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Hey look. A six week old kitten who is sleepy. How are things allowed to be this small?
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Text reblogged from Open Mike Eagle with 253 notes
I admit that I use the term ‘racist’ loosely.
In the past i’ve said that my android phone is racist against emojis and that Instagram is racist against Twitter. Aside from it simply being humorous to me, it points out the absurdity of an entity choosing not to operate alongside of another entity categorically rather than for reasons of quality.
Last night I got a phone call explaining to me that a series of messages between the manager of Harvard and Stone (the venue) and the show’s organizer resulted in my removal from the show. Apparently this series of messages began with the manager asking if there were any rap or dance acts on the show, and ends with the organizer being told explicitly that due to a policy against rap acts that ‘Open Mike Eagle would not be allowed to play the show.’
As I write this, I feel very disappointed.
Disappointed not for any lofty, humanistic, or idyllic reasons though. I tour the entire country. You hear these kinds of notions in more rural areas. I’m never any happier to hear them and every time it happens I check my cell phone clock to make sure its not 1989. But these notions still do indeed exist.
I’m disappointed as an individual. Disappointed because i was looking forward to this show, i’d been promoting it, i stood to make a little money, and i need the practice for this festival I’m playing at the end of the month.
Disappointed because this opportunity was taken away from me when i haven’t done anything wrong.
I’m not a violent person and i don’t promote any negativity in my music.
A knife fight has never broken out in the audience during my They Might Be Giants mash up.
This whole thing is very embarrassing.
Not necessarily because i thought that LA entertainment would be past this. But because i have to have this sensitive conversation with my family and fans. Embarrassing because I can’t talk about how all this went down in an honest way without saying how I really feel about it.
Im fucking offended. Because whats basically being said to me is that the manager of this bar doesn’t care if i promoted. Doesn’t care about the little money I was supposed to make. Doesn’t care that I’ll look like a jackass to anyone who comes there to see me.
What he’s saying to me is that since i’m a rapper, he doesn’t care about any of this. But if I was any other kind of musician then he would care.
Thats why I feel like the word ‘racist’ is appropriate. I’m being punished for being part of a category. And while I don’t want to pretend I know enough about this man I haven’t met to attribute his prejudice to racial stereotypes, I do wonder if he would have made the decision if he’d looked at my videos or whatever he ‘checked out’ and saw a white man holding a microphone.
I can’t imagine that he actually listened to anything that I said.
Man, fuck Harvard and Stone. Fuck their overpriced drinks, their terrible clientele, their annoying doormen, their suspendered “mixologists,” and their archaic attitude toward rap music. Gross.
Text reblogged from Hurm... with 8 notes
Speed dating for writers.
Yes, very much so.
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I’m the Macguyver of this laundry game. No second trips for me.
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Happy Star Wars Day!
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I hope the tackiness of me posting this is offset by the goofiness of how awful this squatting, blurry Sarah Chalke screen grab is. And if it’s not, hey whatever! It’s my first onscreen written by credit! I’m taking a free pass on this one. Thank you in advance!
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Mr. 3,000 over here.
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Some bro at the car wash is mean muggin’ me. Do something, dude.
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(I went to a house party completely sober last night and stayed for hours. As a result, I woke up remembering everything. Here are a few things worth mentioning)
I am immediately overwhelmed by how hot and thick the air is on the dance floor. “Call Your Girlfriend” comes on and everyone goes insane. Suddenly a self conscious wave of clarity comes over me and I realize I’m DRENCHED in sweat. If I was 4 beers in I would have bypassed the shame stage and skipped right to “dance like no one’s watching,” but I’m 4 cups of water in, so I head to the upstairs bathroom with a handful of paper towels. I wipe myself off and realize that not only have I sweated through my shirt, but my hair is also drenched. I do my best to clean up and head downstairs, where the drunkest and most aggressive strangers are congregating.
At any house party, there’s bound to be a few dudes who are way too drunk and way too eager to “rage.” This party has a 7 to 10 man strong cadre of lunatics screaming in everyone’s faces about making a pact to have the wildest night of our lives. They’re asking who wants shots? They’re requesting, nay, DEMANDING hi-fives. They’re asking about girls that are standing right next to them. They’re shoving cake in their faces. They’re drinking Kirkland Signature bourbon straight from the bottle. They’re losing their voices and having the best time. I’m still sober, but that generic brown liquor is starting to look pretty good.
I spot an acquaintance who smiles and asks, “Hey man, did you see the shirtless dude?” I say I haven’t and he asks again. “You didn’t see the shirtless, sweaty, fat, bald dude run through here a minute ago?” I repeat that I didn’t, but that something seems to be going on at this party. Something’s up. The tide is turning. The bros are mobilizing. Someone’s doing a kitchen joke with a butcher knife. There’s some bad juju brewing. He seems to not know what I’m talking about. Maybe it’s me. As he sips his beer I realize it probably is me. Stupid, sober, old, me.
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