In 2000, when Michael J. Fox was forced to depart from the sitcom “Spin City,” his replacement was Charlie Sheen. I remember thinking to myself,  Charlie Sheen in a sitcom? Since when is he even remotely funny, and wasn’t he arrested for breaking his girlfriend’s nose — not to mention a spending spree at Heidi Fleiss’ house, shooting Kelly Preston in the arm, and trips in and out of rehab for hard drugs and alcohol?

Forgetting the moral issues for a second — although alcohol and prostitutes are in a little bit of a different category than punching your fiancee in the face — doesn’t someone like this pose a financial risk since Hollywood, like any other business, revolves itself around gross income?

Then in 2003, the epitome of  “We Don’t Care About No Stinkin Laws” happened when Charlie was given his own sitcom that has now gone into syndication, which in Charlie’s money-terms means, prostitutes all day all the time! In the between all of this, he married and had two kids with actress Denise Richards — and we all know how that ended. I will spare Denise just a little bit. I really don’t think at the end of the day she had thought that being married to him was going to be her own version of Wild Things. But my goodness, his dirty laundry is public record so the “I am a girl from the Midwest” line just doesn’t cut it.

Denise’s divorce deposition was a laundry list of physical and emotional abuse, as well as gambling and child pornography. Even if a tenth of what she said was true, do we really want this man as a part of the few sitcom choices we have these days? I’m around a lot of stand-up comedy. You can walk into any of the major New York City comedy clubs and find comics who are very funny, original, talented,  have paid their dues twenty-fold and that can do a better job and not be such a liability to a network and society.

So why does Hollywood keep rewarding this man? Every instance of this man being with a woman ends up with him in court and an endless amount of restraining orders. Some may think the women aren’t very bright but there is a pattern here whether you like Brooke Mueller or not. Furthermore, the majority of most jobs in the private sector would have had him fired before he could say “Hot Shots.” But for some reason he’s rarely unemployed.

What makes him carry on this inexcusable behavior—he is 44 years old, so the my parents didn’t pay attention to me excuse doesn’t hold water. If anything, his father—Martin Sheen—has been a huge proponent of his career and was the major connection that got him into films in the first place. He grew up in privileged Malibu, went to high school in Santa Monica and was friends with Sean Penn and Rob Lowe — although he was expelled and never graduated, which may have been the first clue.

Why bother writing this article? Because this man has one adult daughter and 4 children under the age of 6, and a brand new Christmas Day arrest. It sends waves of O.J. Simpson through the air and these stories usually have the same ending where one person is not on this earth anymore. If Charlie’s father, Martin—there isn’t a left wing liberal protest that I don’t like—Sheen, truly loves and cares about his son, he will get him as much professional help as possible and have him learn a trade. And the industry should take a stand and declare that this behavior—which is beyond tolerant — is not acceptable.

Message to all talent scouts: Spend a week going to Comedy Clubs and Improv shows in New York City. You’ll find his replacement and they will be grateful. No mess, just laughs, I assure you.

You are realizing your age today if you grew up in the 1970s or ’80s. Farrah Fawcett, whose iconic image was as ubiquitous on the bedroom walls of American teenage boys as Kim Il Sung’s was in the homes of North Koreans, died of cancer at 62 yesterday. Age is the cruel fate of all sex symbols. In Fawcett’s case, she not only contended with Father Time but with the public’s changing tastes that dated what once symbolized sex. Demographics, and Sir Mix-a-Lot, killed the pin-up girl monopoly of bleach-blond anorexics. But even twenty years after her heyday, ’70s postergirl Fawcett so symbolized sex that her 1995 appearance in Playboy became the bestselling issue of the 1990s. To put this in perspective, an over-the-hill Farah Fawcett beat Pamela Anderson, Jenny McCarthy, and Denise Richards in their primes.

Six years after Farrah Fawcett appeared on the bestselling poster of all time, Michael Jackson released the bestselling album in history. Thriller was so big that, not only did it inspire fashion and dancefloor trends, it outsold numbers two and three on the all-time list combined. Jackson, who before our eyes morphed from cuddly, precocious singing/dancing machine to the world’s biggest pop star to Howard Hughes, died yesterday too. For Jackson, life’s victory lap–that even an overweight and jumpsuited Elvis enjoyed–eluded him. The last image embedded in the public’s mind is that of Michael Jackson in a courtroom rather than on a stage. A court of law acquitted him of sexually abusing a minor. The court of public opinion convicted him of being strange. Seeing Farrah Fawcett in her red bathing suit, or Michael Jackson moonwalking, brings us back to a time when we were young. News of their deaths reminds us that we’re old.