I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t crazy for the Beastie Boys. In fact, I am pretty sure I was weaned on Licensed to Ill as opposed to Baby Einstein. But more importantly, I know I’m not the only one in this boat. Everyone has their own story of when they first heard “Sure Shot” or saw the “(You Gotta) Fight For Your Right (To Party!)” video and wished they could somehow be that crazy-funny, crazy-clever, and crazy-badass.
It’s hard for me not to feel phony or insincere when it comes to the death of actors or musicians. They are people I never knew beyond their body of work–how does this make them different from an old lady that lived down the street or someone thousands of miles away who is victim to the same disease? Besides a passing “Oh, well that is unfortunate…” before I got back to my life, I never thought it seemed fair to grieve more or value a life more because someone won an Oscar.
When I read the news today, all of that went out the window. Hearing of MCA’s death was incredibly difficult, and for a moment I didn’t even believe it. Though he had been sick for a few years, and this was no secret, it still all seems so sudden and so strange.
So while I won’t be one of the overbearing people on the six o’clock news, running blindly into traffic as they weep uncontrollably, I definitely won’t forget his talent, his charity, or his humor. And something tells me that’s probably the way he would have wanted it.
I want to say a little something that’s long overdue
The disrespect to women has got to be through
To all the mothers and sisters and the wives and friends
I want to offer my love and respect to the end
I keep my underwear up with a piece of elastic
I use a bullshit mic that’s made out of plastic
To send my rhymes out to all of the nations
Like Ma Bell, I’ve got the ill communications
If you try to knock me you’ll get mocked
I’ll stir fry you in my wok
Your knees’ll start shaking and your fingers pop
Like a pinch on the neck of Mr. Spock
Don’t test me, they can’t arrest me,
I fake right cause I always shoot lefty.
You look upset, yo calm down
You look like Cable Guy dunked off of your crown.
I flow like smoke out a chimney, you never been me
You wanna rap but what you’re makin’ ain’t hip hop B
Pass me the scalpel, I’ll make an incision
I’ll cut off the part of your brain that does the bitching
Put it in formaldehyde and put it on a shelf
And you can show it to your friends and say “that’s my old self”
Now my name is M.C.A. – I’ve got a license to kill
I think you know what time it is – it’s time to get ill
Now what do we have here – an outlaw and his beer
I run this land, you understand – I make myself clear.