Typical American family model.
The wonderful thing about egomania is that it gives back so much.
This is why you never hear me complaining about it.
“Everything from toy guns that spark to flesh-colored Christ’s that glow in the dark; it’s easy to see without looking too far that not much is really sacred.” Bob Dylan
Like many of histories famous egomaniacs, Bob Dylan swapped identities at the drop of a hat. He was anyone and everyone, and sometimes, everything, including the wind, the rain and the shirt on your back.
Needles to say, this gave him a lot of emotional wiggle room. No wonder he avoided one-on-one interviews where more than one person was required to speak.
“People sometimes say that the way things happen in the movies is unreal, but actually it’s the way things happen to you in life that’s unreal. The movies make emotions look so strong and real, whereas when things really do happen to you, it’s like watching television — you don’t feel anything.”Andy Warhol
Here’s another of histories great egomaniacs. But who was Andy Warhol? Another media incarnation babbling obscure comments designed to touch people who love filling in the blanks for a person who couldn’t complete their own sentences because there was nothing to finish.
I could get into Madonna, of course, but people are bored with Madonna after her brother split her wide open and there was nothing to see.
And then there’s Charlie Sheen.
You gotta love this guy.
“Blame the studio for giving me this much dough knowing who they were giving it to.” C. S.
Here’s an egomaniac who tells it like it is. This probably has something to do with ratings, but at least we get our money’s worth. His job is to entertain and I’m laughing my ass off.
At least he uses ego honestly.
If Dylan had half his balls he would have done actual interviews and written books about himself, rather than the many people he hides behind under the pretext of obscure singer-songwriter artist prophet.
He could have said something along the lines of…
“I like to write songs about shit that bothers me and then affect this reclusive prophet thing because it sells well. Don’t ask me to explain my lyrics because I can’t give you a straight answer. If you like them for whatever reason, then buy my records. If not, then shut the fuck up and leave me alone because I don’t like being nailed down, OKAY?”
Woody Allen brought this up in Annie Hall, but it never really stuck, so I’m doing it again.
Yea, I love Dylan’s music, but I’ve accepted the fact that he probably has no idea what the hell he was trying to say, or he doesn’t feel like explaining it because in doing so his blessed persona falls completely apart.
So why do I mention Dylan in this context?
Because he wrote [someone else wrote and he signed] an autobiography about a person who, for all intents and purposes, doesn’t exist in spite of the fact that it’s labeled an autobiography.
The same can be said of Warhol.
Can you spell self-obsessed opportunistic sociopath?
Warhol was all veneer because in the world of celebrity, it’s all veneer.
Not that I give a shit about him, either. I did appreciate his two-dimensional work if only because it accurately reflected the two-dimensional individual behind it, and a lot of society in front of it.
With all this in mind, I think Sheen is a kind of evolution of the species I refer to as homo-egomania.
He is an apex predator of his kind, a flawless and unapologetic reflection of our collective unconscious.
In his mid 40’s, he lives with a porn star and stand-by girlfriend, both half his age. He’s the only living human being who has conquered the safe, recreational use of crack cocaine. And he’s the highest paid actor in a television series.
So the joke’s on us.
If you want celebrity, you got it. Welcome to your dreams and fantasies and lurid unmentionables all crammed together into one super being. Charlie Sheen, the one drug no one else could possibly survive.
“Can you spell W I N N E R?”
In a society that assesses personal value on celebrity, he’s on top of the mountain.
Who are you?
Yea you, the fat dude in the Buick sitting in traffic jams twice a day.
You, the idiot in the nosebleed seats and wrong end of a jet.
You, the invisible, the average, the dead…and perhaps, the damned.
This is where Sheen’s coming from because he knows you’re in the audience. All of you. Paying big emotional bucks to hear him tell you what you’d like to be able to say yourself. It’s like an exorcism. You live vicariously through his rants, wishing you could tell the world to fuck itself.
So who hates Charlie Sheen?
Older women. Insecure men. Other egomaniacs, myself excluded. And the people of AA.