Dear Hip-Hop

Dear Hip-Hop,

I used to love you but now I hate you. It’s not just the rise to fame of 50 Cent either. His name just sounds stupid, 50 Cent, not 50 cents. But I know how peculiar he is about the whole “cent, it has to be cent” thing, so I’ll honor his wishes.

Hip-Hop, this is about much more than 50 Cent. You’ve ruined my passion for life. I used to live with zest, not contempt. Ever since the fifth grade, I’ve been looking for a size 7¼ (always had a large melon) Baltimore Orioles hat, the one with the goofy-looking, belligerent Oriole on the front. I lost mine in a schoolyard bet that I couldn’t snort all the salt from my hot pretzel without sneezing. I know, stupid bet, but the hat is gone and that’s the point. I’ve been searching for that hat ever since. Over the years, I’ve been to countless yard sales, flea markets, and Orioles games, and not a damned thing. Then, ohhhhhhh, here comes Mr. Hip-Hop, here comes his throwback jerseys and hats. Oh, what a big man you are. Now they’re everywhere. I can’t walk down the street without seeing 1 out of every 2 people with some form of old jersey on. So what does that mean to me, you might ask, what’s my beef? My old Orioles hat is now getting mass-produced. Thank you? Hell no, I hate you. The point was, I wanted nostalgia, I wanted to be the guy that wore the old-school Orioles hat, not a guy that wears an old school Orioles hat. Thanks for nothing, Hip-Hop. You bastard. If you’re so tough and you can get marketers to cater to your every whim, why not make a statement? Why not step up and not wear the jerseys of the greats—bring back the no-names. I dare you, Hip-Hop, to proudly step onstage wearing a jersey of the barely average Detroit Tigers utility man of yesteryear, Rusty Kuntz. Wear a Butch Wynegar jersey. How about Bobby Meachem?