Boy, am I feeling depressed today. Usually, the causes of my funks are any man’s guess. Not today. Today, the source is clear: I just listened to the new Wu Tang Clan album, 8 Diagrams.
As my friends know, I am a hip-hop fan, specifically a bizarre, mystical Muslim hip-hop fan. I love the Five Percenters, I love the Nuwaubians; for my money it doesn’t get much better than guys rapping about the Pythagorean theorem and the twelve tribes of Israel. It’s surreal, like a country song about cutting up coke and slinging it on the corner.
I have been a fan of the Wu Tang since I first heard The 36 Chambers. The rough talk, the beats, the almost indecipherable slang; the album had the whole package. Wu Tang Forever, though admittedly a little sprawling, kept up the quality. Then the wheels fell off the wagon. The W and Iron Flag were disasters. It was as if the clan was pathetically trying to make the mainstream transformation that Busta Rhymes did when he went from the Lords of The New School to “Pass the Courvoisier.” It was a depressing period, but throughout it, I always clung to the belief that one day the Wu Tang would return in proper form.
After hearing 8 Diagrams, I realize that this will never happen, and it’s tough to let go. It’s tough for me to completely accept that there will never be another decent Wu Tang Clan album. I feel like I’ve watched an older relative, who was once smart and engaging, succumb to Alzheimer’s, forcing me to question if they were ever all that smart to begin with.
I miss arguing about whether or not the ODB wrote his lyrics or just made them up (I think there’s no way he was working from a script). I miss Uncontrolled Substance era Inspectah Deck. Oh, how I miss the days of Raekwon and Ghostface telling elaborate, long-winded crime stories.
Speaking of crime stories, there has been a series of burglaries on my block in the last week or so. I live in Columbia, so this is a big deal. We don’t get too much true crime around here, especially not so close (next door) to my home. I have been woken up by policemen at my door twice in the last week, both times around three in the morning.
“Your neighbor has just been burgled. Did you see or hear anything suspicious?” The cop asked.
“Well, I was asleep.”
“I see, but did you see or hear anything suspicious?”
“Let’s see…Just before I heard your knock, I was peeing all over my downtown law office, after just having had Cholula licked off my penis by a wolverine prostitute. But the wolverine had small juggs. Why would I pay for that? I find that suspicious. Also my head was a hypercube.”
“I see. Go on back to bed then. Let us know if you hear anything.”
The first time I went through this routine, I didn’t think much of it. So what if someone got burgled? People get burgled all the time. But, when it was clear that this was a crime spree, that we have a serial burglar on the loose, it also became clear that someone had to do something about this. And that person isn’t Johnny Law.
Anyone who knows Dan Friesen knows that he has a wild vigilante streak. I’m big on justice. I’m big on circumventing the law when need be. But, more than anything, I’m big on setting elaborate traps.
I have to resist divulging too much about my trap at this time, lest the burglar be a big Friesen Pointer. Suffice it to say it will involve “gourmet” popcorn and a sandbag. Wish me luck, I’m off to catch a burglar.
