I know, I know, everyone’s sick to death of Charlie Sheen, even those of us who’ve barely followed the story (my teenage fascination with Wall Street notwithstanding). But as soon as Charlie got canned by CBS, I knew it would eventually, inevitably, come to this: yes, Charlie’s shopping a memoir.
While I love a good juicy tell-all as much as the next person, it’s always bothered me that book publishing tends to be the last refuge of villains and scoundrels. How many times have celebrities burned out so spectacularly in public to the point where no one will ever work with them again, and yet, lo and behold, 6 months later they’ve got a book deals? And big ones, too! Just wait, Charlie’s going to rake in some serious bucks on nothing more than his name and a title—though, I’ll admit, Apocalypse Me is killer.
Okay, I realize publishing has never really been the ivory tower that we imagine as undergraduates, but I just hate that feeling that in the media food chain we’re always the last suckers to be taken in. And while the AP reports that publishers are “wary of such polarizing books since the fiasco of O.J. Simpson’s If I Did It, you know that someone going to take the story—in fact, irony of ironies, look who wants to publish a book of Charlie Sheen’s poetry!