The Dark Side of the Law

There is no Dark Side of the Law. It’s all Dark.

Comment--Duh, Winning

 

Prior to Monday (March 7, 2011), I spent 10 days away from work welcoming our daughter into the world. This had given me an opportunity to enjoy a front row seat to the spectacle otherwise known as Charlie Sheen. More interestingly, I have enjoyed watching how people have reacted to his recent interviews, his Blitzkrieg of Twitter and his general Sheen-ness (yes, I am trademarking that and other Sheen-plus-suffix adjectives, so back off!). The reactions have prompted this post.


I think we all need to acknowledge/remind ourselves of one thing: Charlie Sheen is an actor. An entertainer. A celebrity, if you will. I do understand that we live in a celebrity-obsessed world these days. The nightly "news" has become little more than a front and a shill for other entertainment and media outlets owned by the the mega-corporations that also own the respective broadcast networks. However, I would have liked to think, foolishly, that at least a small sector of society would be smart enough to acknowledge this. Based on the reactions I have seen, primarily on Twitter, my foolishness has been confirmed.


Editor's Note: Charlie Sheen has someone write his tweets for him? SHOCKING. Do the sycophant employment opportunities in Hollywood know no bounds?!?!?! Again, if this fact surprises or upsets you, you may be reading the wrong post right now....


I will accept criticism that Charlie Sheen may make light of addiction and mental disorders, though I would posit that, again, it is the people commenting on or reacting to his interviews, tweets and such that are the real culprits. Be that as it may, I have no issue with those that complain that his antics paint addiction and mental illness with an injust brush. Now, having ceded that point...

 

Here is what I find the "problem" to be. I get the sense that Charlie Sheen actually believes the stuff he is saying (or dictating--whatever). Well, at least 70% of it literally and the remaining 30% of it metaphorically. And most people have an issue because WE HAVE BEEN SYSTEMATICALLY IMMUNIZED FROM PEOPLE TELLING US THE FUCKING TRUTH. Politicians lie (even the savior President Barry-O). Bankers lie. Wall Street lies. Bosses lie. Employees lie. News networks lie. Corporations lie. The lack of full disclosure and transparency has become so fucking pervasive in our "modern" society that when we are faced with anyone who is speaking honestly and earnestly our first reaction is to attack that person like white blood cells attacking any other contagion.


We (Americans) are entangled in a war that is costing upwards of $450 million PER DAY. All the while, we are being asked--nay, told--that we need to cut back on "non-essential" programs. Like public broadcasting. And Social Security. And health care services for the elderly and indigent. Meanwhile, corporations are filling their coffers with bailouts and public assistance while paying little or no income tax. Of course, most of these corporate interests are the ones pulling the strings attached to our elected officials, by the by. Yes, this includes the founders of that dumb-assed Tea Party as well, in case you were wondering where I stood on those nut jobs. But all we can do is bitch about Charlie Sheen acting crazy? Can I get a "Really? with Seth and Amy", please?

 

What has Charlie Sheen done? He has used his own money to buy coke and whores. Wow. What a crime committed on the American public. And before you get all indignant about him not "paying" for his crimes, allow me to remind you the number of Wall Street executives who have gone to jail over the widley-acknowledged fraud and collusion that caused the financial meltdown on 2007-2008: ZERO. THAT'S Z-E-FUCKING-R-O. So if you want to say he's a bad father or that you feel bad for Denise Richards or what's-her-name or for his kids, fair enough. There are civil judicial mechanisms in place to address his putative failures as a parent. But do not waste any breath or tears trying to convince me that Charlie Sheen belongs in jail. It's not like he took taxpayer money that was supposed to be pumped back into the commercial and consumer lending system and instead sat on it to bolster his books.

 

Everyone needs to read Christopher Hedges' masterpiece, "Empire of Illusion." For those of you who still read more than 140 characters at a time, that is. This book has pissed me off about our farce of a society more than anything else I have read in the past five years. Truly brilliant. From modern politics (i.e., note how we analyze the "political effectiveness" of a message rather than the actual fucking content thereof) to degree mills like the University of Phoenix (how much intellectually-stimulating, salon-like debate can take place in front of a screen?) to the sex industry (GMAC and AT&T are some of the largest profiteers of hotel porn--never knew that before), he mercilessly minces the brain-dead, autonomic, consumer-based illusion we have allowed ourselves to embrace as "reality."

 

I said last week that if we put toward our elected officials 1% of the outrage directed at Charlie Sheen we could actually see real change. But we have become programmed to do exactly what I have seen over the past 10 days or so. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Question nothing. Accept. Consume. Obey.

 

Editor's Note: As campy as it was, how fucking spot-on was "They Live"? Just substitute the oligarchical corporate aristocracy for the aliens, and there you are.

 

Similarly, I said last week that if you did not realize that Charlie Sheen is EXACTLY what society deserves, then the joke truly is on you. You want to live in this society more concerned with celebrities doing blow off of hookers' asses, that is EXACTLY what you get.


Remember the scene in "Private Parts" where Pig Vomit (the only truly redeeming performance in the film) is trying to find out Howard Stern's appeal?



Researcher: The average radio listener listens for eighteen minutes. The average Howard Stern fan listens for - are you ready for this? - an hour and twenty minutes.

Pig Vomit: How can that be?

Researcher: Answer most commonly given? "I want to see what he'll say next."

Pig Vomit: Okay, fine. But what about the people who hate Stern?

Researcher: Good point. The average Stern hater listens for two and a half hours a day.

Pig Vomit: But... if they hate him, why do they listen?

Researcher: Most common answer? "I want to see what he'll say next."


(Via IMDb: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0119951/quotes)



Is that not Charlie Sheen in a nutshell?

 


 

Or, to quote the fantastic @justsendtulips from earlier this evening:


"Charlie Sheen is Twitter in real life. I applaud his coke snorting, booze ingesting, hooker fucking, awesome behavior. Legend"


and


"I don't know why Charlie Sheen gets so much flak. He's living the dream that all of you fuckers wish you could have."


Here's a hint. If you want him to go away, ignore him. Fully and completely. Remember, the opposite of love is not hate; it is indifference. I, for one, am content to sit back and watch the shitstorm created by his wake, the truly entertaining part of the show. Pass the fucking popcorn.

 


 

Comment--Nicked You (Update #3)

Neonatal intensive care unit. No parent wants to hear those four words. Just like no parent wants to hear the acronym "NICU" used in connection with a newborn. But, then again, we don't always get to choose.

On Saturday morning, the pediatrician informed us that the little Sith princess was a bit yellow. "Duh," I thought. "She's a Sith princess." Also, jaundice tends to run in my family. My brothers and I all had jaundice, and The Prodigal One was jaundiced at birth (phototherapy cleared things up in each case). However, the pediatrician was concerned. So they took some blood and put her under the lights.

"This seasonal affective disorder shit is a motherfucker."

"I'll hit the gym and do laundry later."

"These better not be Oakleys. Oakleys are for fucking pussies."

The blood work did not make the pediatrician feel any better. In fact, she was mildly alarmed at the bilirubin levels given the age of the child. Well, more than mildly alarmed. Rather, alarmed enough to order a transfer for the baby from our delivery hospital to the hospital with the new, state-of-the-art NICU.

Editor's Note: I will not bore you with the banal details of the science behind jaundice and bilirubin. In this case, the cause was likely blood type and rH factor incompatibility between mother and child.

I do not know exactly how long it took my wife to become hysterical over these developments. I think the time could be measured in nanoseconds, much like the big bang. Also, the energy released with said hysteria was akin to the big bang. Despite repeated assurances that the condition was completely manageable, that they just wanted her to be in the best possible hands and that they could not administer medication for the condition (if needed) anywhere else, Operation Devastation had taken hold. I tried to remind my wife that nothing about this pregnancy was easy, and this was merely a minor inconvenience. Yes, i did get the death stare for trying to make her feel better. I should have known better.

On some levels, getting this child to term was a miraculous result on several levels. We found out my wife was pregnant in late June/early July. Great news. We learned of the pregnancy about a week after my wife had undergone a gastrointestinal radiology panel for her hiatal hernia that had, at the time, become more and more difficult to manage. Not-so-great news. After learning of the pregnancy, my (mildly hypochondriac) wife went on the Internet before I had a chance to stop her. I really need to get around to blocking all medical information websites from her laptop and smartphone....

After another monumental freakout session, I was able to get her to focus on the following facts. First, a fertilized egg is pretty fucking resilient. Second, the radiological elements to which she was exposed were likely below the "unsafe thresholds." Third, all of the literature says that the two results would be either miscarriage or no miscarriage--birth defects and the like would not be a result due to the nascent nature of the pregnancy. I find that many aspects of life can be boiled down to binary concepts and choices. A or B. 0 or 1. Miscarriage or no miscarriage. This simplicity was likely cold comfort to a woman who suffered two miscarriages since the birth of our son.

Each day became a waiting game. I am so horrendously bad at walking on eggshells that I do not even bother trying, and this was no exception. I would ask her how she was feeling, even if it pissed her off. I would tell her to push more water, even if she felt like she was floating already. I would tell her to call the obstetrician's office, even if she said an issue "was really nothing." Sometimes doing the right thing means being a bit of an asshole. Or an enormous asshole. Whatever. I revel in the role.

We endured test results, silently cheering when HCG numbers doubled. We waited for an eternity until the first ultrasound--the positive pregnancy test was so early that we had to wait far longer than usual to get the paper-thin reassurance that an ultrasound printout of a yolk sac brings. We mad sure that she was not doing anything to put the pregnancy at risk. 

The Fourth of July came and went. The Prodigal One and I went camping. The Prodigal One went back to school. Labor day was here before we knew it. Each additional week was modestly--sometimes silently--celebrated. And with the continued stability of the pregnancy came new experiences. Terms like "advanced maternal age," "shortened cervix" and "prenatalogist." I joked once that I should see if the hospital would just rent me office space. As much time as we spent there, I would probably get more done working from the hospital than my regular office.

I thought things would get easier once we were far enough along to go public with the news. Bzzzzt! Thanks for playing. Enjoy these parting gifts. Other challenges lurked around every turn. Gestational diabetes (managed solely via diet, thankfully). Elevated risk levels from the quad-screen. Amniocentesis. Non-stress tests. And more ultrasounds than I can count (evidently the 10th one is NOT free when you pay for the first nine). But who would not do everything possible for the health of their wife and unborn daughter?

Editor's Note: The wildest thing in my mind was that they sent us actual pictures of her chromosomes from the genetic testing after the amniocentesis. Like I could look at the pictures and say, "Oh, yes, those are some good looking chromosomes. Look at pairs 12 and 19, honey! Should we submit these to that "Cutest Chromosome" contest we saw in Reader's Digest?"

So, this brings us to last Saturday. The transfer went well, for the child at least. My wife's transfer involved "the worst van ride EVER" according to her. I gather the hormones and hysterics did not help. The same goes for just having given birth less than 18 hours ago. On the plus side, I am fairly certain that we had the largest, healthiest baby in the NICU. This fact was confirmed by several of the (wonderful) NICU nurses we had over the past few days. I think this perspective and another day of healing have finally started to calm my wife down. Also, making arrangements so that she can stay in our daughter's NICU room has helped.

"I'm too sexy for your timeline."

"No pictures, please. I just vant to be alone."

"Dad, this one better not be going on teh Interwebz."

If all goes well, the baby will be back home in a few days. The sooner the better. Her Sith training awaits.

Update, Monday, February 28, 2011, 1 PM local time:

They have shut down one bank of lights (of the three) and have stopped pushing antibiotics, so that is all good news. If everything keeps progressing, the Sith princess should be home on Wednesday.

"Damn it feels good to be a gangster."

"Next time, hire ILM. This low-quality blue screen shit is FAR beneath my station."

Update, Tuesday, March 1, 4 PM local time:

 

They have shut down a second bank of lights, and we expect to have them shut doen the final bank this evening. Also, they have stopped IV supplementation. She is definitely her father's child, because when I fed her formula after her noon nursing session she took down 50cc (almost two ounces) of formula LIKE A FUCKING BOSS. Then she napped with me for over an hour before I had to return to base for The Prodigal One. Things are looking good for Wednesday.

"Imma flash you some signs. Yeah, I had to cut a foo' up in here last night."

"Psst. Come closer. Closer. Remember, snitches get stitches, bitches."

Kickin' back after knockin' down a fiddy. Because fortys are too mainstream.

"Mayhem won't have anything on me when I am through."

Update, Wednesday, March 2, 5 PM local time:

 

 

Like one of the biggest bosses of all time, Odysseus (also know as Ulysses for you Roman-only pussies), we have returned home from our 10-year (okay, five-day) NICU journey. The discharge took forever, but I think that was mainly because they had a couple of emergencies on the ward. Again, I am supremely grateful for our relatively minor inconvenience of post-partum jaundice. The Sith princess is sleeping and eating like a champ (O would dare say "winning," but some asshole has taken that one already).

On behalf of everyone here at Team Dark Side, I would like to thank everyone for the kind thoughts and enquiries.

Regards, 

DSL

"Enjoy the calm while it lasts, Dad."

"Chillax. Dad has this shit handled."

"This is my TMZ face."

So fucking kyoote you want to punch yourself.

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