Sheen says that for too long he was “being the guy that I thought they needed me to be and always feeling like I was the last person taken care of in the mix, you know. Always. Always the last guy considered. And listen, that’s over. It’s done. It’s pissing everybody off, because they always had an expectation based on predictable reactions. And now they don’t, and they don’t know what to do.”
It’s hard to know who “they” are. His ex-wives? His parents? His favorite porn stars? I ask him, after all the hard work he’s done getting clean in the past, what is it that keeps luring him back to the party? “All that shit was inauthentic,” he says. The partying? I ask. “No,” he says. “The fucking AA shit. The sobriety shit. It was always for other people. I just wanted to get a job back and get enough money to tell everybody to go fuck themselves and then roll like Errol Flynn and Frank Sinatra—the good parts of those guys.”
Is he saying that this time he’s approaching rehab more authentically? I ask. Or is he saying the opposite: that rehab itself is inauthentic? “I’m going to ride the winds of the universe,” Sheen says mischievously, and for a moment he sounds like Kurtz’s sidekick, the strung-out photographer-philosopher played by Dennis Hopper in Apocalypse Now. “How about that? How about that?”
Because of Charlie Sheen’s ongoing, live streaming self-destructo-thon, we decided to scramble and post GQ correspondent Amy Wallace’s forthcoming inside look at Sheen’s life. Consider it a very early sneak peak at our April 2011 issue.
**Note: that’s a photo illustration—an excellent one by Peter Rad—and not an actual shot of Charlie Sheen. Although it totally could be, right?**