By Judith Gayle | Political Waves
Some things stretch credulity so far that they’re in danger of snapping the delusional rubber band that too often serves as the American brain stem. How many believe, for instance, that a semi-conscious Michael Jackson, zonked to the gills on a cocktail of pharmaceuticals and wafting in propofol-induced twilight sleep, waited for his doctor to leave the room and then gave himself another, and fatal, dose? Doesn’t it take an almost mystical suspension of disbelief to consider a man so comatose capable of helping himself to another vial of moon-juice and a one-way ticket to the Big Tree House in the Sky? And shouldn’t we ponder, for even a moment, the accused Dr. Conrad Murray’s plea of innocence? But when a man receives a salary of $150,000 a month, is it terribly cynical to think he wasn’t hired to pass out Tylenol?
OK, here’s another. How many believe that Charlie Sheen, sardonic second-generation actor and drug-addled bad boy, deserved forty million bucks for last season’s body of work? Despite not finishing the requisite episodes of his popular sitcom, Two Men and a Boy, Charlie received more money than any other actor on television for, apparently, portraying himself. What does this say about the American television viewer? How did a semi-sadistic, blow-snorting, wife-beating, hooker-dependent, drug-induced sociopath become one of America’s beloved role models? Ahhhh, but his personal life captured the angst and anger of this period, some will argue: Charlie is “edgy.” Piffle! Charlie is perpetually tweaked and in complete defiance of the expectations of those who love and depend on him, except for an audience completely mesmerized with his fall from grace. If and when Charlie seriously decides to address his dependency issues, his amends list will travel with him into his next incarnation.
I find nothing exotic or intriguing about Charlie Sheen putting a good portion of his salary up his nose to accommodate his gargantuan habit, or Michael Jackson’s attempt to medicate his way out of rotten childhood memories, oblivious to the unspeakable trauma he caused his own children. In fact, I think similar American stories can be found, a dime a dozen, in any local prison of your choice. Without lucky breaks, family connections and fat check books, Charlie could be living in a cardboard box under an overpass somewhere and Mike’s preoccupation with children might have earned him a hellish life, and/or early death, in lock-up.