Let me start by wishing an overdue RIP to the late, great Heavy D. May his big contributions to this art form, and even bigger heart, never be forgotten (or belittled by the know-nots). Losing him hit a whole rap-raised generation (no doubt already musing on its mortality) unexpectedly hard, I think.

Man, how estranged do you feel from what they call hiphop these days? It varies day by day with me. (Like you asked.) The news that Ludacris has dissed Drake and Big Sean means strangely very little to my brain, like a heated discussion about soft drinks or some obscure petroglyphs from a lost civilization—except, I think the civilization that's lost is my own. I don't know what to say about Drake, except he's the perfect man for this time: an R&B pop-rap emo Illuminatus (see the owl on his album cover, son). Compared to him, my besty Mac Miller is a dragon-slaying prophet of the new industry—dude did just release the number-one album in the country totally independent of the Big Three octopus of WMG/UMG/Sony.

But Big Sean? Placeholder, zero. The ultimate name in major-label-clone-bank rap. He signifies nothing, a mannequin to hold up the clothes you wish you had: a blank screen on which to project our own 1-percent fantasies of power-ballin'. (He's no Chingy.) The best thing one can say about him is that he invented that godawful hashtag flow... you know, like he's about to blow. Lewinsky. Or some shit. His I Am Finally Famous (amazing, just amazing) tour came through town last week, after being bumped from Showbox Original Recipe to Showbox Sodo. Did y'all get your parents' money's worth?

If Big Sean gets to play that room, Wale should play the fuckin' Key; after all, boring-rap-wise, Sean can't hold a candle to Wale, truly a kingpin of the uncompelling. Maybe that's why most Wale pieces barely focus on his music: What's there to talk about? Count yourself lucky you can still see him in a nice intimate room like Neumos (Fri Nov 25); you'll probably be close enough to see him actually catch feelings and stop the show so he can rant about some ticket holder in the crowd hating on him. The show is billed as "Wale & Friends," which seems hilariously incongruous for a guy who, as far as I know, can't seem to leave a positive impression on a single person who's actually met him, myself included. Of course, it's not easy having the hopes of a whole (Chocolate) city on your back, or being the new guy on Rick Ross's Maybach Music Group. (For the record, I do feel for the cream of the blog crop, whose best look is to carry weed for the last generation of major-label dope boys.) And, of course, who knows what the next man is going through—like that angel Kimya Dawson said once, "Maybe their pet gerbil died and they are really sad inside."