Violent Spitball of Truth

So I hear the Torpedo of Truth bombed in Detroit last night. (Cue rimshot.) Charlie Sheen can never be accused of having a mere 15 minutes of fame, but he may be learning quickly that his "battle-tested bayonets" aren't as sharp as he thought. Just like anything else in pop culture, his recent antics that have delighted so many and sold countless t-shirts may already be growing weary on a public that is always ready to move on to the next big thing.

But is there still anything to learn from Charlie? He does seem to lob little spitballs of truth in his interviews and Tweets, and even people who are sickened by his drug abuse over the years are somehow drawn to his warrior philosophy. He puts out the idea that you can't live your life to please others, and some of us, who have always tried to be pleasers to our own detriment, find that kind of idea to be stimulating. There is some truth to the idea that a life dictated by others is not truly your own life. And maybe what we learn from Charlie's disaster in Detroit is that you take a shot and things, and if they don't work out, you still keep plugging away.

But I remain curious as to the attraction so many have to a guy who seems bent on destroying his life. Yes, he may be clean now. He's certainly willing to piss in a cup at the drop of a hat to prove it. But this philosophy of his was born from a lifestyle of pushing the limits, defying the law, alienating people who love him, and most recently, getting himself (and a lot of innocent people) put out of a job. That is nothing to admire. Yet, somehow, people do. And it's not just Sheen. I know I can't possibly be the only person who has ever written words for a living who imagined that if we could just get our hands on some absinthe and opium we could turn into Oscar Wilde. The drug addicts who thrive present an odd temptation. Who doesn't want Tiger Blood?

But there is a big truth in all this that can't be overlooked: we aren't Charlie Sheen. We don't have tiger blood. And neither does he. What he has is fame and money, and enough of both to keep an army of handlers and helpers around him, looking out for him, protecting him, saving him, and covering for him. That's how he's been able to thrive. If he was Joe Shmoe, he'd probably be dead or in prison, not on a stage in Detroit. And that's the truth.