I woke up screaming fuck the world
"Fuckin' Proof...shot first."
"What happened?"
"They don't know yet. It was an altercation."
"Obviously."
"The guy he shot, who killed him, survived...That might explain the media quiet a little more. Later there might be..."
"Come on, you were right before."
"If he were one of the Backstreet Boys -- "
"Right. If Biggie and 'pac were white --"
" -- it would have blown up the world."
"Instead of just parts of it. Kurt Cobain fucking killed himself and it blew up the world."
"Ten years later, no one has ever been charged in the murders of Christopher Wallace or Tupac Shakur. If they had been Dave Matthews and Garth Brooks, do you think that would still be the case?"
Of course, Tupac has now actually put more albums out after his death than before it, and he's the only maybe-not-really-dead-guy-theory I buy (including Andy Kaufman, because obviously the funniest thing he could do was actually die).
Please don't come back to tell me the 1996/97 murders were big news, big stories. They were certainly bigger than Proof, but Proof, even as Em's loyal sidekick, wasn't as big as them. But let's take a case from outside of entertainment -- little JonBenet Ramsey, another murdered human yet to have justice done in her name (of course, there are far, far too many of these in the world to ever list, or even know their names).
She also died in 1996, and no one has ever been charged. Outrage over this fact, the case, and speculation that wealth and privilege (no one mentions race) might be behind it, breaks out regularly ever since, in the public discourse and the media. Every few years the gore hounders brush off some dusty clips and run another "Look at the pretty dead girl" doc, complete with lots of dark implications and half devoted to the whodunnit.
Not many people talk publicly about the murders of Christopher Wallace and Tupac Shakur. Their mothers. A few fringe filmmakers. Rappers and their fans. Bubbles of coverage lamenting their deaths occasionally pop up, but most nobody gets mad anymore. The anger was always relegated to the fringes anyway, for obvious reasons. And now they're martyrs, invoked like angels, as if their murders were just an inevitable ascension.
"What happened?"
"They don't know yet. It was an altercation."
"Obviously."
"The guy he shot, who killed him, survived...That might explain the media quiet a little more. Later there might be..."
"Come on, you were right before."
"If he were one of the Backstreet Boys -- "
"Right. If Biggie and 'pac were white --"
" -- it would have blown up the world."
"Instead of just parts of it. Kurt Cobain fucking killed himself and it blew up the world."
"Ten years later, no one has ever been charged in the murders of Christopher Wallace or Tupac Shakur. If they had been Dave Matthews and Garth Brooks, do you think that would still be the case?"
Of course, Tupac has now actually put more albums out after his death than before it, and he's the only maybe-not-really-dead-guy-theory I buy (including Andy Kaufman, because obviously the funniest thing he could do was actually die).
Please don't come back to tell me the 1996/97 murders were big news, big stories. They were certainly bigger than Proof, but Proof, even as Em's loyal sidekick, wasn't as big as them. But let's take a case from outside of entertainment -- little JonBenet Ramsey, another murdered human yet to have justice done in her name (of course, there are far, far too many of these in the world to ever list, or even know their names).
She also died in 1996, and no one has ever been charged. Outrage over this fact, the case, and speculation that wealth and privilege (no one mentions race) might be behind it, breaks out regularly ever since, in the public discourse and the media. Every few years the gore hounders brush off some dusty clips and run another "Look at the pretty dead girl" doc, complete with lots of dark implications and half devoted to the whodunnit.
Not many people talk publicly about the murders of Christopher Wallace and Tupac Shakur. Their mothers. A few fringe filmmakers. Rappers and their fans. Bubbles of coverage lamenting their deaths occasionally pop up, but most nobody gets mad anymore. The anger was always relegated to the fringes anyway, for obvious reasons. And now they're martyrs, invoked like angels, as if their murders were just an inevitable ascension.