How dare you, America. How dare you keep this man, this legend, Charlie Sheen secret from us for all this time. For years, you’ve made Black people feel like fools for counting among its ranks of celebrities Kanye West, Mike Tyson, ODB, and James Brown. Despite the genius of (some) of these names, you’ve sequestered our confidence in them to the point that we label them as crazy, a$$holes, cokeheads, or just plain embarrassments to Blackness. And then you show us Charlie Sheen.
This man, this legend, this unabashedly shameless drug user (NO! not a user, don’t ever call him a “user”) who stares you in the eyes and coolly, boldly asks you “so what?” His brash defiance for societal norms and seemingly endless thirst for reckless hedonism make even “Chippy D” (Lawrence Fishburne’s daughter-turned porn star) into a respectable community figure.
If it sounds like I’m teabagging, I am. Proudly. One would be so lucky as to bag the tea of Mr. Sheen. To call Charlie Sheen the white Kanye West would be an insult to both. Mr. West apologized, again and again and again, and we as a community gave him a perpetual side-eye first for his brash actions and then for his rambled pleas for forgiveness. Charlie Sheen endangered life and limb of himself and those around him and essentially told everyone to get with the program or get off the ride. No, there’s no comparison between the two. There’s Charlie Sheen and then there’s others.
Charlie Sheen embraces the no pockets lifestyle. Not only is he the only person on earth who’s not holding anyone’s pockets, he has no pockets to be held. Quite simply, to hold his pocket means that you’re in his purview, that he acknowledges your presence and your concerns, but finds the latter (sometimes the former) ridiculous. No, he’s beyond that. He doesn’t acknowledge you.
Sigh, I digress, and I do so because I’m not Charlie Sheen, who stays focused even when the coke doesn’t. Don’t hold his pockets, because you can’t. And cry as a result.
