Beers for a clown

It's time here at Stuck in My Head for a little reader participation.
Wherever you're reading this, you're probably no more than five minutes away from your nearest corner store. Walk there, and select a 40-ounce bottle of the cheapest, vilest malt liquor available.
For our purposes, it would be more appropriate if you were to shoplift your 40, but if you're concerned about your arrest record, go ahead and buy it.
While you're at it, tip the deli guys. They have to deal with you and your ilk at 2 a.m. on weekend nights, and it's the least you can do.
All right. Do you have your 40?
"Yes, Dave, I have my 40. What's this all about anyway?"
Don't get impatient. This is serious business. Life and death.
Now find the nearest patch of bare ground, open your 40, and pour one out for the Old Dirty Bastard.
It would be most in keeping with the spirit of the great man himself if you poured out the 40 in an exceedingly public place, as it would be self-evidently preferable to get hassled by the NYPD for your act of remembrance.
But if you've attracted the fuzz by this point - even, really, if you haven't - feel free to stop pouring.
After all, Russell T. Jones quite obviously had enough in life. And what better way to continue to honor his memory than by polishing off the rest of your 40 yourself, as quickly as possible?
(The correct answer to that question is " Smoke some crack," but last I checked they weren't selling that at Hayden.)
As the passing of any legendary figure will, ODB's death seems to have resonated with people.
Subconsciously, and sadly, it's probably because his legacy will be as hip-hop's more cognizant answer to Wesley Willis, with all the exploitation that implies.
Ol' Dirty could be a fine rapper at times - when he could find the focus for it - but for all the brilliance of "Got Your Money," his success didn't arise from his musical talents.
At its outset, the Wu Tang Clan contained enough bright stars that to stand out in the constellation - as ODB, without question, did - was enough of an achievement.
But that he did so because he was alternately a clown and a train wreck, a celebrity horror story of extra-value-meal-sized proportions, is not beside the point. It is the point.
We need not review the litany of his more salacious endeavors, although since he was reported to have fathered upwards of a dozen children, it's maybe worth pointing out that, in terms of both nature and nurture - he was the ODB because "there ain't no father to my style" - he'll be back.
The lascivious, edge-of-legal lifestyle he led was in many ways one of personal tragedy, but from the perspective of a PR agent it gleamed.
Back before his jail sentence, the headlines practically wrote themselves, especially after his moniker kept getting progressively wackier as his life spiraled further out of control. Nothing sells records like notoriety, folks, and it's no mystery why his biggest hit record came shortly after some of his most literally crazy, drug-addled behavior.
In this way it seemed like his success was fueled mostly by schadenfreude.
Although he obviously profited - although let's not forget that he also obviously suffered - from the ruckus, from at least one perspective, his career stands as the most shamefully over-the-top example of the music industry's exploitation of its artists.
After all, according to a widely circulated rumor that's almost tragically credible, the guy had been blowing rails for two days straight before he collapsed in the studio where he was recording his big comeback.
The tragic thing is not that he died so young, but that it seemed so inevitable that he would, since to the vast majority of pop music listeners, Ol' Dirty was just a few hit singles and a lot of deliciously bad news.
If indeed his career was ultimately cut short by the vicious cycle of fame, money and addiction that in many ways actualized it, the banality of such a fate should leave a bitter taste in our mouths.
A conversation I overheard on Saturday night helps make this point:
"Hey, I heard Ol' Dirty Bastard died.
"Oh really? Of what?"
"Being Ol' Dirty Bastard."
On second thought, if you've still got any of that 40 left, pour the rest out. The poor bastard deserves it.