Look, Michael -- may I call you Michael?
Michael, I'll be honest: What happened Thursday night hurt. A lot.
I don't know if you ever showed up -- I heard you went onstage a little after 1 a.m., and I want to believe that, but I believed that you'd show up between 10:30 and 11 p.m. like was advertised, and that didn't work out very well for me. But really, it doesn't even matter. You weren't there when I needed you.
I stood through a set from Lil Twist which, nice as that young man might possibly be, was an absolute chore. You didn't rescue me.
I stood through a set from YG who, in case you missed it, exerted no small amount of energy shouting about how he was not interested in receiving a hand job, that he only wanted to receive oral sex instead. (Far as I could tell, nobody was offering either.) You didn't rescue me.
I stood through the nothingness of a DJ that felt compelled to play records that haven't been popular in years and carry no nostalgically effective asides (Lil Wayne's "Get Money," things like that). You didn't rescue me.
Still, all of that could've been overlooked. Alas, nothing.
All I wanted to do was shout the words to "Rack City" with you and about 1,000 white kids and then go home and go to sleep, so I could wake up and go to work and tell people about how profound it was to listen to that song that specific context.
"No, no, no. I get it, 'Rack City' is great to hear all the time," I'd begin, "but when you're there, when you're in the wash, when you're actually following Rack City's mayor's spindly limbs, it is a choice existential moment."
But you never materialized. And I could not locate the City of Rack on my own. I was rap's Percy Fawcett, lost in the jungle, dying of thirst, being eaten alive by bugs. I could see nothing. I could do nothing. It would have been easier for me to find LeBron's hairline.
We need some time apart. Sorry. We both know it has to be this way. You go your way, I'll go mine. Yes, I'm going to listen to other rappers. (I've been hearing things about Action Bronson. He's coming to town soon. Perhaps him.)
I urge you to rap for new listeners. I won't pretend this is irreconcilable but, it's just, what you did, I can't immediately look past it.
I got over that song you did with that odd-looking guy from Fall Out Boy; I'll probably get over this too.
But not right now. Don't ask me to forgive you right now. It's not fair.
Sad city, bitch. Sad, rack city, bitch.