An Open Letter to North America Regarding The Charlie Sheen Situation

Dear North America,

I'll begin this letter by sharing a personal anecdote. When Charlie Sheen exploded/imploded into media consciousness a few weeks back, my reaction was as follows: hearty chuckle, followed by an "Oh, that Charlie Sheen, he's so wacky", followed by "Actually, no, he has a history of spousal abuse, some serious issues, and is also responsible for the well-being of several children, a task he's clearly ill-prepared for. This isn't wacky. This is fucking SAD."

Evidently, this was not the reaction shared by many of you. You followed him on Twitter, you made his quotes into catchphrases, and you probably continued to watch re-runs of Two And A Half Men, although maybe it was 7pm on a Tuesday, you were tired, and the remote had fallen behind the couch, so I suppose it's justifiable. But mostly, when he took his meltdown on tour, you bought tickets.

And, the result was not good. Sheen was booed during his first show, with most of the audience fleeing and many of them demanding refunds. Let's look at a few quotes from this Associated Press article about Sheen's debacle in Detroit. "'It's kind of like a NASCAR race. You're just tuning in because you're just waiting for the accident to happen,' said Prentice, 37." "Adam Hawke said he bought a ticket for the same reason. 'He might be doing something really crazy,' said Hawke, 47, who works in the construction business and lives in Michigan. 'He's a wreck. That's half the draw.'"

To which I say: NO REFUNDS FOR ANY OF YOU. If you wanted a wreck, an accident, there it is. Sheen didn't let you down, he delivered exactly what you loved weeks ago, except this time there was no protective screen. His physical presence made you confront his humanity- and you realized that what's funny on YouTube isn't necessarily so funny when it's being yelled at you in a bus stop or on stage.

And since you so badly want to see a human being flame out, I'm glad that pleasure has a high price tag: at least $45 dollars, plus two hours in a room with a bitter man in a bowling shirt.

Cordially yours,
Portagitron.