For the past few months, Charlie Sheen has given our distraction-hungry culture a particularly delectable snack. "Hey look over here!" he grins. His grandiose, self-delusional bragging, his unapologetic hedonism, and his remarkable ability—whether it's a result of mental illness, years of heavy drug use, that "Adonis DNA," or a combination of the three—to call the broken parts of his life whole is stunning.
The disturbed actor has been offering us the intimate details of his life on a plate, and we've been grabbing them by the handful, wolfing them down, and licking our fingers in expectation for the next course. But, after a few weeks of noshing on Charlie's braggadocio and the perverse details of his life, the novelty of it is—forgive me—losing its sheen. We're sick of hearing about him, but no worries: there's an app for that.
Our culture wipes its mouth with the back of its hand and glances absentmindedly around the room. What's next, we wonder. We want ...1