My friend Jake got free tickets for Sunday night's Charlie Sheen Radio City show. Jake's buddy's a scalper, and like all NYC scalpers apparently did, he scooped up Sheen early, then got screwed when Stub Hub started selling well below face value -- which in our case would've been $109 + a $19 Ticketmaster service charge. I ask our South Asian cab driver if he'd pay $126 for a ticket; he says he wouldn't pay 26 cents. He certainly knows a lot about Charlie Sheen though. He also asks if we knew that a cobra had escaped from the Bronx Zoo.
There's exactly one protestor outside Radio City, a schlubby bearded guy holding up an UnfollowCharlie.com sign and wearing a t-shirt bearing the same. I ask what's up with that. He says he's protesting Charlie Sheen making money off doing things like shooting Kelly Preston in the arm. Fair enough. Jake asks if he has a personal connection to domestic violence issues. "I'm three girlfriends removed," he says. I have no idea what that means, other than that this guy has problems holding down girlfriends.
There are PIX 11 cameramen everywhere -- they have a huge vested interest in 2.5 Men reruns proving more popular than new episodes starring Maybe Rob Lowe, a far more wholesome guy who once banged a 16-year-old on camera.
Now onto the show:
The spectacle kicks off with a totally random movie montage, with the Theme from Jaws bleeding into a live guitarist ripping punk-metal as scenes flash from Jaws, Taxi Driver, Animal House, Apocalypse Now, and more films starring guys who actually professed to care about acting. Also, Platoon. Also also, there are some boxing clips -- I think Ali, though Tyson would make more sense, or maybe Prince Naseem.
Next a co-host I'm betting was formerly the asshole half of some New Jersey nightclub's self-produced version of The Man Show ("The Guy Thing, Tuesdays at Ricky Slims!") comes out to introduce Sheen ring-announcer style as the man who once starred in a lightly regarded movie called Cadence marches up the aisle without any.
Sheen hugs the dude, then tells the crowd he's turning around the speech monitors because this show is about something more organic, as opposed to Friday night, which he said went to crap because it was too scripted and he'd forgotten that what this was really about was him bonding with the audience through tiger blood, Adonis DNA, etc. Actually having monitors onstage just so they can be turned around doesn't seem scripted at all. Also, Sheen is wearing the Arms-Crossed John Lennon shirt, even though you'd think he'd be a Stones guy.
Sheen's first official show-has-actually-started act is recognizing an Asian woman in a tight Goddess #3 shirt standing up in Row 5 or so. She wants to be officially inducted into his pantheon. Sheen invites her onstage, then brings out Goddesses 1 and 2. They hug the would-be #3 with not nearly enough lesbian energy, and the co-host says something about this looking like a Benetton ad, even though I'm pretty sure #s 1 and 2 are caucasian, and anyway Benetton regulations require at least one woman to be a hot Ethiopian. Sheen asks the audience whether they think #3 has the goods. Half cheer, but the louder half boos, which is weird because she's actually attractive and their booing is pretty much cockblocking Charlie Sheen. For whatever reason he goes with the audience and politely denies her application.
Then the co-host, who not that it really matters is probably Simon Rex, asks Sheen why he calls himself a Warlock. Sheen says it's because he's been at war since he was born, and also because he'll lock you out, and lock himself in. In what's to become a recurring audience-participation theme he asks if there are any warlocks in the crowd. Apparently there are a few, though none are impeccably spoken Englishmen named Julian Sands.
Sheen goes off on people calling him bipolar, asking "What the fuck is bipolar?" as if the whole notion was bullshit because it didn't apply to him. Somewhere Tom Cruise is smiling. Probably somewhere bipolar, and expensive. Sheen declares that the experts have misdiagnosed him, and that he is in fact "bi-winning" -- that'll teach psychiatrists to abandon their ethics by taking money to diagnose people who aren't actually their patients. Or not.
Sheen asks if there's a psychiatrist in the crowd who can come onstage and explain this bipolar thing. There isn't. Then he asks if there's any kind of doctor at all, totally disrespecting psychologists. Some fat sloppy guy volunteers. Turns out he's not an MD but instead a "doctor of life", and his expertise lies mainly in his first wife telling him that he was bipolar, and then I guess divorcing him. He's kind of a retarded-pauper's Lewis Black, and is clearly drunk. Nobody likes him much, and Sheen kicks him offstage. Then Sheen brings up the possibility of calling Dr. Drew. The crowd starts chanting "Fuck Dr. Drew! Fuck Dr. Drew!" Sheen agrees, because why should he take his valuable time to boost Dr. Drew's ratings, even though he kind of just has, because half of this crowd probably had no idea Dr. Drew was still alive. (Warning: the following picture is completely without context.)
The Cohost Who Is Probably Simon Rex asks Sheen about his tattoos, particularly one over his heart reading "Death from Above". Sheen takes off his shirt. Fucker's still pretty ripped. He flashes his "Death from Above" tat without explaining it (or why there's either an apple or tomato underneath it), then shows off the "Winning" tattoo on his wrist. Then with much fanfare he throws on an FDNY shirt, salutes the heroes that the acronym stands for, and makes a crack about how ironic it is that he's currently smoking. Steven Seagal might be Above the Law, but Charlie Sheen is Above the Municipal Ban, and that's winning.
Cohost makes a crack about having a "Tying" tattoo on his ankle. It's the closest thing to an actual joke we'll hear tonight. The audience lightly boos him for attempting to mooch off Sheen's 60-90 minutes of fame.
Cohost pulls out a laminated printout containing Sheen's 20 best quotes, which is kind of hypocritical in that it defies the unscripted thing, but hey, that's what spontaneity is all about. The first quote is something or other about still being alive. Cohost flatteringly says it sounds like something Ozzy would say. Sheen says yeah, but unlike Ozzy, he can still talk. Sheen suggests Ozzy shut up and just sing, an egregious example of Disrespecting Your Elders Who've Been Living Completely Unrestrained By Any Societal Mores Since 1969, When You Were Only Like Two Years Old Or Something. Then Cohost brings up a quote about Sheen proclaiming himself an F-18, which apparently shoot and bomb shit into oblivion. Sheen says "What do you want me to say, that I'm a Cesna?", even though that's probably the plane he'll buy/rent with the money he's earning off this tour, unless the Armed Services give him an F-18 to help with recruiting (why not -- it's no worse than them commissioning a song from 3 Doors Down).
And speaking of the Army and Sheen's "magic brain" and the poetry running through his fingers: Darryl Strawberry is in the audience, wearing combat fatigues. Sheen gets him to stand up. The audience cheers "We want Dar-yl!" Then Sheen calls out James Lipton. Everybody cheers, until Sheen invites Lipton onstage, at which point they start chanting "We want Dar-yl!" again.
It takes Lipton a very long time to get onstage. Sheen applauds him for taking the stairs like a gentleman, but Lipton clearly has choice in the matter. Sheen hugs him, and Lipton talks about how Sheen's Actor's Studio episode was the best Lipton had ever hosted. Sheen invites Lipton to ask him one question. Lipton tells the audience "You already know what I'm going to ask!" Then he asks Sheen "What is your favorite curse word?"
Sheen says "It's either fuck, or Denise!" The crowd gets a hoot out of this. So does Lipton. This might prompt The New School to ask him a few probing questions. Then again, The New School's all about freedom, man. Lipton just-as-slowly exits the stage. The crowd chants for Darryl again. Sheen pulls him up. Darryl hugs Sheen. Sheen invites Darryl to ask one question. Daryl asks "LA, or New York?"
Sheen says, "Of course I'm going to say the Yankees". Not the Mets. Clearly Sheen doesn't care about Winning when it happens in Queens.
Next, Sheen and Cohost do a bit where Cohost asks Sheen a question as they run at and past each other from opposite sides of the stage. The question is "How many women are you going to sleep with tonight, one or two?" I think Sheen answers two, but it's not clear he's got the stamina for one: he's wheezing from the effort, and the sprinterview format is immediately dropped.
Sheen tells either a story or an allegory or a storegory called 7 Grams, about having too big a crack rock for his small pipe. The solution: get a bigger pipe.
Sheen announces that he's going to play his reedited 20/20 YouTube, and that anyone who's already seen it (on YouTube) can use this time to take a piss. I'm pretty sure I have food poisoning, so I run out as fast as you can run when you think you might have food poisoning. After that's over with, I get in line for more insanely priced beers. There's a girl in line showing off her "Winning Boobs" and the Winning necklace that dangles between them. I ask if I can take her picture from the neck down so's to retain her anonymity. She says "What, you don't like my Winning smile?" What a girl -- here's hoping she gets elected to Godesshood, and doesn't catch cold.
On the way back in, I see some guy in a suit jacket walk up to a group of his buddies, one of whom says, "Oh, man, you wore a suit jacket, that is awesome!" Truly.
Back inside it's questions-from-the-audience time. The first girl asks if Sheen remembers spilling a drink on her in 1997. She has a picture to prove it. Hopefully for her blouse Sheen was abusing vodka tonics back then. Another guy asks how much money Sheen will make tonight, and if he can have some of it. Sheen gives him $100. For whatever reason Sheen chooses this time to apologize to Jon Cryer for calling him a troll. He calls Cryer a rock star, just not a rock star from Mars like Sheen is.
Then Sheen asks the audience if they like Two and a Half Men. They cheer wildly (and they say that show's ratings depend entirely on the Midwest). He tells them he didn't quit, he got fired, and that him returning to the air boils down to a very simple proposition: "If they rehire me, I will go back". Everybody boos the show for not having hired him back already. Those few in the crowd who know who Chuck Lorre is start chanting "Lorre sucks!" Sheen partially defends Lorre, saying he's a good writer. Then he asks the crowd how he should apologize to Lorre, noting that he traditionally begins apologies "Fuck you".
An older woman stands up and warbles "You should say 'Let me live my life!'" Sheen salutes her brilliance. Someone else -- according to my friends a little person, which makes sense, because I can't actually see him -- says "You should say 'Fuck you, I'll do what I want!'" Sheen laughs and says he admires his passion. Some other dude says "Tell 'em, 'Give me more money!'". Sheen asks "Does that work at your job?" Some creepy guy in a ponytail says Sheen should start with "Maybe your wife and children aren't that ugly." Sheen looks confused, probably because the guy in the ponytail isn't Julian Sands. "You know, for Lorre," says the guy. Creepy Ponytail Guy is booed roundly for overstepping his bounds -- kind of like when you're at a party, and there's a guy there you don't know talking about a fight he's having with his longtime girlfriend, and you volunteer "You're all good, man, that girl's a total whore."
Almost done, but a few more questions: a busty woman asks "Do you remember how much fun we had in the jungle? In the Philippine jungle?" Sheen says "I guess so?" but clearly this woman either has a very particular imagination, or Sheen was Bali high the whole time he knew her.
Creepy Ponytail Guy gets up again to ask what the difference is between sex sober and sex on cocaine. Sheen says "Now, I am the cocaine."
The show closes with a video of Snoop Dogg doing a song about Winning, though until Sheen goes batshit enough to actually rap with Snoop Dogg the victory will be incomplete.
In the cab, "Neon Bodoe" from The Kingsbury Factor tells about the Masters party he was at earlier, where a much-older guy who still loved smoking grass said that he used to own a bar in Tribeca where all the 80s Mets would hang out. Apparently Kevin Elster was the craziest, and Darryl Strawberry had a dick as big as Kevin Elster's forearm.
Is it too late to nominate "Darryl Strawberry's Penis" as the Winning name for the Bronx Zoo cobra?
