Darling Readers, I hate Charlie Sheen, as much as I hate anyone, which really isn’t very much. Hate is a powerful word, one I occasionally use lightly—such as now.
Yesterday I woke early to take my son to another science competition. His brother and sister remained sleeping. I had only had a few hours of sleep and when I returned, I quietly retreated back to my cozy bed. I closed my eyes and had just begun to drift off when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Little Man was awake. He came into my room.
“Are we going to make brunch this morning?” he asked.
“It isn’t brunch-time,” I said, opening one eye. “I had hoped to sleep a little more.”
Dejected, he went into the kitchen and I heard him opening cupboards. He came back in. “We could make potatoes,” he said. “We have some.”
“I would like to sleep for another hour and then I can help you make brunch,” I said.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll just have cereal.”
It has been a long and busy week and I was exhausted. As he withdrew from my room, I was still feeling tired, but now also, guilty. I heard my son get his cereal, rinse the bowl, and go upstairs to read by himself. I closed my eyes, but my brain wouldn’t quiet for sleep to come. The house was still, but the outside world was awake and bustling. Finally, I reached for my laptop and gave my eyes to Charlie Sheen.
I gave the bastard an entire hour. To be fair to myself, I adore his father Martin, who in addition to some incredible performances, has done some fantastic political work. He is a heavy contributor and fundraiser for various causes, and a human rights advocate who has long been involved in efforts to close the School of the Americas. I was fond of the work of both of his boys as well, especially Charlie, on whom I had a huge crush early in his career. As a friend said, “Psychopaths can be utterly charming… until they get what they want.”
Then in 2009, Charlie knocked out his ex-wife. He shoved her and she hit her head on a sofa. Domestic violence can really ruin a relationship, whether between spouses, or between a celebrity and a fan. That wife, Brooke Mueller, seems to be taking her own demons and moving on. (She FINALLY petitioned for and received a restraining order only last week, and only after Charlie allegedly threatened to cut off her head and have it sent to her mother in a box.) Meanwhile, Charlie is “winning,” living high. He claims to have “tiger blood,” “Adonis DNA,” and his only setting is “GO.” He has been living with his two vacuous twenty-four-year-old “goddesses,” one of whom is a porn star, who looks about twelve without her make-up. She reported that in bed, the goddesses did whatever Charlie wanted. For some men, I’m sure that is “winning,” even if the guy is clearly mental.
Never mind that he lost his job (show canceled because of his antics), and as of yesterday—yes, I even looked at his twitter page though I REFUSE to follow him—lost one of his girlfriends, the porn star, Bree Olson aka Rachel Olberlin, whose own twitter page is outrageous, sad, and not safe for work, children, or respectable people. Charlie tweeted: “Update: Sober Valley Lodge; Rachel has left the building…, We’re sad…. Over it… Applications now being accepted!”
Anyone care to submit an application to be Charlie’s next disposable piece of ass? (It would seem there are some occupational hazards, and I am not only referring to STIs, here.) Rachel Oberlin/Bree Olson tweeted on February 9: “Oh my gosh, I’m growing a conscience. Don’t come yet, maybe in a few years, I need to continue being a wild crazy slut for now. Thanks. Bye.” I am really hoping that poor girl finds Jesus or something.
Mine are not the only eyes on Charlie. He picked up a record-setting one million twitter followers in less than twenty-four hours. He is taking up column space on pages that should be covering things that we should and do really care about, things that often require us to do something. All Charlie asks of us is that we bear witness to his wrecking train. We can even pass judgment. As long as we keep watching, he doesn’t care.
So went an hour of my life, gone. It was an hour I could have spent making breakfast instead of brunch with a son who just wanted to hang out with me. It was an hour I could have spent doing any of a long list of things that need doing. It was an hour I could have spent better in any creative or productive endeavor, but instead, I spent it feeding Charlie, and I’m not the only one. Sheen may be “winning” but he makes those of us who stare at him into losers. I hate Charlie Sheen, almost as much as my own lack of self-discipline.
Farewell, Charlie. (I mean that, really.)