In certain circles, asking where you were when you found out James Yancey—better known as Jay Dee or J Dilla—died is like asking the same question about JFK's assassination to people of a different generation. This is not an exaggeration. J Dilla was that important. His presence was huge and the void created by his absence is enormous.

Flashback! Fog clears, eerie music quiets to a faint hum.

I had planned to make my big Orient debut this week with a proper article of pop criticism, but all these plans derailed Tuesday afternoon. After I had thoroughly interrupted my morning class with fits of coughing and sneezing, I went to the bathroom, only to find that my nose had become oddly upturned. Around 1 p.m., I sprouted a pink, curly tail. By 2:15 p.m., the fine medical staff at Dudley Coe confirmed what I already suspected. Yes, I'm one of them. I'm a swine. I tried to fight through the fever and aches and write the article as planned, but my brain was coated in bacon grease, and the words simply wouldn't come. Then, swimming around the floor of my room in a feverish delirium, I had a moment of clarity.