Well, what the hell did you expect? Last night, Charlie Sheen kicked off his "Violent Torpedo of Truth: Defeat Is Not an Option" tour in Detroit, and the show bombed. Really bombed. In half a decade of professional criticism, I've never seen nastier reviews. Nor have I ever been less surprised to see nasty reviews. (You can read one here, here, here, or here.)
Charlie Sheen -- why am I writing about him again? -- is either: a) far gone into serious self-medication, b) manic depressive, or c) both. I'm guessing "c." And there's not a single ticket-buying American who isn't aware that, while craziness/grandiosity/and/or/substance abuse can occasionally result in really transcendent performances, they more often result in utter shite.
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The last link in the preceding paragraph leads to an Aerosmith performance from 1978, during which Steven Tyler was almost too stoned to move. It's bad. But at least our stonedest rock stars have some kind of musical chops to keep things interesting -- some notion, buried deep in their muscle memories, of what one's supposed to do on a stage. Charlie Sheen has nothing like that. He's not a comedian, a great dramatic monologuist, a musician, or storyteller. He's just an addict who gets off the occasional funny line and whom people have paid to parade his disintegration. There may be some kind of kinky art to that, but it's definitely not entertainment. Slo-mo suicides aren't fun.