I jolt awake 6 klicks off the coast of Guadalajara, Mexico, which is what I call my bed because I am very interesting. The sky is a latticework of scars, a veritable portfolio of all who tried and failed to best it at its own game (YOOOO WHAT IF I TALKED LIKE THAT THO). Ok, ok. One more ‘gain. The sky is overcast because science and its 1pm because I’m a fuckin asshole.
I fix myself a mighty breakfast of Mio Energy. Mio Energy, if you’re unfamiliar, is basically concentrated liquid caffeine and a cavalcade of other chemicals the government invented to murder me with. Preparation is simple. You squirt it into water and feel your soul escape through the bloody explosions where your eyes used to be, ready to take on the day. Even though it’s incredibly legal, it’s easily one of the more unhinged drug experiences available, probably due to the fact it allows you complete control over the dosage based on how overzealously you feel like squeezing the canister. This is easily the 2015 version of every Greek morality play where someone is destroyed by their own hubris. I also decide to be daring and try a cigarette, which I enjoy so much that I make sure to have retroactively smoked millions of them for the past 100 years of my life.
As a joke, I decide to indulge in the mortal cleansing concept of a “shao-wur,” which my studies let me know is quite popular. I find it paltry and bland compared to my normal cleaning practice of standing on a very tall building and daring lightning to hit me, but I have a record coming out soon, so it never hurts to be relatable.
All medical textbooks I’ve read suggest that it’s healthful to engage in a breakfast that utilizes the mouth bones, so I hit the block for food that, like myself, used to be alive.
My two favorite bodegas on my block have recently began a bidding war for my love and affection. This war centers around energy drinks, the one true way to my heart. The fancier one has started stocking XS, which comes in 1000s of arcane flavors like root beer and black cherry cola. They ask me to discern my favorite varieties of this majestic fluid so they can make sure to stock them from now on.
The other bodega has started carrying TORNADO!, an energy drink that looks and tastes like someone made it in their bathtub and is available in heart-smart natural flavors including but not limited to ICE (which numbs your mouth because thats something people enjoy?) ACTIVE and STORM. The TORNADO bodega is really the breakfast choice because they have dollar pastelitos, so its an easy decision.
I cop the only breakfast sandwich wortha damn in this war torn hellscape, bacon and sausage on a roll with ketchup and mayonnaise, making sure nothing that ever grew from the ground is accidentally included. Life is a sprint, after all.
I return home having finished this concise fried heart attack along the way to find a love letter has been placed on my door. My maniac neighbor has penned an erudite missive “DEMO [?? I…GUESS thats..KIND of my name?] … CAN I GET 2?” This Shakepearean sonnet is easily deciphered. He wants to buy two of my Newport 100s. I know this because this is all he EVER wants. Not just from me, from life.
Over the past few years his payment for such luxury items has always been a game of chance. Sometimes its weed, either rolled or by the small handful, sometimes Percocet, sometimes M. Night Shyamalan movies, sometimes money. This is usually an interesting enough crapshoot that I spin the wheel, so I go knock on his door. This time remuneration is in the form of a single american dollar. Not the greatest, but i’m pretty sure i’m stealing his Wi-Fi, so I ain’t mad at it.
I talk to world renowned malcontent Dapwell about a super top secret project. Iont know why I’m even including this actually. This is like when people hit you like, “Yoooo, can you keep a secret? nah matter fact never mind”. So forget I even said this. Instead I uh….fuck, what do people do? I…did my taxes. Yeah. Did em all up.
I feed my monthlong obsession with the Tom Waits song “Come On Up To The House”. This blood-soaked death march of a song never gets old, and like every time I get a song under my skin, I try to listen to every cover of it i can find until the original writer and performer fades into the background and the song starts feeling like a natural phenomenon that has always existed.
The only cover worth shit is Allison Stone’s, which is beautiful, everyone else misses the point hardbody.
Tom Waits has always been a heavy hitter to me for multiple reasons (oh really? oh you like the popular musician? you like The Beatles too? Whoaaaa. You really not afraid to make the unpopular choice, huh? what about “delicious candy”and getting your dick sucked? You like those too? You’re a real iconoclast you piece of shit. Get the fuck out of my office). OK BUT IF I COULD CONTINUE THO. THANK YOU. ANYWAY.
Besides being the patron saint of sounding like you drink boiled broken glass (I’m like the…Comptroller of that), Tom Waits always reminds me of my brother. When I was real young and my father had just died, I got one of those Big Brothers you always hear about i early 90s sitcoms. For years, every weekend we’d meet up and run around doing semi-wholesome shit while he taught me Philly slang and educated me on old SNL. One year he enrolled us in some kind of talent show. His idea was that we pretend to be washed up lounge singers and perform “Yesterday Is Here,” a Tom Waits banger off “Franks Wild Years”, a concept album Waits recorded under the guise of embodying a young Frank Sinatra. I was maybe 9 or 10 and the inherent comedy of this idea was completely lost on me so I backed out. In retrospect, this is fucking hilarious and I’m wild mad I did that.
I also feel a type of a way that one day I hit this guy up like “uhhh matter fact? I think i’m good on having a brother. I’d like to have weekends instead”. This is the kind of coldhearted you can only be as a child, but I can tell this lowkey shattered him. Whiiiiiiich…iunno man…you’re grown. Kids are idiot monsters. I feel like this is a fairly well known fact? After some time he tried to reach out and reconnect and I ignored him because, again, monsters. As a result, I can’t listen to Tom Waits without coming to terms with one of the 3 and a half human feelings I own. The other ones mainly revolve around iced tea so maybe its just the one?
I email Yuri Suzuki, my savior/mixing engineer about the mix on this song I recently recorded to promote DVTV, the Emmy-award winning mixtape I’m FINALLY releasing. Maybe you wish to know more? Well NOW you have a sexy little behind-the-scenes story about how EMAIL was involved. In exchange for this invaluable tidbit, tell me about the future. Are there still cars? What does Cher do now? Oh damn. That many? Thats fucked up. Imma pretend you aint even tell me that and i am VERY sorry I asked. Take the temperature of the room man, damn. Fuckin up my whole day.
I also RECEIVE an email. Email is funny in that it works in both the giving AND receiving fashion. In that way, its a lot like life. This and more will be explored in my book “Things That Are Like Life.” It is a dictionary except I put a sticker on it and it costs five thousand dollars. But it comes with a BONUS sticker so YOU could make a book. Don’t say I never did nothing for you, you fucks.
This email is from a photographer I did a shoot with awhile back, and includes multiple versions of the cover for DVTV. Realizing my visage is able to be captured on film leaves me skeptical about everything i’ve learned about vampires so far.
I’m at the supermarket (if you are not a Hollywood Moviestar such as myself, feel free to picture one of your more familiar, pedestrian, REGULAR markets) buying bread when my phone rings. It is Boreanaz, my produce wrangler, and he’s VERY excited. He’s calling from an undisclosed location somewhere in Beijing and he’s happened upon a “once in a lifetime” find:
Motherfucker, I’m LOOKIN at apples RIGHT NOW. Fuck am I paying this guy for? I express my displeasure with his lackluster performance and tell him he is no longer allowed in America. He in turn reminds me of the episode of Step By Step where Urkel showed up and hijinks ensued and we laugh, friends once again. I hang up and make arrangements to have him killed for insolence. Pfft. Apples. Suck a dick, my dude.
Damn this bread tho.
Like for real. Fuck. what is this, semolina? this is a good time.
I pop in the new Marilyn Manson album The Pale Emperor. Really I just press buttons about it but remember POPPING SOMETHING IN? Anyway its basically 10 of the same mid-tempo languid lurch-fests. Yer man says “You wanna know what Zeus said to Narcissus? ‘You better watch yourself'”. This is struggle rap but kinda ill as far as struggle rap goes. I’m not mad at it. This is miles better than anything from his “ooooooh divorce is spoooooookyyyy” “Eat Me Drink Me” era but not nowhere near his peak. If you played this for parents they might look up from their ANALOG newspaper and say “well this is very nice, Franklin, lets see him when he comes to town, whaddya say? I’ll buy you a program!” and iunno if thats what you want but i sincerely doubt its what HE wants. I’ve known this for a long time but i think its finally time to come to terms with it. I’M our nation’s Marilyn Manson now. Rest assured i do not take this responsibility lightly and will not let you down. God bless America.
I decide to walk 3 miles to buy cigarettes because life is hilarious and also to stave off death.
As America’s foremost Marilyn Manson I am not OPPOSED to death per se but I have it on good authority there is far less Kennedy Fried Chicken there so I act purely out of hedonism. Around the third mile I vow to invent some sort of gas powered land-boat that will make it so no one ever has to do this again but then I see a dog and get distracted.
I go to work in East Midtown for the strip club that pays me money (SOMETIMES). This is easily the deepest pit in hell, full of blazered and besnapbacked “humans” named Thad and Crint who sidle up to me to try to buy cocaine and call me “fam” in such a way that you can TASTE how new the word is in their mouths and how recently they learned it from Wiz Khalifa. Whats CRAZY is if i kill them, I have to go live in a metal box for YEARS. This seems like an oversight but I have not been President in some time and it will be years before I am again, so it is what it is.
Oh good it’s snowing. Thats exactly what i want in my eyes and mouth. No less than 4 groups of German tourists pass by and perform the same one-act play. “HANNA, EES THEES SNOW?” “NOOO FLORIAN. NO SNOW” “VAIT! YOSS! SNOW! EETS SNOWINK!” “I *TELLED* YOU IT WAS SNOWINK! SNOWWWWW!”. How are ALL of them named Florian?? IF YOU GIVE ME YOUR ADDRESS I WILL MAIL AN ENVELOPE OF SNOW TO GERMANY BUT YALL GOTTA FUCKING RELAX.
Whats ill about NYC buses at night is if you get on it and its empty you get to post up in the back and pretend its your own personal limo you designed to look like shit because you have terrible taste.
I “do” “weed.” In a shocking turn of events it makes me “feel” “high.”
DAMN I WONDER IF THERES MORE OF THE BREAD. HELLLL YEA.