Ellis is trying to find something profound and insightful about the lunatic coke-addled ramblings of Charlie Sheen. There is nothing interesting about it. There is nothing symbolic about it. Sheen has a bully pulpit because of his money, which he only has in the first place because he was lucky enough to be cast in a couple of good movies. Sheen is not a great actor or entertainment luminary. He had a shitty show with a laugh track.
Ellis is obviously a great lover of the “reality” era, the era of Youtube viral video and Jersey Shore gaudiness and Kardashians and a hack like Banksy who sprays stenciled designs on buildings heralded as some kind of fucking artistic genius. This isn’t art, it’s…yak! It’s fucking low culture tabloid trash elevated to the level of Shakespeare. It’s a bunch of emperor-has-no-clothes bullshit, high-handed sarcastic smug “I’m so clever and subversive” hipster dogdick. There isn’t an iota of originality or creativity in all this fucking shit. What we are witnessing - the “post-Empire” that Ellis is slavishly praising (you can practically hear the fabric of his jeans tenting out) in his essay - is nothing less than the death of creativity. It is a celebration of so-called “artists” who are creating absolutely nothing new, coming up with not a single original idea.