Leave Him Alone
Not sure when it happened, but I got slimed (mind out of the gutter, people) by the Hamiltonization Process. I checked with my doctor. And she checked her PDR. There’s no cure for this—and if there was, would I really swallow the little red pill?
Maybe it happened while listening to Charlie riff about being homeless or hearing that his girl broke up with him during last year’s Freshmen Class of 2009 cover shoot, and I didn’t realize it. Or, maybe it happened while bobbing my head to the “Brooklyn Girls” video on YouTube. (Full disclosure: I am and always will be a BK girl.) Or, maybe it happened after I borrowed (and never returned) his mixtape from a co-worker. Or, maybe it happened after Rhymefest got brand new and released his Supersonic (Chucky Cheese) diss track.
It could be the four wings and fried rice combo (extra duck sauce, please), consisting of, all of the above. Thing is, I’m digging dude, with his Sonic the Hedgehog addiction, gigantic headphones, clever word play and blatant crush on Rihanna. He just keeps things interesting, by being himself, for better or for worse.
I’m not stalking him on Twitter or a stan vying to be his baby’s moms, but ol’ Charles does have that slightly off-kilter vibe that would’ve made us cool in high school. And I attended a school where one-punch knockout was listed as a team sport, right after basketball and track, and the social networking opportunities were teaching chess, transforming into a Deception (Deceptinettes, for the ladies) and scribing for the underground alternative to the student newspaper. My joint was eclectic like that, but dudes like Charles were still teased, challenged and threatened for being, oh, what’s that ugly word? Oh, yeah, different. If the presidential election taught us anything, it should be about embracing change.
True, good girls love bad guys. But that gets old quick when bad graduates to horrible. Secretly we’re always cheering for the underdog, the talented guy with the gravelly voice who rocks to his own beat, the one with the fashion sense that is to the left, to the left. The one you alternate between giggling, smiling and shaking your head at, after spotting his daredevil move of matching a pink (sweater) with a green (shirt), never mind that those are the colors of a 100-year old sorority. Do you, Harlem boy. It’s funny how Charles is confident enough to take jabs—not from someone like say, Marc Jacobs—but from hardcore, pants sagging, drawers showin’-dudes (with too much time on their hands) obsessed with his color palette. Personally, I prefer red and white, but that’s just how Delta’s do.
Head up, Charles. All this talk is free publicity that the best PR firm couldn’t whip up. When they stop talking, well then, that’s when it’s time to worry.–Miss One