As much as I didn't want to, I still felt compelled to catch as much of his week-long interview binge as I could: On TV. Online. In the paper. In the tabloids at the supermarket checkout counter.
How could I not? This guy has tiger blood. He's on a drug, "It’s called Charlie Sheen. It’s not available because if you try it once your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body."
His gnarly behavior is epic. Duh!?
But the more I watched, the sadder I got. Not just for him. Or for the two kids the authorities took away from him in the midst of this media mess.
I felt sad for all of us. For the way we collectively take pleasure in someone's obvious mental illness.
This man clearly has a problem beyond drugs. His grandiosity and sense of self-importance suggests major psychological issues. Yet we become an enabler, feeding his need to rant before the cameras with our need to gawk at him.
"C'mon, Charlie. Show us how low you can go! Take us to the depths of insanity. We love it! We love you! Really go off the deep end!"
Perhaps he unwittingly did us all a favor.
Now maybe the next time Brittany, Lindsey or Mel show their ugly sides, we'll just shrug it off and think it amateurish compared to the master. We'll be so desensitized that nothing will hold our attention in the same way.
Maybe then, our lack of interest will stop feeding into the needs of these celebrities who so clearly need our attention, regardless of how they attract it.
That would be winning.