I’m opening up for Living Color tomorrow. How’re you?
"hey bukowski no offense but why dont you take your shirt off in the pool"
"why do we run from the rain but soak in tubs full of water"
"aight take it easy man"
Kanye West is white America’s worst nightmare. Because as much as one may attempt to dismiss him — by calling him an asshole or classless or deranged or various other adjectives that fill the comment sections of literally every article about him — you still have to turn on your regularly scheduled late night comedy program and stare him in the face. You can’t avoid Kanye. He’s made very sure of that.
Kanye is not a “new slave” in the same sense as the victims of the prison industrial complex, but he is still trapped in a world that expects him to not only be complicit with the struggle of his people, but to be appreciative that he is not one of them. And on top of all that, while he gets to exist in the world of the 1%, having the money and signifiers of success still aren’t enough to make his (white) 1% peers actually even respect him.
The ideals of Public Enemy are as relevant today as they were in the 80s, but hip-hop was nowhere near as dominant and omnipresent a cultural force as it is at this moment; to compare the reach of their messages is silly. Upper-middle class white families did not have to deal with Public Enemy if they didn’t want to. Similarly with politically-minded “noise rap” artists that have been name-dropped in reviews of Kanye’s new material — it’s all well and good for Death Grips and Blackie and even Killer Mike to espouse similar messages and sounds (and honestly, the sonic qualities of “New Slaves” and “Black Skinhead” are hardly at the top of the list of why they’re important), but none of them have anywhere near the amount of visibility and influence as Kanye, even if they did hit it first.
People in current positions of comfort and stability are so willing to dismiss the transgressive thoughts of an angry black man that they will use any convenient excuse to diminish from them; if someone says something that makes you uncomfortable, why not immediately change the subject to his girlfriend’s ass or that time he yelled at a papparazzi or that time he got drunk and embarrassed a white girl? When was it exactly that Kanye shifted, in the eyes of the mainstream, from lovable polo-wearing backpacker to perpetually and unanimously An Asshole? When, precisely, did everything he said get immediately categorized as a “rant” or “controversial” regardless of the actual content? I want to say it was around the time when he said that George Bush didn’t care about black people on live tv. Hmm. Odd.
My Time machine on the job making history with #Solero #TeamSolero #pedalboard #thunderbirdpedal #ambientsound #tcelectronics #bognerubershall #bosspedals #onecontrol #line6m5
I’m a sucker for lighting.
Take me back to the 70’s. I need to buy a bunch of Big Muffs so I can afford my pedal addiction.
Holy shit tho
Anonymous asked: What's the pacer test? D:
The pacer is a test in gym class/PE that brings a shiver of despair down the spine of any unfortunate soul who has gone through it before. And it’s usually done at least once a year.
Students line up on one side of the gym, eyeing nervously the painted line before the opposite wall that will decide their fate. The teacher hits play on the stereo and a cheery woman’s voice echoes through the gymnasium. fuck that woman’s happy demeanor. She explains the rules as the kids wait anxiously. Get to the other line before the beep plays. Simple enough, right?
"Ready? Begin!" she calls, and the gut wrenching ‘beep!’ plays after.
The kids awkwardly half jog to the other line, with about 3 or 4 seconds before the next beep. Each time the horrendous noise plays they run back and forth to the lines. “Level one, complete” she says, as to pat you on the back for what little victory you’ve achieved.
Not bad, the kids think. But then comes level 2. level 3. With each interval the time between the beeps shorten, and you’re running as fast as you can to the other line. Your foot hits it, you pivot, the beep plays, youre running again. Your lungs burn, your throat is sore, your heart is on the verge of an attack. No rest. No mercy.
A girl is the first to crawl over to the instructor, defeated. Seeing one has fallen, other students begin to follow since “at least theyre not the first ones out”. Clutching their chests they bail out of the test. One girls crying. You can’t tell if the boy on the gym floor is alive or not. Three kids left for the water fountain and still havent made it back.
And then, the fallen sit there, watching the myths, the legends, the kids who have made it past 100 laps. 120. 150. When they finally collapse a cheer erupts from the students. Theyre legends.
But the excitement only lasts for so long as the next round of nervous kids line up, who opted to go in the second wave and prolong their torture. The womans voice kicks back up. The beep plays. The cycle continues.
in Canada they don’t pronounce Z as "zee"
they pronounce it as "zed" and that is crazy to me
it sounds like they made a typo when they invented it
They do that everywhere in the world that’s not America. We do that here in the UK too.
America is weird man.
The Police Raided My Friend’s House Over a Parody Twitter Account
Jon Daniel woke up on Thursday morning to a news crew in his living room, which was a welcome change from the company he had on Tuesday night, when the Peoria, Illinois, police came crashing through the door. The officers tore the 28-year-old’s home apart, seizing electronics and taking several of his roommates in for questioning; one woman who lived there spent three hours in an interrogation room. All for a parody Twitter account.
Yes, the cops raided Daniel’s home because they wanted to find out who was behind @peoriamayor, an account that had been shut down weeks ago by Twitter. When it was active, Daniel used it to portray Jim Ardis, the mayor of Peoria, as a weed-smoking, stripper-loving, Midwestern answer to Rob Ford. The account never had more than 50 followers, and Twitter had killed it because it wasn’t clearly marked as a parody. It was a joke, a lark—but it brought the police to Daniel’s door. The cops even took Daniel and one of his housemates in for in-depth questioning—they showed up at their jobs, cuffed them, and confiscated their phones—because of a bunch of Twitter jokes.
Now Daniel’s panicking.
“I’m going to fucking jail,” he told me yesterday when he was on a break from his job as a line cook. “They’re going to haul me away for this shit.”