Who among us isn’t glad Charlie Sheen will curtail his, uh, convalescence in order to resume taping Two and a Half Men sooner? Certainly the hospitality and adult film industries are grateful, as well as whoever allegedly supplied him with cocaine.
My sentiments are fully aligned along the comedy’s crew. They don’t enjoy the same cushion as that show’s creative complement. Van Nuys is nice but it doesn’t compare to Bel Air.
Anyone but me notice the expected outrage concerning Charlie’s behavior — drunkenness and suspected drug abuse stirred in with porn actresses — has maybe rated one “tsk” on the “tutt-tutt scale”?
Isn’t his reported misconduct the sort which displeases those who despise others having good times? The lack of stratospheric moral dungeon stuns me.
I believed that if any event could summon hypercritical brimstone and sulphur, Charlie’s hearty partying with chicks and coke, purportedly, would be it. Maybe he gets a pass because his sit-com pleases big audiences. Entertained so, ordinarily more straitlaced viewers twist their virtues to forgive sinners who regularly amuse them.
If only O.J. had starred in a Top-20 program that delivered yuks to Middle America! He’d be shooting the breeze at the Beverly Hilton today.
Well, I can’t let Charlie slide. I guess I’m not as forgiving. Then again I’ve never watched the show.
My beef is with Charlie and his babes. The rentals, not his ex-wives.
Free country as ours is, if a man wants to consort with porn actresses, he may. It’s a right. One surely enshrined in our Constitution, probably stuck in the Second Amendment’s small print. You know. The right to bare breasts.
Perhaps it’s me but when I gape at current American female adult vixens sloe-eyed disappointment stares back. Where’s the fantasy made flesh? I’ve seen more attractive women spritzing perfume samples in Macy’s. And they wore clothes!
Admittedly I’m not a porn film horn-dog. The few contemporary performers I’m aware of mostly came from watching pixelated hour-long E! teases and Howard Stern. (Naturally my single appearance on Stern’s show not one pierced or inked girl whose manhandling at the grabby whims of her stepfather or “uncle” drove her into double penetration therapy was sighted. Not even a whiff of one!)
Legends, if “legends” is the appropriate word, like Linda Lovelace (we met once) or Marilyn Chambers
(spent a weekend in a chalet with a high school classmate of hers; tales were told out of school) straddled the national libido. Whether our prudery-mired consciousness confessed to it not. Like ’em. Hate ’em. Ogle ’em. They were distinctive.
Today, given the bevy of pulchritude on disks, on demand, or downloaded, we’d be pressed to yank one starlet from the orgy and declare her an exemplar.
Rare is the Sasha Grey who can be distinguished above the writhing moaning horde. Even Jenna Jameson, formerly the gold-plated standard in explicit women, now wears an injection mold look.
Bottle blondes, collagen plumped lips, heedless plastic surgery turning natural beauty into masques, and spin-a-number breast augmentations have made lusted-after figures grotesques. Suddenly imagination lacks worthwhile images worthy of male one-handed idolatry.
When did porn actresses lose their abilities to arouse? Has their unvarying prevalence numbed us? Now we are presented walking sighing Barbies. This is not progress.
If you’re Charlie, going buck wild while partying outside other peoples’ extremes, shouldn’t you aspire for notable as well as noteworthy carnal practitioners? Once recovered, or reeled out again on his high test line, here are two marked upgrades I hope he’ll consider. Both foreign. Both brunettes.
Franceska Jaimes and Ovidie.
Neither is a bim. Clearly a leg up and over already! After compiling so many easy entertainers seeking a bump or dozen, females with little in their minds but fresh dyes atop them, turning to serious women might seem daunting to Charlie. Rather, the two candidates named should be regarded as challenges. Big-boy challenges.
Jaimes and Ovidie bring more than white noise before, during and after coitus. Jaimes, dark and striking, exudes womanly knowing. Ovidie is deeper. She’s published a manifesto belittling those failing to see beyond the moat and ramparts surrounding pornography.
Her theme has a potentially ample American readership.
Weeks ago, i watched a film featuring Ovidie. The project strove for mainstream acceptance but we’d categorize it as a niche effort. Titled The Pornographer (guess the subject), 90 interminable minutes of torpor unspooled. Frankly I’d expected something turgid.
On-screen sex wasn’t the eye-opener. That Jean-Pierre Leaud handled the male lead was.
I couldn’t hurdle an actor director Francois Truffaut used as his celluloid embodiment playing the title role. I strongly identified Leaud projecting Truffaut as Antoine Doinel, his avatar. If there can be sacrilege in movies then seeing Leaud as a spent flesh monger is it.
But Ovidie was watchable. She didn’t go the whole porn route and over-squeal while climaxing. She came across as mildly calculating rather than merely available.
Either woman, or better both women simultaneously, won’t improve Charlie’s tabloid urges. That wasn’t my intent by suggesting Jaimes or Ovidie.
Indeed tens of millions of men living vicariously through Charlie’s newsflashes and headlines making antics, though finding one man honest or brave enough to admit such in mixed company might prove impossible, would likely express betrayal if he went cold turkey on the lowest common denominations and upgraded into substantial women.
When you’ve licked ice cream all your life it must be tough switching to sherbet. Or so I imagine. But these times demand change.
Too many of the girls Charlie has expended himself in are beneath him. And by extension his fans. He steps up his game, dally with women, not barely legals, assuredly there will be fewer sudden hiatuses, thereby sparing the Two and a Half Men crew fears about being able to make its sundry regular life payments.