In re: Carlos Estevez

There’s an old joke that goes: “I don’t have a drinking problem. I drink, I fall down, no problem.”

Yeah, once you hit the floor, you can’t go any lower. I tell myself that every time I fall out of my wheelchair. All you have to do then is find something to support your weight, and drag yourself semi-upright until you can fall back to where you were.

I have a drinking problem; I can never get enough. I learned to admit that I have a problem in Alcoholics Anonymous. It’s one of the few things I carried away from the program.

AA never worked for me, which was what gave resonance to Charlie Sheen’s early rants. I reached an armistice with my personal demons through other means—a program of controlled drinking that excludes the hard stuff, i.e. whiskey—and again, Charlie’s self-professed “recovery” efforts carried some resonance. For some, you have to do it on your own.

During my second or third course in driving school—court-mandated for yet another DUI charge—I was continually annoyed by a fellow who constantly challenged the instructor with smart-ass remarks. On a smoke break in the parking lot, full of grandiose self-righteousness, I called him out and asked why he didn’t try out the local AA hall, just down the street.

“It’s trading one addiction for another,” he replied. “You sound like one of those twelve-steppers who hasn’t figured that out yet.”

His speech was slurred, he was staggering, and I wouldn't have ridden in a car with him on a bet, but he made sense.

About the same time—the mid-‘90s—I had some personal dealings with someone who was suffering from the long-term effects of protracted cocaine use. (I tried coke during my rock & roll days, but I always got a better buzz with a fifth of Bourbon and a bag of pot. But…that’s just me. Don’t try this at home, kids.) I was amazed at the level of hostility, paranoia, and aggressiveness that accrued in my friend from his pharmacological frolics. I re-wired my brain with LSD and hashish, but it only left me somewhat stupefied at the progress of life. The long-term effects of cocaine seemed to leave my buddy with a willingness to start fights in public places over perceived affronts that were not only unreal, but outright delusional. I eventually had to beat him down in a Waffle House—over breakfast—because he thought I was sleeping with his girl friend, whom I barely knew. While the horrified waitresses cleaned up the smashed crockery, a mutual friend who had cowered away from the confrontation remarked “It’s not his fault, y’know. It’s all that damn coke he did [in the ‘80s].”

Charlie Sheen is more of a celebrity these days for his prodigious cocaine and alcohol abuse than for his acting ability. He is a child of privilege, and may have had more emotional pressures than the average bear when he was growing up, due to his father’s fame. He has gotten away with everything short of murder—the name “OJ” ring a bell?—but none of those circumstances excuses bad behavior.

I’m so tired of hearing this “WINNING!” crap. Charlie, you are losing. I have some names for you: Michael Jackson. Heath Ledger. Lenny Bruce. Jimi Hendrix. Janis Joplin. Jim Morrison. Charlie “Yardbird” Parker. "Fatty" Arbuckle. I’m a trivia champion, and can come up with a few dozen more. William Holden got drunk, slipped on what I call a “suicide rug,” busted his head on a hotel-room coffee table, and bled to death.

I got taken to task last week because, in the middle of a discussion of media-dominating Charlie, I remarked “He’s going to die. End of story. He’ll be last week’s news.” The conversation came to an abrupt end, because I’m usually right with my off-the-wall prognostications.

I hope I’m wrong on this one. Charlie has kids, and he needs to be a good daddy to them, not some self-absorbed asshole teetering on the brink of an OD.

When my primary goal was drinking myself to death, I was full of myself. I had all the answers to the unasked questions; I was God. No one could tell me what to do, and if you tried, I’d by-God do the opposite just to see the expression on your face. I finally had to come to terms with my own mortality to figure things out. It took too long, and the cost was too great, but at last I can live in my own skin and be at peace with who and what I am. Better late than never.

History suggests that highly-intelligent people turn out to be alcoholics. I test out well for a dumb-ass, and have a lingering suspicion that smart people drink because they know too much, and it hurts. I’ve known some inherently bright people in my life, and they all sought the solace of alcohol or drugs because substance abuse numbs the pain of “knowing.”

(Good place to insert the only Scripture I can quote off the top of my head:

“And I gave my life to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly,
and I perceived that this, too is vexation.

For in much wisdom is much grief,
And he who increases knowledge increases sorrow.”

—Ecclesiastes; Chapter One, Vs. 17-18—)

I still know too much, and it causes me no end of anguish. However, I know that life is God’s greatest gift, and that knowledge is a comfort, not a burden. I kind of like being alive, even if it’s closer to the end than the beginning, and every day is a struggle. My parents were normal people, and the notion of celebrity is totally alien to me. (Sorry, Freudian shrinks!) I brought my troubles upon myself without being an exceptional child of privilege, and while I haven’t “conquered” them with “violent love” and “violent truth”, I’ve learned to deal with them. (And I didn’t need to wave a machete off a downtown skyscraper, either.) I’m no stranger to grandiosity, but when you move past being the cat’s ass of creation, the let-down can be profound. The secret is living long enough to discover that.

If you look on my Face Book™ profile, you’ll see that “Two and a Half Men” is one the few TV shows I list as a favorite. It’s nasty, arrogant, and in touch with the day-to-day reality we suffer through. I also relate to “Charlie Harper,” the lead character. I never had it so easy, but I’ve been a drunken lout with too much time on my hands and a delusion that the world owes me a living.

Charlie Sheen—a.k.a. Carlos Estevez—has lived his whole life under this shelter. As with most people, I want to believe the best about him; he has overcome his addictive demons and come to terms with his life. Okay, AA didn’t work for you, like it didn’t work for me. Maybe that old drunk was right; it’s people trading blackout drunks for meetings. Maybe you found a true path with your “home cure.” Perhaps you have a legitimate industry beef with series writer Chuck Lorre and CBS. Time and the courts will tell on that one.

Lord, what I wouldn’t give for five minutes alone with this guy! It’s my own left-over grandiosity informing me, but I might be able to talk some sense to this squirrel.

Then, again, he may be able to figure it out on his own. But, being wheeled fast on an ER gurney while gasping “Not yet! Not yet!” is not the time or place.

Good luck, Charlie. When the intervention comes, embrace it violently and accept the torpedo of truth. You don’t have too many options left. Let's hope you can fall back to where you were.