Posts filed under ‘Alcoholism/Substance Abuse’

The Queen of Coincidence

I am the Queen of Coincidence-incidence-incidence. Or, as I like to imagine it, to the tune of Cult of Personality:

Look in my eyes

What do you see?

The Queen of Co-coincidence

The Queen of Co-coincidence

The Queen of Co-coincidence

I’m probably, like, a cousin of Kate Middleton’s or something, fourteenth cousin, five times removed, whatever the crap that means. I can’t even keep track of that in my own family. I just say, she’s my cousin, but she’s not my first cousin.

Oh! As a side note, to get fully off track, have I ever mentioned that I have a double cousin? No joke.  And the best part is that there’s absolutely no incest involved. My dad’s sister’s daughter married the son of a first cousin of my mother’s father. Seriously. So, I have this really snotty cousin who acts like she thinks she’s better than me but isn’t too good to ask to be my friend on Facebook that I probably share more genes with than, well, anyone outside of my immediate family. And actually, if you think about it, I mean, that is somewhat related to this post. What are the odds?

Now to get a real feel for this blog post, we have to go way back into the annals of Gooseberry Bush, to a little blog post that I like to call, The Accidental Stalker: An Ironic Tale of My Date with Destiny. Go ahead and read over that post and acquaint yourself with the awesomeness of my unrequited love for one Mark Foster. Mark Foster was an acquaintance of mine that I had the hots for who probably knew that I had the hots for him and didn’t see the point in chasing after a girl who fell into his lap.

Or, perhaps, despite my magnetic personality, he just plain old wasn’t interested. And this is actually a good thing because if he had been interested I’d probably now be married to a Republican, Presbyterian MBA who would force me to name our first-born son after a certain Scientologist alternative rock god. I’d also be married to a man who once described a former fiancée as a talented pianist who just didn’t have what it takes to be a professional musician.

With my healthy self-esteem, by now we’d have three children all named after professional writers, and I’d be a stay-at-home mom, hitting the bottle by 3:00 in the afternoon and bitching about how I coulda been a contender, like Jonathan Franzen. We would go to dinner parties with other business executives where my husband would describe me as a talented scribe who wasn’t talented enough to be published.

Can’t you just see the slurry scene of afternoon domestic melancholy?

Gooseberry: Charles Dickens Foster, you gets yo ass up here, young man!! Jane Austen Foster, didn’t I tell you to clllean your rrroom? [BELCH]

Thank God he didn’t find me the teensiest bit attractive. Instead, he married a horse faced, bug eyed woman. There’s no accounting for taste. But just maybe he prefers horse faced and bug eyed to fat, loud mouthed, opinionated and neurotic. I don’t get it. Really, I don’t. Clearly, he coulda had all this. And the bag of chips. I mean, look at me. I’m not going to begrudge him the bag of chips. What could I say about it that wouldn’t sound like hypocrisy?

So, to get on with it, I’m at the Central Market on North Lamar this evening, going to get something to eat at the café before I meet with my Writers Group. Yes, I meet with a Writers Group. Okay. It’s one other writer, but she’s awesome, and she’s written a rape satire that I’m going to publish as a guest post in another week or two, so keep your eyes peeled.

I go to Central Market early because I get off work at 5, and the Writers Group meets at 7, and I figure that I can eat dinner and goof off on the internet while I’m waiting for my new friend to show up. Also, I have no life. But that’s really not important right now.

I get in line and pick up a menu, and then I move my head just slightly to the right. And I’ll be damned. There he is. I have not seen this guy in…how old am I? I’m thinking I haven’t seen this guy in about 13 years. And I lock eyes on his for about 2 seconds, long enough to see the adorable baby girl in his arms wearing a pink floral sundress. And I figure Horseface must be right behind me.

So, I turn my head very quickly and then turn my back and then, after spending some time pretending to be interested in a magazine rack full of periodicals for breeders, I head for the second floor where I get out my laptop and hide until my friend shows up. By then I figure it might be safe to go downstairs and get something to eat, even though my stomach has been growling for the whole hour and twenty minutes that I wait for the Mark Foster family to finish their dinners. At the same time, I’m on the iChat with one of the Mr. Brewsters.

oh. my. god.

you really are the accidental stalker. who got there first?

i don’t know. i was checking out the prepackaged sushi when i decided I wanted something from the café instead, and there he was.

i think you should aim your sights higher and try for the soup peddler next time. can’t you run into jesse james?

i didn’t aim for anything. i just turned my head, and he was there.

I have a feeling that he’s moved back to Austin with his family and is now really active in the same Presbyterian church that Mr. & Mrs. Landlord faithfully attend.

I swear, this guy is like a boomerang. Thirty years from now when I hit the nursing home, there he’ll be, in the dining room, dentures in a glass by his plate, eating cherry Jell-O. And I will still instantly recognize his ass…and then run and hide.

August 4, 2011 at 3:24 am Leave a comment

Freedom Redux: This is Water

David Foster Wallace at the Hammer Museum in L...

Image via Wikipedia

So, that review was kind of snide and snarky. And I did like the book in one way, and that is that I thought that it was entertaining, even if it was only half-way original. I think Jonathan Franzen is definitely talented. So, I have some second thoughts.

Even if the date rape was clichéd, I still recognize that the reason that it may feel clichéd is that is so true to life. After all, I wrote my own post that was somewhat similar to a Lifetime movie, only it wasn’t fiction, it was from my very own damn life.


It’s not just a cliché, it’s also my life.

In addition to that cliché there was also the love triangle between the “nice” guy and the “sexy” guy, as if nice can’t also be sexy. It struck me, after reading the book and then also reading interviews and biographies of Jonathan Franzen, that perhaps this book was somewhat personal. Richard and Walter are stand-ins for someone else, and that someone else is Jonathan Franzen and David Foster Wallace.

Even though Franzen is the bigger environmentalist and the bird watcher and probably the less flashy of the two, and even though Wallace superficially resembles Richard, with his greater charisma and physical beauty and tobacco chew, I think that Walter and Richard are actually just dual aspects of Franzen’s personality. It’s Franzen against Franzen.

Also, if anyone is Walter, the more spiritual one, the kinder one, the more worthy one, it’s Wallace, who couldn’t possibly hurt a fly other than himself, if it weren’t for the one fact of his suicide. Wallace was the “churchgoer,” the one with the reputation as the “nice” guy, and yet it was Wallace, and not Franzen, who hanged himself on his own porch for his wife to find his body. Maybe not so selfless a death as David Foster Wallace would have wished for himself, if he had been in his right mind at the time.

It strikes me that Walter’s eventual forgiveness of Patty, and, by implication, Richard, is Franzen’s final tribute to his friend David Foster Wallace. And with this act, his overvalued novel is somewhat redeemed and maybe even worthy of half of the superfluous over-the-top “critical” literary views, if the idea was to transcend the selfish and self involved characters of his Seinfeldian universe, with this one final act of grace.

It occurs to me that  the repitition of the word and the ideology of “freedom” in David Foster Wallace’s commencement speech and the fact that Jonathan Franzen’s novel is titled, Freedom are no coincidence.

July 28, 2011 at 1:55 am Leave a comment

The Hulk

In my last blog post about The Bully I mentioned a minor character named The Hulk. The Hulk is someone I went through all four years of high school with even though we weren’t close. I rarely had classes with him. We certainly didn’t have the same extracurricular activities. You wouldn’t have caught him dead on stage singing or dancing. I’m also reasonably sure he never voluntarily read a book.

Frequently, I would see The Hulk in the halls. So, this is what I would do. I would make sure he couldn’t see me. Then I would cup my hands over my mouth, lower my voice a full octave, and belt out, “Hulk!” and then wait for him to survey his surroundings and find the 5’3” 120 pound freckled thing that had yelled at him. I’d grin. Sometimes he’d walk over and we’d exchange pleasantries or sometimes we both kept walking. After our freshman year this was the nature of our relationship.

So, naturally, when he called me up one day the summer between my junior and senior years in high school and wanted to ask me out on a date, stunned would be a good word to describe my reaction. I didn’t say yes right off  ‘cause, frankly, I wasn’t really sure what we’d have to talk about in order to date. So, I told him we could hang out and see.

By this time I knew that The Hulk was no longer playing football and was wrestling instead. He’d gained some weight, either because he was exercising less, not playing football but eating the same, or, maybe from a lot of partying or some combination of the two. So, now on top of just generally being a bigger guy, he was chubby. This didn’t bother me. I just mention it to show that his status in school had dropped, and he wasn’t King of the Hill anymore.

He came by my home to pick me up one afternoon. My dad was at home. This was when we were living in the married student housing apartments over by State Mental Hospital University. The Hulk came over on a big chopper. This wasn’t a scooter or a motorbike. This was huge. My dad said under no circumstances was I getting on that bike.

That was a small disappointment to me, ‘cause The Hulk riding up on that motorcycle was like something out of Days of Our Lives. He was a nice looking guy with dark hair and dark eyes who’d taken the time to grow a decent mullet. Bo Brady had come to pick me up and take me away from my boring summer. I tried to talk my dad out of this, trust me did I ever try, but he would not be dissuaded.

So, instead, The Hulk and I walked to the State Mental Hospital University stadium. It was deserted, so we had the whole stadium to talk. This was not, however, what The Hulk had in mind. We walked up to the box on the visitor side, and I think he had his tongue down my throat within the first 5 minutes. Within the first ten minutes he was on top of me, and the roaches were on top of us. Very romantic.

Now he was a good kisser, and he didn’t grope me or force me to do anything. He could have, very easily. I just didn’t think this inauspicious beginning boded well for our non-existent future. So, I interrupted him every two minutes or so to try to start a conversation. Notice I said try.

At one point I remember I interrupted him to say, “If this is what we’re doing now, then what are we doing in a couple of months?”


I think I really tried his patience to the exponential. He was probably weighing just how badly he wanted to get laid. After only about a half hour or so, I told him it was probably time for me to go back home, and he walked me back.

And then he gave me a proposition. Straight up. No sugar coating. He was more popular than I was. I could improve my popularity by dating him. If I wanted to be popular, then I should call him. The implication about just what I was going to be doing for my newfound popularity was not lost on me. I knew what kind of bargain I’d be making. And I guess it saddened me, both that he’d make the offer and that he’d be stupid enough to think I’d be interested. He gave me his number and told me to call if I was interested.

I did call, but it was to tell him that I wasn’t interested. I knew I’d be in over my head with The Hulk, and I wasn’t so sure that he actually liked me. Wanted to have sex with me, sure, but like me…I don’t know about that.

The man who answered the phone at The Hulk’s house had an accent. He was charming, and he took a message. Now I almost rethought my decision just because the foreign accent thing did bring an exotic element into the mix that wasn’t previously there.

When The Hulk called back I said, “I didn’t know your dad was from the UK.”

“Yeah, he and my mom are immigrants. They’re Welsh.”

“Cool accent.”


“I don’t think I’m going to be dating you, but thanks for asking.”

“Your loss.”

I never felt like I lost out on anything not dating The Hulk. It became increasingly obvious during our senior year that he was troubled and probably had issues with substance abuse. I did have a class with him that last year. Keyboarding, which was basically a typing class. He couldn’t even manage that class. He hung out exclusively with girls who had less than stellar reputations. Dating The Hulk might have improved my popularity but not in the way that he meant it. I’d like to think that things have changed in American high schools today but if you can tell by the media stories of girls who get bullied for sexting or from the movie Easy A, some things remain the same.

May 29, 2011 at 9:50 pm Leave a comment

Movie Reviews: Morning Glory & Country Strong

Actor Jeff Goldblum at the Tiff 08 Premiere of...

Image via Wikipedia

Morning Glory is a movie about a news producer with echoes of Broadcast News and Mary Richards. It’s all perky comedy, and the debate about substance and content versus infotainment and sound bites is over. The idiots won the ratings war. This movie basically presents a world in which real news is something that might occasionally interrupt a cooking segment. That’s a given here, and actually something that our heroine argues for the merits of.

The heroine of the movie, played by Rachel McAdams from The Notebook, practically makes Maria von Trapp look like she’s suffering from chronic depression. People constantly ask her if she is about to burst into song. But no, she does not sing. Instead, she whips a fourth rate network morning news show into shape and wins over a cantankerous Harrison Ford in the process.

What’s up with that? Lately every time I see Harrison Ford in a movie I feel like they wrote a script for a character that’s code named Curmudgeon and thought of him first. If they are going to do a biopic of Andy Rooney’s life, they should call Harrison Ford. If only Calista would let him grow the ear and nose hair necessary! I would go to see that.

Patrick Wilson does a nice turn as Rachel McAdams’ love interest, and Diane Keaton is pleasing but under utilized here. I would have liked to see her be supportive of Rachel’s character instead of a middle aged version of Mean Girls, but you can’t have everything. The supportive co-worker is played by John Pankow from Mad About You. He deserves credit for his subtle and excellent performance.

Jeff Goldblum, as Rachel’s boss, is just a genius as usual. Jeff Goldblum could read me the phone book. Seriously. Someone should record that as a podcast for iTunes. I would buy it. My criteria for how badly I want to see a movie kind of works like this: are either of the Jeffs in it? Goldblum or Bridges? I am there.

It’s a cotton candy movie, but it doesn’t pretend to be anything different. It works for what it is.

Now, Country Strong, on the other hand…Where do I start? This was supposed to be serious cinema, an Oscar contender. It was supposed to be THE PART for Gwyneth. There was tons of publicity, about Gwyneth gaining weight eating fried food and getting trashed all over Memphis. OMG! I think she actually gained 15 pounds! Gwyneth, what commitment! Does this remind you of Jeff Bridges’ interviews about gaining weight eating tons of Haagen Daas for Crazy Heart, anyone?

As a nod to authenticity, Gwyneth sang a song from the movie with Vince Gill at the CMA Awards. She even played guitar. Did this win anyone over? I wanted to like it. I swear I did.

Here’s what I have to say about Country Strong. It’s like someone saw Crazy Heart and decided that the new way to win critical acclaim and sell DVDs along with soundtracks is to convince some actor to play an alkie country singer. Want an Oscar? Play an alkie country singer. Want to jump start a recording career? Hire T Bone Burnett to supervise your soundtrack and record music of you singing while you play an alkie country singer.

What the producers of Country Strong, along with Gwyneth, apparently, forgot is that Crazy Heart actually had a good script. Who wrote the crap I saw on my screen? They should be shot. I could Google it, but I’m afraid that someone might take me seriously, and I would be sued.

The script makes our heroine so unlikeable that you’re actually relieved at what is supposed to be a tragic ending. You just basically think, well, thank God her husband is free of that selfish bitch. And her husband isn’t even a sympathetic character, either! Tim McGraw comes across as a greedy bastard.

The beginning of the movie sees two totally green kids recruited to be the opening act for what we’re told is a big current country star playing to sold out stadiums in Dallas, Houston, and Austin. Yeah, right! And the kid who’s been fucking Gwyneth while she’s in rehab just so happens to be one of these green kids. What an amazing coincidence!

The kid, who’s talented but undiscovered, is recruited as her “sponsor” to keep her sober while on tour. Tim McGraw wants him there to overcome the beauty queen’s stage fright, but the kid’s supposedly convinced to go based on his concern for Gwyneth.

Are we really asked to believe that Tim McGraw’s character really thinks this kid is his wife’s AA sponsor? Not implausible at all. Sarcasm: a service I offer for free.

The scenario that’s supposed to make our heroine sympathetic and likeable is that she lost a baby when she was 5 months pregnant by tripping over a microphone wire on stage in Dallas with a .19 blood alcohol level. Just before her first comeback concert someone sends her a package with a “dead” baby doll. I was just waiting for the reveal when the supposed beauty queen who’s been recruited as an opening act was the malevolent “fan” who sent the dead baby doll.

How disappointing that that didn’t happen! At least then it would have been a decent melodrama, especially if the beauty queen was actually sleeping with Gwyneth’s husband. Nothing doing. This script doesn’t have the balls to do that.

Of course, the young kid eventually tells Gwyneth that he won’t sleep with her anymore because she’s married. Well, she didn’t suddenly get married while she was on tour. The kid is screwing a celebrity; he’s known she was married all along. He didn’t suddenly grow a conscience. We all know the real reason he won’t sleep with her anymore has more to do with the beauty queen who’s on tour with him. But he’s still a loyal friend, following her all over town, prying bottles out of her hand, kicking her out of a possible gang rape scene in a bar and throwing her into the back of a taxi cab with the beauty queen.

The whole movie is just so tiresome and formulaic. It gives us a lead character who presents us with the rainbow spectrum of clichés and not a hint of anything remotely resembling likeability or even genuine humanity.

Country Strong is a waste of time. Some of the musical performances are good, but the best ones come from the two young kids. Gwyneth is passable at best. She can sing. That’s not the problem. She just doesn’t sing well enough or generate enough heat or charisma to make me believe that she’s the equivalent of a Wynonna or Reba or Shania.

The sound mixer fails to elevate her voice over the requisite applause. I just can’t buy, since I’ve actually been to many concerts, that any country powerhouse would allow her voice to be drowned out entirely by the applause. In short, Gwyneth doesn’t have “it.” But I give her an A for effort. The movie fails, but it’s not ultimately her fault.

April 20, 2011 at 11:27 pm Leave a comment

The Law of Supply & Demand

Prostitute in Tijuana, Mexico.

Image via Wikipedia

I read an article recently on CNN, written by a Swedish woman in law enforcement, about how they have reduced the rates of human trafficking and prostitution in their country. Since I identify as a feminist, this topic is of obvious interest to me.

Also, the fact that the article is specifically about how they tackled prostitution in Sweden is of particular interest. You see, I detect a lot of similarities between the culture of modern America and the culture of modern Sweden, particularly when dealing with the relationship between the sexes. I actually get a noticeable amount of traffic on this website from Sweden.

You might wonder what they did that helped with the human trafficking and prostitution in Sweden. Here’s what they did. They decriminalized prostitution and cracked down on solicitation and trafficking. So, in other words, if you are a prostitute you won’t be punished for it. However, if you’re a john, a madam or a pimp, then you’ll be prosecuted to the fullest extent the law allows.

I’ve personally been saying for a long time that the key to combating prostitution is in focusing on the demand rather than the supply side of the prostitution chain. How do you decrease demand? You do it by creating consequences for the buyer. Consequences for the seller sort of defeat the purpose. Not to mention that criminalizing prostitution in some cases is kind of like prosecuting a rape victim for her rape (which is still done in some countries).

Let’s put this in more understandable dynamics. The typical prostitute is either forced or coerced into prostitution. Frequently, they start at a young age, before the age of consent, and more often than not, they are dependent upon drugs. Sometimes the prostitution funds a drug habit and sometimes the drug habit is what necessitates the prostitution. Sometimes the prostitute is made dependent upon drugs in order to keep her dependent upon her john or madam. She can’t run very far away from her bordello if she starts to experience withdrawal symptoms.

Typically, what happens in America’s penal system when it comes to prostitution is that a police department receives complaints about street prostitution. The police department is under an obligation to respond to that complaint. So, they send out their vice squad to run a sting and they send out more patrol cars to enforce laws on loitering. The sting involves vice officers posing as johns in order to arrest and prosecute the prostitutes. The prostitute goes to jail. She gets convicted. She pays a fine or serves her time and then goes right back out on the streets. She just moves to a different neighborhood next time. The problem isn’t solved. It’s just temporarily migrated.

The reason why attacking the problem in this manner isn’t working is that prosecuting prostitutes is kind of like giving a man on death row a consecutive 153 year sentence. First off, no man is going to live to be 153 years old. If he were convicted as a newborn baby, he’d spend his entire lifetime in jail. Secondly, he’s already going to die. What’s the point of the extra sentences? He’s never getting out. Sadly, we actually do stuff like this in the American justice system. It’s not just a metaphor for idiocy.

Getting arrested for prostitution and subsequently convicted of prostitution is like a life sentence. It’s a criminal record that will stick to a person for the rest of her life, like an unfortunate tattoo. If a prostitute isn’t already convinced that she has no other alternatives available to her before her first conviction, then she’s certainly convinced afterward. She sees no opportunity for redemption. What decent company would take her on? She probably can’t pass the background test for McDonald’s.

What happens when we prosecute for solicitation instead? Well, I imagine that you see a lot of men go to jail and pay fines and experience severe punishments. A lot of these men will be married men with families and some might lose their families. They will quite possibly lose their jobs. They will be publicly humiliated. They will lose friendships. And after all of that is over? They will think twice before paying $20 to a stranger on the street for a blowjob. Why are consequences more effective for the buyer in this case? That’s because the buyer has more to lose.

The way to combat prostitution is to penalize the people who perpetuate it. We need stiffer sentences for human traffickers, pimps, madams, and customers. This should go hand in hand with programs to provide housing and educational assistance to sex workers as well as freedom from prosecution for prostitution. I would propose that we expunge past records for prostitution so that sex workers can apply for decent work and have the chance to get it.

This is a no brainer, and there’s nothing inherently sexist about it. If a woman is purchasing sex, then she should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law just as a man would be. And for those sex workers who are boys and men the same principle should apply as to female sex workers.

April 6, 2011 at 12:32 am 11 comments

White Diamonds


Image by dovima_is_devine_II via Flickr

“I don’t entirely approve of some of the things I have done, or am, or have been. But I’m me. God knows, I’m me” – Elizabeth Taylor

I’m loathe to write about Elizabeth Taylor because there’s nothing I could write about her that’s not already been written. However, it seems a shame to allow her death to pass without commenting on it. She was, after all, the first woman to be paid $1,000,000 salary for a movie, an exorbitant amount of money for the time. Taylor was widely reported, for many years, to be the world’s most beautiful woman. She was famous for her violet eyes, her many marriages, her soap opera-tabloid lifestyle, her entrepreneurial successes, her philanthropy, and her jewelry collection.

She hastened the end of the marriage of Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds (let’s face it; those two would have eventually divorced anyway), and she was denounced by both the Catholic Church and the United States Senate for her affair with Richard Burton. The affair with Burton hastened the end of her marriage to Fisher, and ended Burton’s marriage to his first wife, Sybil.

But it began a new and tempestuous marriage that spanned a decade, two weddings and two divorces. It also gave us the great performances we see in, “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” Would a movie version of Edward Albee’s play have been nearly as fascinating with anyone else playing George and Martha? I hope we never have to find out.

For all her addiction issues and flights of excess, sexual promiscuity and sense of entitlement (she was famously demanding, spoiled, and difficult to work with), she will also be remembered for her courage to speak out against AIDS at a time when no one was doing so. She was, by all accounts, an excellent mother, and this will be one of the many parallels that cause people to compare her with Angelina Jolie. She had a sense of humor about herself and would famously poke fun of herself on talk shows and with her friends. For instance, she stipulated that her coffin would arrive fifteen minutes late for her own funeral.

She had a great love for the gay man, and what gay man wouldn’t love Elizabeth Taylor? She was an icon and a diva. She had a longstanding and close friendship with Roddy McDowell, with whom she starred in one of the Lassie movies. As a young woman she fell helplessly in love with Montgomery Clift, and even though he preferred men, they remained close throughout his lifetime. She was Rock Hudson’s friend and his champion. When AIDS was denounced as a punishment from God for being gay, Elizabeth Taylor stood up and called that viewpoint nonsense. She was, above all, a spectacularly loyal friend, and her steadfast devotion to Michael Jackson proves that beyond a doubt.

Elizabeth battled lots of continuous health issues and went to rehab more than once. In her middle age and beyond, her metabolism caught up with her, and she battled  the bulge many times. Sometimes she won, and sometimes the bulge won. But even as a woman in her 70s, suffering from pain, poor health, and mobility issues, she was still famously beautiful. If you could find anyone in the world who didn’t know who she was, they would have inevitably been struck by the thought of what a striking woman she must have been when she was young. She was the kind of woman that you literally couldn’t help staring at, at any age.

What I most remember Elizabeth Taylor for is that she shared my father’s birthday. My dad was born on the same day as Elizabeth Taylor. He’s five years older than her. He liked to say that the gap between their ages increased over the years but given her childhood stardom, I find this unlikely. It’s probably just my dad’s sense of humor. Elizabeth Taylor’s death reminds me that true beauty, like life, is fleeting. Appreciate it while you can.

April 1, 2011 at 12:31 am Leave a comment

Charlie Sheen Is Crazy

Charlie Sheen in March 2009

Image via Wikipedia

I’m still reading this Charlie Sheen crap, and I hate myself for doing it, but it’s like trying not to watch a train wreck going on in front of your eyes. I notice that there have been new interviews where Charlie calls himself a genius, asks for a 50% pay raise, says he’s Adonis, and that other people aren’t like him because they don’t have “tiger blood.”

He’s tired of people not recognizing how special he is. No doubt, this is a reaction to the AA term, “terminal uniqueness.” He knocks AA, and this is because they supposedly have only a 5% success rate. He says he cured himself with the power of his mind, because, apparently, that’s how Charlie rolls. I don’t know AA’s success rate, but…high or low, it’s the only treatment that’s successful. And it works if you work it. But you can’t quit going to meetings and quit working the steps and start drinking and using and expect for it to work by osmosis.

Charlie’s publicist has left him now, and it was really the only smart choice the man could possibly make. Otherwise, he looks like the twit who advised Charlie to spout off at the mouth in his current state.

Charlie won’t get help until he hits bottom, and maybe not even then. The problem is that if he’s talking like this and he is indeed sober, as he says he is, then he’s got bigger problems than just addiction. I read comments all over the internet where people have no compassion for this guy, and he is a selfish ass. But does it never occur to anyone but me that maybe, just maybe Charlie Sheen has some real mental illness beyond just drug addiction here. I mean, we’re talking about the kind of guy who thought the government conspired to cause 9/11…when he was sober.

I think Sheen needs a full psychiatric evaluation, not just a stay in some pampered resort for addicted celebrities. I think Sheen needs to be fired, permanently. Let’s not pussy foot around it. Fire his ass. Make him get help. And even though I think Charlie Sheen is acting like a tool, it’s just plain wrong to fail to have compassion for one of our fellow human beings, especially if he’s actually mentally ill. It’s not a choice. Why do we act like it is?

March 1, 2011 at 12:13 am 9 comments

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