completely unedited copy from the back of this can of Monster Energy ® Ultra Red

☞ Copyright Monster Energy Company, 1 Monster Way, Corona, California. All Rights Reserved. ® © 2013

Change can be a good thing, when you make the most of it… like those mindless summers, working mindless jobs. They pay just enough to survive (party)—but somehow, you save enough for that last road trip before starting “real life.”

In homage to coming of age in America, and in keeping with our Monster family tradition, comes another change worth making.

White… Blue… and now Ultra Red: Light, crisp, refreshing with zero calories—and zero sugar.

Made right here in the USA.

Sweet, sweet, summer time, summer time…

UNLEASH the ULTRA BEAST!

a comprehensive list of things I want very much to have legitimate occasion to say, in life, at some point

are we clear?

ahem.

1. Do you think this is a fucking game? (preferably said while holding someone by their lapels against the wall, sneering, breathing directly up their nose) (Alternatively—or, if, in response to my question, they say “yes”—This is not a fucking game!)

2. (while driving something) Alright everybody, hold on—it’s about to get a little rough. (Also acceptable in place of “rough”: gnarly, sick, real, hardcore, loud, fast, deadly, insane, rad, lethal, surreal, heated, hectic, bumpin, bitchin, bangin, fucked, and gay.)

3. …you inbred, ingrate, Nazi piece of shit. (this is just a good insult. I like the alliterative aspects, and their subtlety.)

4. Grab my hand! I then pull my interlocutor from danger.

5. WAZZZZZZUUUUUUUUP

youtube rabbit hole: the 火車 meme

windows:

I’ve been maddeningly into movies/films/stories/articles/books/&c about voyeurism, lately. Not voyeurism itself, which seems to be, according to the internet, in its raw form, mostly upskirt footage that is loathsome, predatory, and horrid. No.  I am interested in topics on the phenomenon itself, and artful or scholastic interps or representations of it. I feel like this topic is very cool to study, and lightly trafficked in. Humans are so fuckin weird.

Anyway.

I sleep in a room with five windows. Often, after dark, I won’t sit in this room without the lights dimmed, or the blinds drawn.

One window lacks blinds, or curtains. I feel in there, often, very observed, although at this angle, with the height of my neighboring buildings, I am surely not.

But it is a strange feeling.

And voyeurism is a strange thing.

Tweet me if you know some cool material. This field, I feel, holds some bizarre and fruitful ground.

youtube rabbit hole: full peliculas completas, particularly Peeping Tom—released 1960, subtitulos Español.

unfurled from a scroll, awake

I’ve been walking around all week (this week and last week, seven whole days) feeling like absolute dog shit, pissy in all manner of everything, tense and trepidatious like I’m due for a punch to the face. Stressed, concerned—but nothing happened.

There’s a sculpture nearby where I spend my days that has a stone base bearing a message engraved in Papyrus font. I don’t know what it says; I can never remember, can’t even really keep the words in my head as I scan them, because when a message gets conveyed in a way so alien and wrong one can never exactly comprehend it so much as just regard it. The medium consumes the message. That font is such a crock of shit, but everyone knows that. It’s a whole new thing entirely to know that someone wanted to stamp it into rock and pray it keeps for a thousand years.

a moth flying as though dazed orients itself within the dusty air of morning

 

in which $25 is withdrawn from savings to ensure that nachos can be bought indefinitely

see title.

what?

I’m kind of slumming it right now. This is pretty much the state of things.

you ever sit and listen to police radio all day? They tend never to broadcast how things end. So you just end up with a lot of crazy setups, premises, actions and visuals that theoretically, in your imagination, never get resolved.

do it for like eight hours, one day. It’s kind of weird, cool and good.

As one must walk the streets to know their city, one must also listen with a curious ear to the buzzing of its lively hive &c.

Gimme a 28-day weekend.

Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy. Show me a tragedy, and I’ll write you a joke.

Anyway. You heard that new Carly Rae Jepsen album yet? Past due, friend, you’re past due…

recipe for cheese loaf

The first thing you gotta really do is just be drunk as all hell. I only bring this up for out-of-towners—y’know, the Yooper inlaws who for all their sweetness may be unfamiliar with exactly just how gnar our customs are, can get, with us, in Hell.

  1. Throw about, ooooh, four boxes’ worth of Kraft Mac into a pot of water on the cusp of boiling. Upturn the salt shaker for awhile; this is pasta, after all—one must salt their pasta water. Stir.
  2. Peace out, have a beer.
  3. Oh fuck, well, all that water pretty much boiled away by now, so that’s done.
  4. Rain cheese dust on the pasta pile. Throw in a stick of butter. I didn’t have any milk.
  5. Stir. Squirt some sriracha on that bad boy. Slice up some Pizza Hut crushed pepper packs o’er that bad boy. Stir. Toss in some black pepper. Pump in more sriracha, more sriracha for that bad boy. Stir.
  6. Eat.
  7. Yeah, this is good and all, but—
  8. Pour in a shitload of buttery-ass crunchy-ass Costco-brand croutons.
  9. If you haven’t yet by this point, please drink nine more beers.
  10. Enjoy. You have now made Cheese Loaf. Eat only one small bowl, so that tomorrow, you can look at what you did, and take some of it to work with you, with cold pork chops on top of it, laid out on a bed of rice and beans. Keep a plastic knife to cut things with.
  11. Call your mother, crying.

youtube rabbit hole: fools at the gym

fuck the slow mo

saw a dope band tonight with some dope people

hard to elaborate

run the jewels

el-p

killer mike

hell yes

free spliff

PBRs and nike forces at the merc

well whiskey

coors light in a twist off can

lyft there nb

lyft back nb

good vibes all round

tecate light

“outside please :)” on a napkin underneath a joint

drunk guy wants mac & cheese

woah dude

diet coke

sour d

fawk meee

&c

&c

&c on & on then

youtube rabbit hole: cool dudes just drivin’ their dang cars around on winding roads

the copse of trees dead & dying

If nothing else, I like to think of myself as a runner.

I’ve been doing it since I was 12, 13, I think, running. And I’ve never quite seriously stopped. Laps in the yard, laps around the block, laps on the track, done terribly. (Dad: How’d you do, Sarah? Sarah: I found a quarter! *beams*)

I forget if I ran much at 15. When I learned how to drive, I played tag, committed crimes, ran fast. By college I was running again, in an absent way—the same absent manner by which I dealt with all of college, with great success, and sleekness.

After college, I would really run. I would take the hills, go far afield, get lost, be by myself, alone. I would find out what it means to meditate. Discover great podcasts. Realize things about myself, solve out puzzles, save the world for later. I would run to not be drunk instead, to be sober for a second, for at least some stretch of my day. To be, for a little while, better than I was before, or felt before. My heart racing for a reason, to be stronger, to be better. Yes, I was a runner then.

The other day, after a long period of languishing—days at a stretch in the mire, I’m saying—I went for a long run, those being the kind of runs that go for more than, oh, four miles. For me, these are the slow runs, and for me, they are the best runs. And I should say now that I’m not a particularly good runner, in the sense that if I were really practicing, chasing PRs and logging my miles, I would be much, much better at running than I am now. I’ve more plateaued at “decent”; improvements, to me, are incidental, so while I may be on a given day slightly better than the average bear at this jogging-around shit, I am by no means as good as one might think I should be, after so much time and cash invested.

Ain’t even mad, though. Because running, to me, has always been, first, a way of mental escape. This is its grand value. No amount of om-ing in my life so far could have ever done as much to clear my mind from the madness and the sadness as the act of running does, has done for me, by force. Vague worries disappear at the advance of the immediate. I mean, let’s be real—the pain, the crisis of I need to spray hot fire out of my asshole right FRIKKIN now, under this bridge, patio bar be god-damned shit-fucked tends to, no-question, outlap and make trivial the tired pains of existential horseshit, all height of vagary, like O how Oft I Quake Most Fretfully at yon mere Rhythms of thy Wickid, Wild World. Which is to say, some people have real problems; running helps to keep that in perspective.

Anyway. That, in rough approximate, is why I like to run. In the parlance of an Achewood strip—I got depression.

Down the west bank of the Mighty Arkansas, there is a point where it becomes hard to ignore a sense of deadness, a certain lifelessness, at times, in the foliage surrounding you. For a long stretch beside the PSO Tulsa Power Station, house of aesthetic notoriety, trees grow crookedly in muddy waters beneath smokestacks looming, across from engines all abuzz. The east side of the trail is fenced off, a steep drop, choked with trees, a lengthy copse of them in all the stages of decay, gross and grotesque, dead and dying, their sickly limbs dreading into lifeless knots. Between their barren, webwormed eaves the river flows, sometimes, like now, in early autumn, after rain. In the summers, the Arkansas is a trench of mud, speckled with pelicans, expectant. Yes, the river changes, once mighty, then absent, but here is an eerie constant—the trees on the coast in the miasma, growing up poisoned, thin shafts jagged and abrupt like broken spears. The proximity to the power plant, that fetid taste in the air, so noxious; it makes one wonder—but truths like these, we know, are far too high above our pay grades to warrant much excess concern on our part.

So yeah, I take meds. Before that, I drank, hard. And I did a christload of drugs. I was insane, and I embraced insane. This is not a brag. I could detail all the exploits, make them into funny stories—usually, on some level, they were—but the truth is, as a whole look, it was ugly. Anything to distract, man. I ran, too, then—but in those days, when I stopped running, the crazy came back right away.

I’m at least a year or two removed from that stretch of my life now, but let’s be straight—I still have the crazy. I try to keep it to myself these days, instead of airing it out on common grounds, where they’re sick of my ass, like I used to. There are days so crushing it’s hard to do anything but numb myself, any way I’m able to, with even running too much to ponder. There are days I spend alone that are designed to not remember. Bad days, sometimes. Bad times.

And then the morning always comes, its slate blank.

The weather is nice.

Or maybe it’s not—maybe it looks like a challenge out there…

Maybe something to conquer out there—something to find out, grapple with, be better than, and beat.

Here I am with all my problems, when out there, it’s the world… and in the good times, I’ll say to myself—

Go run. Feel better. See beauty. Feel real.

And then I do.

youtube rabbit hole: fedsmoker

to wish it real

I find it hard to give a shit about spectacles like The Walk—or, indeed, the companion chronicle of its true-life inspiration, Man on Wire, a documentary inexplicably highly rated among documentaries—documentaries being, I sometimes feel, the Dopest Form of Filmed Art.

I find it hard to give a shit, when beautiful psychos like these dudes are out there, on the daily(???), daring God to punch down and cup-check them, wet-willy their souls into eternity. I find it very hard to get it up for the feature-length fictionalization of some dude’s meticulously-planned, indeed illegal, and doubtlessly, incontestably daring choice to tight-wire walk a building gap at the lofty height of Way High Up, just for the shit of it. If he’d fallen, I’d be interested. Then you have a story, man. You’ve got hubris, you’ve got tragedy. You’ve got the ambiguous worthiness of a lunatic goal, with themes applicable to the entire ongoing arc of humanity’s architectural/technological/social advancements post-Industrial Age in general, from start to now—&c. C’mon, fill in the blanks. This writes itself; it’s been written before. It’s Icarus and Daedalus, the Tower of Babel. The Godfather, I think. It’s good shit.

Don’t watch Man on Wire if you like documentaries, I’m saying. Jesus, but that movie blows. Get fucked, wire guy. Monsieur Petit. You wanna see a dope documentary? Well… don’t watch that one. Watch The Jinx. That shit ruled. You wanna talk about a high-wire act…

Anyway. Speaking of Robert Zemeckis, I watched Beowulf twice in theaters, twice with friends, twice in 3D. This was during one of the nine darkest periods of my life til now, come to think of it. The night we posted up for it the second time—nothing else is good, let’s just watch that again—will probably follow me around forever, dragged in the dirt and sidewalk grime by a golden rope around my waist to everywhere I wander, in the metaphysical bag I drag around behind me, labeled “Sadness Inexplicable”.

A lot of people got killed today in America, by an angry person with a gun. They didn’t deserve it. Few people really do.

I’m tired of people being shot to death.

I’m so tired of people being shot to death.

I’d give so much to make it stop.

The people that matter, though, won’t.

I’d give so much to make it stop.

The people that could, though, won’t.

I’d give so much to make it stop.

It won’t.

I wish it would.

The people that could do it, don’t.

The people that could, don’t care.

The people that could, don’t want to.

The people that could, aren’t listening.

If they’d only just release the reins…

I’d give so much to make it stop.