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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

The Kiss Of Death

So I guess to coincide with hip-hop’s bizarre trend of celebrating cemetery fertilizer, today marks the 13th year in which one Eric “Eazy-E” Wright would pass. While I’m sure most of us will start flooding the hallowed hallways of the comments section – or even worse, the Okayplayer boards [1] – to divulge our phony three dollars about how influential, trend-setting or flat-out great he was, me on the other hand could more or less give two-sevenths of a shit about the rotted-out corpse currently taking up space at Rose Hills Memorial Park.

Now before anybody gets their cyber-thongs in a bunch, know that in my defense I don’t even care about Biggie Smalls currently being used as manure in whatever grave Puff helped dig for him (possibly before raping him for his publishing in the process) before he even had a chance to catch those four slugs to the chest, and everybody knows that I ghost ride the Frank White raps like none other. But that’s just the dickhead in me, I suppose.

No, the real reason I could care less are for a few reasons: one, I never understood why anybody would celebrate the anniversary of a rapper of all people getting ethered (Stack Bundles! Big Moe! That one crackhead from the Furious Five who coined the term “hip-hop!”); and two, the way he was taken out was more shocking to me (not to mention less publicized) than, say, Lesane getting shot up a year or so later. AIDS isn’t a laughing matter, and even I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, but telling me that the difference between the “influence” of one mediocre West Coast rapper and another mediocre West Coast rapper is the number of metal lungies lodged in his sternum is just ass-backward.

What gets me is how some people front like they’re genuinely affected by said artist’s death, as if they were the greatest things since sliced Wonder Bread. More interesting is how some yentas interestingly become only after the guy dies in the first place. I’m pretty sure a good chunk of those glorified Al Bundies who tried to school me on J Dilla over at some nondescript sneaker shop probably used to get him and Jermaine Dupri mixed up back in the day.

Not to mention that most of us probably don’t even remember Eazy dying thirteen years ago today is quite simply based on the fact that we have more important issues to worry about, like making sure the number of socks coming out of the dryer are equal to the number that went in. Hell, I think Freaky Tah’s death anniversary is this Friday, and I probably won’t even bother digging through the iPod to listen to Legal Drug Money. I haven’t played “Renee” in months now.

If people really wanted to celebrate a person’s life, why not celebrate it on the day of his (because it’s almost never her) birth? Instead of pretending to pour our bum wines out on a typically morose day, why not rejoice in Eazy’s birth date?

Oh, that’s right: Lesane got shot the fuck up on September 7th. Damn.

[1] I guess I should stop ripping on that site because they do give the side hustle a shout out every once in a while, but you know how I don’t really give a fuck about everything most times.

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