I write this column genuinely torn and reluctant to continue. There are so many more worthwhile and pressing topics that deserve the attention of exerted brain power. For example, the difficulty of rebuilding post−disaster Japan, the continuing struggle of rampant childhood obesity, and even the discussion of what my roommate's next−day outfit will be all warrant more time and consideration than this week's topic. In light of my self−disgust, it must be unclear as to why I even decided to write on such a worthless issue, then. To that, I can only say this: I give the readers what they want, and all anyone ever wants is to win.
I'm talking about Charlie Sheen, of course, and his newfound "winning" streak that seems to be ensuring the loss of his mind. As a celebrity long−plagued by drug abuse and emotional instability, Sheen recently checked himself into voluntary drug rehabilitation after a serious hospitalization. Found in poor condition amid evidence of "tennis ball−sized" amounts of cocaine and various call girls, Sheen's hospital trip and subsequent stint in rehab has precipitated a series of outrageous video proclamations, tweets and press events that document his deranged spiral into complete emotional disrepair. The phrase "train wreck" comes to mind, but I'm afraid that's far too cliché. Try "Hindenburg explosion."
I always have to marvel at the seemingly impossible phenomenon of a star's simultaneous disintegration and ascension in the world. Charlie Sheen is ushered from his home in a drug−induced stupor, and he becomes the single most−talked−about individual in most media circles. Though I have never been in such a situation as Sheen's, my less−graceful and less−tasteful moments in life are rarely rewarded with fascinated attention. There's a lot of general ridicule involved, and a distinct loss of self−respect, but ABC normally doesn't schedule an interview with me, not even once.
Sheen puts us all in a strange position emotionally. Watching at a safe distance, we can laugh at his antics with a sense of relief. Simultaneously, we feel compelled to pity a life so torn apart by his hell−bent self−destruction. All we can really do is shrug in the face of this conundrum, though, because honestly, how does a human being respond to the assertion made so sincerely by Sheen that "Phones were built by trolls?" One could cry with bewilderment, stare blankly with disbelief, or immediately call up the AT&T trolls to complain about one's malfunctioning iPhone.
We respond in all of these manners, but in so doing we also acknowledge a need to pay attention to Charlie Sheen in the first place. Does this not seem like madness itself? Even writing this column, I feel unbearable guilt for devoting any more time to the matter. A self−destruction so intently pursued, like Sheen's, seems a little less than comical, even when he promises to write a memoir called "Apocalypse Me: The Jaws of Life."
So what is it that draws the American population to this distinctly tasteless downward spiral? Why are we giving a man who says he might as well "marry a tree" instead of a woman any air time? Do we respect him, despise him or pity him?
It is the instinctual desire to watch the crash, to become bystanders to tragedy, to profit from another's loss that pulls us irresistibly to the site of Sheen's demise. With expiring sanity and a basket of issues to tote, Charlie Sheen faces a despairing end to his days. And what's our response? "Thank God that's not me." It's a little sick, and a little tasteless, but incredibly human.
Then again, what do I know? I'm not running on tiger blood, and am therefore an incredibly inferior human being.
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