I Kill Rap Stars

I Kill Rap Stars

Saturday night. I was at Canters, a deli on Fairfax in LA. One of the people I was with was on the list +4 at a party down the street. We piled into the car and got about 3 blocks before we hit police tape, which we drove under to find out what was going on. After getting yelled at by a very patient member of the LAPD, we were escorted back to the other side of the police line. The night went on and I wasn’t thinking too much about it, until around 4 when we decided to get on home. Making our way to the freeway down Fairfax, the police tape was still there. I turned on the radio to hear that the Notorious B.I.G. was shot just a few blocks from where I ate dinner that night. That was kinda freaky, but wait… it gets weirder.

Last September my girlfriend and I were on our way back out to California after spending too much time in the Midwest . We swung through Vegas for a little gambling and a buffet at the Rio (can’t beat all you can eat ribs and sushi). After dinner we headed out and got caught in hell traffic, way worse than what you usually see on the Strip. We thought it was because of the big fight at the MGM that night. It was, kind of. Police cars began rocketing around us. People were screaming. It was the night Tupac got shot. He was about 2 blocks ahead of us when it happened. Goosebumps.

I’m not sure what this all means. Coincidence? Probably. The B.I.G. was supposed to have offed Tupac. Word on the street was that Saturday’s hit was revenge. All I know was that I was in both places just after the shootings occurred, and within 3 blocks of both deaths when they happened. Does that make me a suspect? Nah, It doesn’t even make me a witness. But I do feel like I’m bad luck. I mean, every time I get near a famous rapper, he goes down. Something must be done about me (something short of killing me that is). I offer the following compromise to those rap stars worried for their lives, and how I might be instrumental to their destruction.

1. Buy me an beach house and jet ski. This should keep you safe when you’re in the Los Angeles area. As of right now, I live above a major freeway, which means you take your life into your hands every time you come to the West Side. If I had a beach house off of the Pacific Coast Highway, you’d be a lot safer. If you wanted to pass by outside, call ahead, and I’d drive the jet ski to Catalina.

2. Completely deck out my new house with an awesome stereo system, full ISDN, and satellite dish. That way I’ll never leave. You’ll thank me later.

3. Hook me up with a cellular phone. For $99.99 a minute I’ll tell you where I am, at any time, 24 hours a day. No problem.

4. Other possibilities might include a fluorescent muscle car, a Glock-17 that beeps when I get within 1/2 a mile of you, a live-in chef who will keep me from going out to eat, a keg of beer a week to keep me drunk and immobilized, an all expenses paid vacation to Hawaii every time you come into town, or a nice vacation home in the mountains. That would be really nice.

Nah, it’s not funny that two people are dead. It’s stupid, but it happens, and it’ll keep happening. On one hand, I sorta respect the way these guys actually live the lifestyles they talk about, unlike most hardcore bands who sing about life in the streets and have personal trainers and $40,000 cars. But what a shitty way to live. I mean, you got all the money you’re ever gonna need, and you still can’t just ease up, you still can’t keep your mouth shut and just do your own thing. It must suck to always have to be tough. It gets you killed too.