I just met Eminem again, for the first time in 10 years. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve spoken at least a half-dozen times since our initial introduction back in May of ‘98, when I interviewed him for BLAZE Magazine. But the guy I dealt with in those intervening years? Well, he was a different person. The dude I met in that strip mall parking lot more than a decade ago, listening to mixes on the stock system of his Buick rental, was outgoing, hilarious, genuine, razor-sharp, and endlessly talented. He was a walking adventure and an inspiration. But, with him being overwhelmed by the fame—and then the work, and then the drugs—every encounter we shared after the release of The Slim Shady LP got incrementally more awkward, involved less eye contact, and left me feeling more concerned about the collateral damage of his unmitigated success.

For the first few years this change was to be expected, as his ubiquitous celebrity necessitated isolation, and his grueling schedule of albums, tours, and movies would be enough to wear down even the most rugged. But the relationship hit its nadir, for me, with an interview in February of 2006—weeks before the murder of his best friend, Proof. I had no idea the depth of his troubles, but detached, glassy-eyed, and at least 30 pounds heavier than just six months prior, Eminem seemed to be plunging off the deep end. I don’t know Em well enough to call him Marshall, but I do know enough to say with certainty that the bloated space cadet at that shoot was not the guy I’d met wearing that same damn Nike hat. And as the aforementioned personal tragedy unfolded, and the public became more aware of his deteriorating condition, from a distance it really felt like Em might be living out the frequent and unwelcome comparisons to Elvis— specifically, an untimely, pill-addled end.

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