The crying-on-the-inside kind, I guess
By Colby Cosh - Thursday, January 7, 2010 - 17 Comments
After years of battling addiction on-air, Howard Stern Show writer/performer (and, in a very indirect way, CBC employee) Artie Lange has finally had his long-dreaded Richard Pryor moment, ending up in hospital after a bloody suicide attempt. The New York Post’s story this morning, almost certainly provided by law-enforcement sources, was essentially confirmed by Stern on today’s show.
The incident presents Stern, nearing the end of his contract with satellite radio monopolist Sirius XM, with one of his greatest performing challenges. His entertainment philosophy has traditionally been “Anything personal I find out about my cast is fair game for the air”. Robin Quivers’ disclosures about being sexually molested by her father have been a running gag on the show for 15 years. But Lange’s act of frightening self-violence is on an entirely different level (though it arrives against an ugly, intensifying backdrop of deaths and criminal-justice run-ins for Stern’s “Wack Pack” of peripheral freaks and misfits), and Stern is obviously flustered and discouraged.
What strikes me about the incident is that Artie Lange could get his hands on a gun easily enough if he wanted to. Equally obviously, what he did was done in earnest. But self-harm doesn’t always mean that one is pursuing extinction per se. Over the period in which Lange’s personal problems and addictions have been fodder for the show, the comic has talked endlessly about his psychological issues concerning his father, who was paralyzed in a fall when he was in high school. One notices, however, that he was discovered on Saturday by his mother when she came to drop off food—which, as listeners know, she does almost every day. (Hell, listeners can tell you what specific dishes were probably in the tinfoil.) So my question is: who was Artie really trying to hurt?
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The genius of addiction
By Andrew Potter - Monday, April 13, 2009 at 8:41 PM - 1 Comment
I think Russell Brand is some sort of sexually inspired comic genius, and that My Booky Wook is a brilliantly written bit of navel-adoration. He was on NPR’s Fresh Air a few weeks ago, and it was replayed last night. It’s worth listening to the whole thing — the man tosses off epigrams and witticisms like no one’s business, and it is only after the torrent of words has gone by that you realise that what you thought was a half-conceived aside turns out to be a shard of devastating insight.
Like the moment when he remarks, after being caught out in a bit of a fib, that “I’m an unreliable observer of my own life.”
Or this extended riff on the meaning of heroin, which takes the kernel from Trainspotting’s famous “Choose Life” voiceover and makes a PhD thesis out of it:
Opium diminishes the significance of all else. If you’ve got heroin nothing else really matters. Everything comes in second.
I’ve often thought opiate addiction is the materialization of the abstract idea of need. Most of us have an idea that we’re missing something from out lives; for some of us it is God, for others it’s a new pair of shoes, or the success of a football team that we follow, or the craving for the embrace of an absent lover. But with heroin, once you’re addicted to it, those needs, that hole that I feel is in all of us doesn’t feel nameless, some unknowable entity, but the clearly material, definable, accessible drug that it heroin.
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I’m Linda and I’m a self-help junkie
By Julia McKinnell - Wednesday, February 11, 2009 - 1 Comment
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What happened to Brandon?
By Colin Campbell and Jonathon Gatehouse - Thursday, October 30, 2008 - 15 Comments












