I don't care if one person reads this post or even remotely cares about its central subject, but this Friday afternoon on a beautiful spring day I'm sitting inside with a sick kid mourning the death of Beastie Boy, Adam Yauch. He died of cancer today.
His band, the Beastie Boys in their rap incarnation (which came after their debut as punk rockers--I have a seven-inch single, Pollywog Stew, from that era), helped construct a rich New York City mythology for me, years before I'd even been east of eastern Utah. The Beasties were snotty and obnoxious and fiercely intelligent. Their videos on the still new MTV were brilliant and hilarious. My last roommate at BYU owned the album that made them superstars, and I would play her copy of this record very loudly, inciting the boys who lived upstairs (the building was not BYU approved housing, for this reason--boys and girls stacked on top of each other) to pound loudly on my door on their way down.
I just wanted to pay tribute to Adam's band today. It was one of the many bands that made my life in Provo seem more colorful and interesting than it was, which is what good art, in an even rudimentary way, is supposed to do--at least that's what I expect it to do: