• » Name: Meka Soul
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Here We Go Again

As my Long Beach blogging brother from another mother Brillyance lamented yesterday [1], the eleventh “anniversary” of the death of Humpty Hump’s favorite piff pocketer, Tupac Shakur, will be upon us in a few days. Not to sound like I don’t give a shit or anything (even though I really don’t), but it’s a safe bet to say that I’ll probably spend the day trying to avoid the media altogether, save for this lovely section of the Internets, in hopes that I don’t have to get pelted with the shitty tributes, radio stations blaring out “California Love” every 30 minutes and insidious jibba-jabba from today’s current crop of crappy rappers “reminiscing” on how his role in Nothing But Trouble (look it up) changed their lives.

While at times I am still awestruck as to how someone who quite possibly caught one of the worst etherings of all time in hip-hop (only Big L and, er, Hiroshima and Nagasaki got it worse) could still hold so much influence over a rapidly-diminishing genre of music over a decade after he got Swiss Cheesed up, you’ll have to excuse me for calling bullshit on those who honestly feel that the guy “touched people’s souls” with such inspirational pieces like “Thug Passion,” as so many humps tried to convince me when I wrote a piece here on why Biggie was the greatest rapper of all time back in March [2].

But if you really think about it, some of those homos may have been right to a certain extent. If it hadn’t been for Parish Lesane Crooks (once again, look it up) running around shirtless either threatening to empty a clip into some random enemy’s chest (oh, the delicious irony!) or boasting about squeezing one off in Faith’s face, there’d undoubtedly be less rappers running around with their waxed, greased-up chests all out talking as if they’re impervious to the same lead diet Bishop was fed in Las Vegas.

I am almost certain that most – if not all – of today’s rappers wouldn’t have a career had Makaveli not been used as Suge Knight’s personal bulletproof vest on The Strip that one fateful night. At the same time, I’m pretty sure Pac would hold no relevance in the eyes of today’s hyper-fickle audience, as in the case of most old rappers today, what with them preferring to stiff-arm hoes in the club and claiming that a “rapper” is the lyrical version of  based off of a handful of shoddy, drug-addled mixtape rhymes.

Perhaps it’s due to my somewhat blasphemous nature, but since I never gave two shits about him when he was alive (and I’m from the West Coast to boot!), I’m really not affected by the idea that his ashes could have been used to fertilize the ground that grew the carrot I just finished eating. But shit, he’s probably making money off this blog just by me mentioning his name, and I don’t make money off this thing.

[1] This is what I get for writing shit and not posting it first. Oh, well. Shouts to Brills.

[2] Seriously though, the general consensus in the comments section tried to convince me that 2Pac was the greatest because I was (and I'm paraphrasing here) a "fruitbag who needed to kill myself because I didn't know anything about rap." And I wonder why such insightful commentary does little to move me.

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