7 Times I Wish I Had Kanye's Hype Men
Even losers need a winner's mentality.
I saw Kanye West in a video recently. He was crying in his mansion about something the world had done to him and losing some billions. He’s been off the map for a while, but a lot of people were cheering him on. It got me to thinking, “Where can I get hype men like this?”
I’ve made some very dumb decisions in my life, and hurt countless people. That notwithstanding, the right hype team could wash away my sins. As Kanye preened around that Malibu lounge, models gawking at his pear-like silhouette, barbers wishing he’d hold still enough for them to shave his hyphen goatee, there was one mystery woman giving a chorus of “Amen!”s so loud he had to urge her to shut up so he could properly blabber.
I admit I thought ‘Damn she’s annoying as hell’ but that was the weak-minded boy in me. In truth, I admired her persistent nonsensical ass-kissing. My inner hype men shrink when they should flex, cower when they should combat, drown in familiar voices like Doubt, Shame, and Righteous Ancestor. But if, like Kanye, I told them ‘STFU I’m talking right now,’ and Team Hype backed me up, my life would be better. And honestly, I’d be famous. Maybe I’d be running this whole shit.
While a hype life would be charmed, I’ve done my fans a holy service by narrowing it down to a list of key moments where hype men would’ve really come in handy.
When that disrespectful doctor smacked me as I came out my mom - This was a formative moment so I’d need my hype men to show me they’re my true Day Ones. That no one gets away with treating me like supporting cast. Specifically, touching me without permission. Nine years of medical school wiped away with a misguided slap that sparked a melée. My first entourage brawl of many.
When the teacher made me raise my hand - I needed the hype men’s resilience here to just start talking over her. Nobody is truly checking for today’s ‘aim’ right now and I gotta get these jokes off. From her I need: updates on the apple sauce situation, an altruistic view of boogers, and infinite bathroom passes when these urchins start peeing themselves from laughter. Thirty years from now, she’ll be known as an audition for my world tour. The principal’s office will be a footnote, a setup for a bigger joke in the second half-hour. And my team is there to remind her of that as they pull out their phones to record my latest.
When I vomited during the 1999 cross-country final - Instead of cutting me from the team—the first runner ever to be cut a) from the team and b) during a meet—my guys would’ve stepped in and said something like, ‘To you, it’s a loss, to us it’s the grind,’ and put a nice dovetail on Ep. 1 of the docuseries. After that, it’ll go Montage, Montage, Love Story, Montage, Heartbreak, Expulsion. We pick up in Ep. 3 as I exit jail, a wiry runner, cut from Rikers Island marble. I go on to win the championship and other members of my team will validate me with prepared speeches. (Note: This part is lightly scripted, and I’ve got an eye on that kid from the Central Park Five emerging in a star role as the Young Me.)
When I got arrested for smoking weed with Flava Flav - A few notes: One, Mr. Flav was an epic mentor and likely my best. Two, I’m not sure it was weed in that thing. Three, if I could’ve returned Pichardo’s gun without incident, I would’ve. But when he raised his voice at me, I had to show him that heaven was a mile away. Flav was on the ground and I couldn’t stand idly. Anyway the hype team would’ve de-escalated Officers 1 and 2 as they were minor characters with no lines. Once subdued, I know Santiago and partner would not have penned me into the paddy wagon alone. At least not with so much MDMA and PCP Milly-rocking my bloodstream.
When I was swarmed by Jamaican fire ants - I’d like to believe a good hype team—the right hype team—would’ve hosed my besieged legs, sprayed the little red demons, and praised me for surviving their volcanic clamps in my pubis. That would’ve also offset my cousins laughing themselves into a coma as I whimpered prying those amber devils from the thigh-gripping bands of my briefs. They made their way into the unspeakable ant hills in the back of my drawers and found Nirvana in my butthole, ten at a time. The hype team would’ve fanned me down instead, calming forever fractured nerves, planning their big payday as my best friends.
Losing every Butts Up standoff in 4th grade - Though evidenced by its title, Butts Up is middle school masochism designed to make champions out of squirts. A game predicated on speed, blind primal fear, overt shame, and rivalries, contestants sprint to a far wall, hoping to touch its sanctified concrete before a rocketed handball explodes pain on their backsides. At P.S. 152, I was four or five pounds shy of Chubbiest, but about 9th Fastest. The finest Butts Up bait. Plus, I had just started wearing glasses, and it was a victor’s feast to relieve me of them with a wayward blue comet to the face. Here, the hype men would form a half-moon border, sacrificing asses and calves, as I worked hard to beat my personal best time sprinting to the finish.
As I wrote this essay - I have struggled with legions of doubters, haters, and fact-checkers. I have faced down Grammar Colonels, education advocates, and politicians. Lobbyists. Billionaires. The president. And that’s just in my head. It’s an ugly game proving you’re the best without the skills to back that up. In due time, what naysayers will realize is that their penchant for low-energy, high-falutin’ rhetoric has only fueled me and my newly-signed hype train.