By Isaac Simpson
Last year Eazy-E's son told TMZ that his father's grave had been desecrated.
The area was littered, the 28-year-old Eric Wright Jr. complained, with "empty beer bottles and "marijuana cigarette butts."
It didn't sound exactly like a desecration to me -- maybe more like a tribute. So recently, along with a Swedish friend who was living in L.A. and a Dutch guy he knew, I decided to check it out for myself.
A quick Google told us Eazy was buried in Rose Hill Cemetery, Lupine Lawn Lot 2482, Grave 1.
We headed way the fuck out East to the cemetery, located in Whittier. We bought some 40s and rolled a blunt in the back seat to honor the occasion.
We arrived at Rose Hill, a massive, pretty mega-cemetery with endless rolling hills of graves. We needed a map, so we went into the office area and asked the clerk for one.
"Who are you here to see?" the old man asked.
"Oh, we're just looking for Lupine Lawn. We have the lot number."
"Why don't you just tell me the name and I can look it up for you? That's easier." He seemed suspicious.
"Um, the name is Wright. Eric Wright."
"I'm sorry, we can't give you that information."
"Because we can't.
"And why is that?"
"The family has requested we don't give that information out because the grave has been desecrated."
Being stoned at a cemetery is already paranoia-inducing, but being part of a group of red-eyed white dudes, too old to be goofing around, requesting access to Eazy's grave using his given name felt just pathetic. Nonetheless, we we'd come this far and weren't about to give up so easily.
We drove slowly up the hill in search of Lupine Lawn. It's a huge cemetery, but the lawns are clearly labeled. It only took a couple minutes to find it. Numbers on the sidewalk seemed to label the lots, and we looked out for Number 2482.
As we crept towards the 2400s, we met with a large funeral. We rolled by, peering out of the window as the mourners stared back at us.
At the top of a hill, right next to where 2400 should be, there was another obstacle, Four police officers on motorcycles. We couldn't tell if they were there for the funeral or to protect Eazy's grave. Riding dirty as we were, we stopped the car dead in the road at the sight of the cops, right in front of the funeral.
The funeralgoers started fidgeting at our presence. The police looked up too. We were then struck by a bit of sanity: That LAPD probably wouldn't dedicate four officers to stand watch over Eazy's grave.
And so we carried on, nodding at the police like we knew what we were doing. We parked and, trying to be as quiet as possible, fanned out over the lawn looking for Lot 2482 Grave 1.
It wasn't there. Not in 2400 at least. Findagrave.com was wrong.
Still not willing to give up, we systematically searched the lawn, getting closer and closer to the funeral.
We stretched far and wide across the grass, until we were out of each other's sight. We noticed some blunt wrappers and beer caps littered near a garbage can, and we knew we were getting close.
Finally, I got a text from the Dutch guy, with the correct lot number. (To honor the wishes of the family, I won't say it here. You'll have to find it yourself.)
We went over. There it was.
It's a small, simple grave. The epitaph reads, "We Loved Him A Lot, But God Loved Him More."
Far from desecrated, two small glass beer bottles sat next to the small stone. It was remarkable only in its unremarkableness.
Even more surprising was his immediate neighbor. Eazy is sharing eternity with a random woman named Hongjai Chia. Did she even know who he was?
We stood and said a few words. Rattled by the police presence, we'd left the half-finished blunt and 40s back in the car, so we were unable to pay a tribute of our own.
Rest in peace, Eazy. May the folks who want to find you be very dedicated.
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