First order of business: For a journalist, there is almost no excuse for leaving an event early, no matter how much you dislike it. With that being said, I apologize to performers who showcased their talents in the Apollo show last Thursday at the Holmes Student Center – most of them, that is.

From what I’m told by attendees who stayed, I missed some beautiful poetry, great dancing and an electrifying lyrical effort by rapper LP (sophomore communicative disorders major Brent Abas), who battled through some racially charged opposition to come out on top as the victor of the emcee battle.

There was a reason for my departure, however. I arrived to the show early and sat in the front row. My first suspicion that something was wrong was when I looked up and saw a promo being projected onto the two large screens on opposite sides of the stage.

“Doo Doo Records…Yeah We The S—.”

First came the so-called DJ battle. To be quite blunt, it sucked. The two competitors did nothing impressive, and one of them didn’t even do any scratching. It was pretty much a contest between measuring who could play the more popular songs. A more moving playlist could have come from an iTunes party shuffle.

On to the first official act, which put the last nail in the coffin. After an awkward satire of Barack Obama, a group of men rushed the stage from the back, looking and behaving like your typical rappers. I’m not sure what they were talking about, but all I kept hearing was “Lookin’ ass n—-!” as they danced and pointed out into the crowd.

So, sitting there as a black male, I was thinking, “Wow, I’m really embarrassed right now. Did I really just pay $5 to sit here and be called the same word that used to keep my parents from looking a white person in the eye back in the day?”

No. And at that point, the complete and utter ridiculousness being projected must have rubbed off on me, because I too uttered some profanity.

“This s— is wack,” I said to myself as I grabbed my hoodie and headed for the exit. Before that, though, the performers began tossing out mix tapes to the crowd. One of the guys was about to toss one my way, but made direct eye contact with me and, seeing the look on my face, probably thought it best not to. It would be a shame for an artist to see their own mix tape tossed back onto the stage, which is probably what would have happened.

Anyway, I got out of there. I wasn’t sure if the local churches were closed, but I considered visiting one to pray for the souls of those who actually found that crap entertaining. Maybe I’m of a lower intelligence level, but I failed to comprehend the necessity of it, nor could I see the humor in it. In my eyes, it was a minstrel show on a college campus in 2008, the last place and time that I would expect to see one.

Having the complex history that we do, I can’t help but wonder why for every two steps we African Americans take forward, we take three steps back.

I love my heritage and I love hip-hop, which is why I’m so critical of both. And to see either of them be made a mockery is no fun. I have a motto that goes along with this: “Anything that would give a racist a good argument is probably something you shouldn’t be doing.”

So call me a musical miser if you want. Even the Ebenezer Scrooge of hip-hop.

I simply like to think I’m “wack-tose intolerant.” Sorry.