charlie.  When people start comparing your life to performance art, they're not talking about Mummenschanz.  They're talking about John Belushi, Andy Kaufman, River Phoenix:  brilliant artists who made the world their stage, and then died on it.

Do you want to end up like Tiny Tim?
It's your life, Charlie.  You're a multimillionaire, and that limits the shit I give about your personal problems.    But here's the thing:  While you may not give a tinker's dam about your mortality, you've made me damn nervous about my own. 

Unlike you, I'm not into drugs, or whores, or shutting down the filters that keep me from appearing batshit crazy to the rest of humanity.  But I have been known to imbibe fermented potato juice to excess.  You don't hear about it on TMZ or Today, but I've suffered my share of hangovers, blackouts, drunk-emails, and interviews with Ralph on the porcelain couch.  I'm not proud of this - certainly less proud than you are of your binges - and I'm not working under the hypothesis that a) fabulous people never, ever, ever have to pay for their excesses and b) I'm just that fabulous.

So, Charlie, here's what I'm going to do.  Starting today, right now, I'm going to quit drinking.  No more booze for me.  Not until you die. 

Yep, I'm on the wagon until you're under it.  I'm sure you'd say (with that loopy Charlie Sheen bravado we all love) that means I won't take a drink until I'm in my 80s.  I say it'll be six months, tops.  Let's see who's right.

If you see this, Charlie, please know that I wish us both well.  It's just I expect to be drinking again by Labor Day.  What are your plans?

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