this one's about a toy
Excuse me, an ~action figure~
My partner recently gifted me an MF DOOM action figure. I love it so much. He's wearing a solid green hoodie with yellow strings, hood drawn over his famously masked head. Behind the mask is a regular stubbled black face. His nondescript blue pants are bunched up at his shoes. It’s hard to tell whether they're jeans or sweats. His shoes, I imagine, are designed to look as much like Timbs as possible without rousing their maker.1 And, like any good toy, he comes with an accessory—a little plastic microphone. It fits in his clawed right hand with room to wiggle. He's watching me write this now. I position his arm outstretched like he's handing me the mic, an honor I could only dream of, and the arm snaps into place. It was designed for this moment.
I wasn't super into action figures growing up. I guess most kids look at their favorite characters frozen in plastic and feel struck with inspiration, excited by the possibility of telling their own stories. I felt underwhelmed. Maybe I lacked imagination, but the distance between what they were and what I wanted them to be—what I wanted to be—felt still too great. The webs from my Spider Man web shooter couldn't support the weight of a city bus. I fired the little projectile from my Bionicle and it clattered to the floor like everything else I've ever dropped. I was disappointed in my favorite superheroes for all they gave up to come to life. I was disappointed in myself for being barely more powerful than they.
But today, here I sit, completely enamored with an action figure that is just some guy. I feel more inspired by his regularity than anything else. Every time I look at him, I'm simultaneously reminded of his ordinary humanity and his magical work. His toy form makes him more fantastic, not less. I've worn the same outfit he wears while trying to discover my own powers. I wonder if kids who played with Barbies got to feel more of this—this more attainable fantasy, this opportunity to see your own dreams reflected so directly in the palm of your hand.
I don't mean to suggest that MF DOOM wasn't superhuman. He just had to write his own lore. As a kid, I wanted my toys to take me from my world to theirs, where I had a chance to do incredible deeds, and have everyone treat me accordingly. DOOM took his toys—the pen, the page, the microphone—and built the worlds he wanted, each one just close enough to ours that we'd recognize it, but never recognize him. He wasn't faster than a speeding bullet, but he rode a horse down a New York expressway well over the speed limit.2 He out-weirded weirdos. He named and renamed himself seven times over. He stopped at nothing to write it all down:
Couldn't find a pen, had to think of a new trick
This one he wrote in cold blood with a toothpick
—from “Great Day” by Madvillain
But his greatest trick of all might be this: in a genre so beholden to its own image, he presented himself as no one at all. He made art that stands completely on its own, uninfluenced by how he looks, or even how he really thinks. He reminds us that no matter how it postures itself, hip hop is a sport for writers, for nerds, for grown ass kids who play with toys. With each post of this newsletter I shudder at creating another opportunity for people to perceive me. As I try to figure out who I am in my art, I still dream of being whoever I want. I'm glad I have my toy to take me there.
MF DOOM died about two weeks before my mom did. I didn't know until a month after. I'm glad his family had that privacy for a time. I know we weren't the only ones grieving in the winter of 2020. Losing your heroes is nothing like the movies. There's no glorious final battle, no longing look as they breathe their last words in your arms. It’s a snap of the finger. The ceremony is ordinary, which is to say it is magical. Death is the most regular, most human thing in the world, but the worlds we create for those who love us are invincible. I'm glad I have my toy to remind me of that.
Remember me, God? Clean Timbs with emery board
He only came to save the game like a memory card
—from “The Drop” by Viktor Vaughn
Downtown on the skip stop, crisp new Timbs
Damage on my corns like flip flops, and who’s him?
—from “Chubb Rock Can You Please Pay Paul the $2200 You Owe Him (People, Places and Things)” by Prince Paul
Call him back when you need some more yak, Horshack
Doin' 80 down the Van Wyck on horseback
—from “Vaudeville Villain” by Viktor Vaughn