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From the Archives: Vengeance of the Damned (1984)

By Charles Bukowski

The snoring in the flophouse was very loud, as usual, and Tom couldn’t sleep. There must have been 60 cots in there and each was filled. The drunks snored the loudest, and most of them were drunks. Tom sat up and watched the moonlight come in through the windows and fall across the sleeping men. He rolled a smoke, lit it. He looked at the men again. What a bunch of ugly useless fuckers. Fuckers? They didn’t fuck. The ladies didn’t want them. Nobody wanted them. Not worth a fuck, ha-ha. And he was one of them. He pulled the bottle out from under the pillow and had a last hit. That last drink was always the sad one. He rolled the empty under his cot and viewed the snoring men once again. How about these? They weren’t even worth nuking.

Tom looked over at his buddy, Max, on the next cot. Max was just stretched there with his eyes open. Was he dead?

“Hey, Max!”


“You’re not sleeping.”

“Can’t. You notice? A lot of them are snoring in rhythm. What causes that?”

“I don’t know, Max. There are a lot of things I don’t know.”

“Me too, Tom. I guess I’m dumb.”

“You gotta guess. If you knew you were dumb, you wouldn’t be.”

Max sat up on the edge of his cot.

“Tom, do you think we’ll ever get off the Row?”

“Just one way—”


“Yeah… stiff.”

Max rolled a cigarette, lit it.

Max felt bad, he always felt bad when he thought about things. The thing to do was not to think, shut it off.

“Listen, Max,” he heard Tom.


“I been thinking—”

“Thinking’s no good.”

“But I keep thinking this thing—”

“You got a drink left?”

“No, sorry. But listen—”

“Bullshit, I don’t want to listen.”

Max stretched out on his cot again. Talking didn’t help. It was a waste.

“I’m going to tell you anyhow, Max.”

“Okay, hell, go ahead.”

“You see all these guys? There are plenty of them, right? Bums wherever you look—”

“Yeah, they clutter my sight.”

“So, Max, I keep thinking about how we can use this manpower. It’s just being wasted.”

“Nobody else wants these bums, what can you do with them?”

Tom felt a little excited. “The fact that nobody wants these guys, that’s to our advantage.”

“Is that right?”

“Right. You see, they don’t want them in the jails because they’d have to house and feed them. These guys have nothing to lose.”


“I’ve been thinking a lot nights… Like, if we can get them together like cattle, we could run them over things… Take temporary command of certain situations—”

“You’re nuts,” Max said.

But he sat up on his cot again. “Tell me more.”

Tom laughed. “Well, maybe I’m crazy, but I keep thinking of this wasted manpower. I’ve laid here awake nights dreaming of things to do with it—”

Now Max laughed. “Like what, for chrissakes?”

Nobody was bothered by their conversation. The snoring continued all about them.

“Well, I’ve kind of been rolling it around in my mind. Yeah, maybe it’s nuts. Anyhow—”

“Yeah?” Max asked.

“Don’t laugh. Maybe the wine has eaten my brain away.”

“I’ll try not to laugh.”

Tom inhaled on his cigarette, then let it out. “Well, you see, I get this vision of all these bums walking down Broadway, the whole mass of them together, walking along like that.”

“Well, so?”

“Well, it’s a lot of guys. Kind of like the vengeance of the damned. A parade of glorious discards. It’s almost like some kind of movie. I can almost see the cameras, the lights, the director… The March of the Roaches. The Rising of the Dead. What a comeback! Man, oh man!”

“I think,” Max responded, “you ought to go from port back to muscatel.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. Okay. So we got these bums walking along Broadway, say at high noon, then what?”

“Well, we walk them into the biggest and fanciest store in town—”

“You mean Bowarms?”

“Yeah, Max. Bowarms stocks everything: the best wines, the finest clothing, watches, radios, TVs—you name it, they’ve got it.”

Just then an old guy a few cots down sat up, opened his eyes wide and screamed, “God is a 400-pound lesbian nigger!”

Then he fell back on his cot.

“Like,” asked Max, “we take him?”

“Sure. He’s one of the best. What jail would want him?”

“Okay, we walk into Bowarms. Then what?”

“Visualize. It will be just in and out. There will be too many to handle. Visualize: they just take. Anything their hearts want. Maybe even a grab of a salesgirl’s ass. Any part of the dream they no longer have, just a touch of it, something, anything for that moment—’

“Tom, there might be a lot of busted heads, it’s not all going to be a picnic in wonderland.”

“No, but neither is this subservience, this allowing ourselves to be buried forever without a sound—”

“Tom, buddy, I think you’ve got something. Now, how do we go about setting this thing up?”

“All right, first we set a date and a time. Now, you know eight guys you can line up?”

“I think so.”

“I know about eight.”

“Suppose somebody tips off the cops?”

“Not likely. Anyhow, what we got to lose?”


“Now,” said Tom, “I think a good time to do it would be—”

It was high noon.

Tom and Max walked in front of the gang of them. They were walking down Broadway in Los Angeles. But there were more than 16 bums walking behind Tom and Max. There were 76 bums—blinking, staggering, not exactly sure of what was occurring. The ordinary citizens on the streets were slightly astonished. They stopped, they stepped aside and watched. Some were frightened, some laughed. To others it appeared to be a joke, or some movie in the making. The makeup was perfect: the actors looked like bums. But where were the cameras?

Tom and Max led the scene.

“Listen, Max, I only told eight. How many did you tell?”


“I wonder what the hell happened?”

“They must have told others—”

“And, amazingly, none of them tipped the heat.”

They walked along. It was like a mad dream that couldn’t be stopped. At the corner of 7th, the light changed to red. Tom and Max stopped and the bums bunched up behind them, waiting. The smell of unwashed stockings and underwear, puke and booze wafted through the air. The Goodyear blimp circled overhead. The smog settled blue gray along the curbings.

Then the signal changed to green. Tom and Max stepped forward. The other bums followed.

“Even though I envisioned this,” said Tom, “I can’t believe it’s happening.”

“It’s happening,” said Max.

There were so many bums behind them that some of them were still crossing the street when the signal changed back to red. But they kept coming, holding up traffic, some of them lifting bottles of wine into the air and swigging at them. They marched along but there was no marching song. Just silence, except for the belches, the farts, the scuffle of worn shoes upon the pavement, and now and then somebody spoke:

“Hey, what the fuck we doing?”

“Gimme a swig of that stuff!”

“Kiss my ass!”

The sun burned down warmly.

“Should we go through with this thing?” Max asked.

“I’d feel pretty sick if we turned back now,” Tom stated.

Then they were in front of Bowarms.

Tom and Max paused for a moment.

Then, as a pair, they pushed through the glass entrance doors.

The 76 bums followed along behind them in a long waving line. They walked up the plush corridors. The clerks looked at them, not quite understanding.

The Men’s Department was on the first floor.

“Now,” said Tom, “we have to set an example, we have to lend courage—’

“Yeah,” Max said with uncertainty.

“Let’s do it, Max!”


The bums had stopped and were watching. Tom hesitated a moment, then walked up to a coatrack, slipped off the first coat—a yellow leather model with a fur collar. He dropped his old coat to the floor and slipped into the new one. A store clerk walked up, a trim little fellow with a neat mustache.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I like this one and I’m taking it. Put it on my charge card.”

“American Express, sir?”

“No, Chinese Express.”

“And I’m taking this one,” said Max, slipping into an alligator special with giant side pockets, plus a hood for bad weather.

Then Tom took a hat off a rack, a rather ridiculous but rather charming cossack piece.

“This goes well with my complexion, I’ll take this one too.”

With that, the bums got into it. Moving forward, they began putting on coats and hats, scarves, raincoats, riding boots, dark shades, sweaters, gloves, various accessories.

“Charge or credit, sir?”

“Charge it to my bunghole, fucker.”

Or, in another area:

“That seems to fit you, sir—”

“Do I get a fourteen-day exchange privilege?”

“Of course, sir.”

“But I might be dead in fourteen days.”


“Listen, cocksucker, do you have to keep saying ‘sir’ all the time?”

Then there was an overhead ringing. It was an alarm. Somebody had decided that commerce was being threatened.

Four men in brown and gray ill-fitting suits came running. They were bulky men, but closer to fat than to muscle. They rushed at the bums as if to remove them from the premises. But there were just too many bums. They were swarmed under by the bums. As they rolled about, cursing and threatening, a couple of them reached for their guns. There was gunfire, but it was stupid and useless gunfire and soon the bulky men were disarmed. Such things happen at a rush that the eye never sees.

Like, suddenly there was a bum at the top of the escalator who had one of the guns. He was drunk. He’d never had a gun before. But he liked the gun. He aimed it and pulled the trigger. He hit a mannequin. The bullet went through the neck. The head fell to the floor: the death of an Aspen skier.

The death of this dead object seemed to cheer the bums. They spread upward throughout the store. They began yelling incoherent things but things which had meaning to them, as if, for a moment, all frustration and failure and sadness had left them. It was a curious and weird sound, ugly, yet not so—an incantation, maybe.

They rushed upward, yelling.

They swept about the new area.

And Tom and Max no longer led, they followed.

Counters were now being spilled, things were being broken. In the Cosmetic Department a young blond girl screamed, throwing up her arms. This attracted the sight of one of the younger bums who rushed up to her, pulled up her dress and grabbed her ass and screamed, “Wow!”

Another bum ran up for a feel, got it, and then another came running. Soon a gang of them fell across her and began ripping at her clothing. It was quite ugly. Yet it affected the other bums. They began running after other salesgirls.

“Holy Jesus,” said Tom.

Tom found an unspilled tabletop. He leaped up on it and began yelling.

“No! No! Not this! Stop! Stop! This isn’t what I meant!”

Tom yelled on and on…

Max stood there near Tom.

“Ah, shit,” he said quietly.

The bums didn’t relent. Drapes fell. Tables overturned. Glass counters shattered. Also, there were screams of mutilation and rape.

Something crashed quite loudly.

Then there was flame, but the men continued to pillage.

Tom leaped off the table. He looked at Max.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

Another dream shot to shit, another dead dog in the road, more dreams of garbage.

Tom began running and Max followed. They found the “Down” escalator, got on. As they went down, the police were riding on the “Up” escalator. Tom and Max still had on their new coats and headpieces. They looked almost respectable except for their red, unshaven faces. On the first floor they mixed with the crowd. There were police at the doors. They were letting people out but keeping them from entering.

Tom had stolen a handful of cigars. He handed one to Max.

“Here, light up… Try to look respectable.”

Tom lit a cigar of his own.

“Now, let’s see if we can get out of here.”

“Think we can fool them, Tom?”

“I dunno. Try to look like a broker or a doctor—”

“What do they look like?”

“Satisfied and stupid.”

They moved toward the exit doors. There was no problem. They were guided out with some others. Outside, they heard gunfire. They looked up at the building. Flames were spurting and waving from the upper windows. Soon they heard the approaching fire sirens.

They turned south and walked back toward skid row…

That night they were two of the bestdressed bums in the flophouse. Max had even stolen a watch, its hands glowed in the dark. The night was just beginning. They stretched out on their cots as the snoring began.

It was a full house again in spite of the absence of most of the men who had entered Bowarms with them. There were always enough bums to fill any vacancy caused by anything.

Tom took out two cigars, passed one to Max. They lit up and smoked quietly for a while. After a few minutes, Tom spoke.

“Hey, Max.”


“That wasn’t the way I meant it to be.”

“I know. It’s all right.”

The snoring was gradually getting louder. Tom pulled the new fifth of wine from under his pillow. He uncapped it, took a hit.





Tom passed the bottle. Max took the hit, passed it back.


Tom slipped the bottle back under his pillow.

It was muscatel.

© Copyright 1984 by Charles Bukowski

High Times Magazine, May 1984

Read the full issue here.

The post From the Archives: Vengeance of the Damned (1984) appeared first on High Times.

Smoking with the Homies Paul Wall & Termanology

Paul Wall laughs easily—even through his customized silver grillz, a staple for the Houston-bred rap legend. His laid-back demeanor, approachability, and obvious humility have made him “The People’s Champ,” a rapper and entrepreneur who isn’t afraid to admit his shortcomings and deepest insecurities. It’s a refreshing quality, especially in hip-hop where bravado and ego often go hand-in-hand. So, the fact that he wound up collaborating with fellow rapper Termanology, aka “Term,” on their new album Start 2 Finish couldn’t be more fitting.

Term could be “The People’s Champ” on the East Coast. Equally as humble and always one joke away from breaking into a smile, the Massachusetts native has built a reputable name for himself in the underground hip-hop world, working with everyone from Wu-Tang Clan and Erykah Badu to Statik Selektah and Christina Aguilera. Together, the unlikely duo has delivered a Southern gumbo sprinkled with classic New York boom bap, effortlessly bridging the geographical gap between their two regions.

But today, Wall and Termanology are far from home in Los Angeles where they’re doing several events in support of Start 2 Finish, an album that was released on April 8, 2022 and came together rather organically over the course of a year.

“Covid happened and then with Covid happening, Paul hit me up like, ‘Hey man, send me something. I’m in the studio. I’m hungry. I’m trying to rap.’ type vibes. So I sent him Thailand and he sent it right back, if I’m not mistaken, the same night or if not, within 24 hours. And I said, ‘Man, this dude is real. He’s humble. He’s a dope MC. He’s trying to get it popping.’ When he sent it back, he’s like, ‘Yo, you got something else? Send me something else.’ I’m like, ‘A’ight cool. I’m going to have two Paul Wall features on my album.’”

Those two features turned into three, then four and before they knew it, it was a full-blown album. Hopping on a Zoom call from their hotel room, they look happy to be surrounded by palm trees, the warm sun and Pacific Ocean—or it could be the good California weed they likely just smoked. Both artists are known cannabis connoisseurs and have been rapping about it since the onset of their careers. At this moment, they are filled with anticipation for people to finally hear their newest album.

“We’re excited,” Wall says through his giant grin. “Everybody we let hear the project is deeply impressed, which makes us feel good because it lets us know, OK. We were on the right track with how we were feeling when we created the music, so we’re just so excited to get to share it with people. We’re excited for the other things that this is going to lead to. We are already talking about doing part two and who’s going to get on part two, that type thing.”

The thought is fleeting, as the conversation quickly turns to the topic at hand—weed. Paul Wall was 12 years old the first time he tried marijuana, and he admits it wasn’t exactly the most pleasant experience. As he explains, his biological father was a drug addict and the thought of turning out like him was a paralyzing prospect.

“I felt a lot of nausea, it being the first time smoking,” Wall recalls. “Like, ‘Am I going to throw up? Am I inhaling too much? Am I choking?’ I was a little paranoid. I remember walking through the door, and it wasn’t too late, but my parents were asleep, and I was afraid they was going to smell me.

“It wasn’t a bad experience, but it also wasn’t a super good experience either. It was just something I always remembered. When I smoke weed now, it’s not like my first experience. I enjoy it a lot more.”

As for Termanology, he had a smoother introduction to weed smoking at 14 years old, right as he was really getting into making music.

“I used to do these demos in my boy Prophecy’s basement,” he says. “His dad was a big weed smoker, so he would always steal the weed out of the ashtray, the little roaches and shit.

“And so, I smoked. I started smoking with the homies and shit. I used to just get silly, just laughing, laughing, and laughing, getting the munchies; the classic stories.”

Naturally, life has drastically changed over the last 30 years. Both Wall and Term have children, established careers, and other responsibilities that force them to maneuver differently.

“I don’t smoke around my kids, so if I got my kids for the weekend or whatever the case, then I won’t smoke,” Term says. “But it’s not something that I need. I’m not one of those people that’s itching to burn. If I can’t burn, I’m not going to freak out. But I’d just rather be high, so I do like smoking.

“I’ll wake up, light up, go do my thing, hit the studio, light up again, go about my day, come home, take a shower, light up again, go to sleep, repeat. It does go with the day. If I’m with the homies, then we might fuck around and light 20 up.”

That has happened numerous times during studio sessions with Wall. If they’re not paying attention, suddenly they’ve smoked 10 blunts between the two of them.

“I smoke a lot of Backwoods,” Wall says. “Actually, that’s all I smoke is Backwoods. So, when you have that leaf on there, there’s a tobacco buzz that’s added to it, but then it clogs you up. It’s a little dirtier of a smoke just because it’s the fertilizer sometimes still left on leaf, and the fact that it’s just a leaf as opposed to smoking it out of a bong, where it’s just straight weed.

“Also, man, there’s people that got high-concentrate bullshit, too. Just because it’s some wax or a dab don’t mean it’s fire or don’t mean it’s not going to give you a headache. I prefer smoking out the Backwoods, but I definitely dab a little bit.”

Wall doesn’t smoke weed at all times. If he has a packed schedule, he might wait to puff until he’s checked off the boxes on his list.

“Sometimes, I got a full day,” he explains. “And it’s like, ‘OK, I got to really focus on this or that, so let me just maybe not smoke, or maybe smoke just to get in the zone or whatever.’ Then sometimes it’s like, ‘We going to be smoking all day.’ But there’s some times where I’ll avoid smoking if it’s somewhere where I want to be clear headed.

“Other times, my mind will be foggy, and I need to smoke to clear my head. It just depends. I definitely smoke every day though.”

Quittin’ Sizzurp

Anyone familiar with Paul Wall’s journey knows he’s come a long way. As he often rapped about in his music, he made sippin’ on sizzurp a second occupation. The drink—which is a concoction of cough syrup containing codeine and promethazine mixed with a carbonated soft drink—was often used as a recreational drug in the early 2000s, and it could have killed him.

“I used to sip syrup every single day, and we’d be in the studio every day smoking and drinking, smoking and drinking,” he recalls. “But I didn’t know how to roll up. So, I would just buy the drink and I’d pour it up, and they’d have some weed. I’d hit it every now and then when it would come my way. Then it got to be where I’m like, ‘Hey, man. Roll it up.’ I’m asking them to roll it up. Then it got to be where it’s like, ‘Shit, I got to learn how to roll it up. I got to roll my own.’”

Quitting syrup proved to be a pivotal point in his life. In 2010, he opted to have the gastric sleeve procedure, which reduced his stomach to the size of his thumb and eliminated the part that produces hormones causing hunger. He admits years of ingesting syrup, Xanax, and Vicodin, combined with diet pills severely impaired his metabolism.

“When I stopped sipping syrup on a daily basis, I had surgery on my stomach that saved my life and helped me lose weight,” Wall says. “That’s when I didn’t have any appetite. I went from being 300 plus, 320, almost 350 pounds, to a 2Pac weight. I went down to 165. I literally don’t get hungry no more. Now, if I go the whole day without eating, I’m going to have a headache and I’m going to be grumpy.”

That’s where weed comes in. He says he would sometimes go 12 hours without eating and once he’d smoke, the munchies would kick in and remind him to get back on track.

“We were raised to look at [weight loss surgery] as being a vain procedure or something,” he says. “But that’s not the case. This shit is something that saved my life and completely changed my life when I had that surgery.

“But then, the results of when I lost all the weight was, I’m never hungry. Consciously, I’m like, ‘OK, I definitely don’t want nobody thinking I’m an addict like that or I’m sick and about to die.’ So, I had to gain a little weight. That’s when the weed really helped me. That’s when I started smoking daily.”

Up until that point, Wall would only smoke at the studio or when he was partying with friends. But once he brought his eating issues to his physician, he was given a prescription for medical marijuana. 

“When I had the surgery, I went to the doctor and the doctor said, ‘Hey, man. I’m going to prescribe you some cannabis. It’s going to give you your appetite, you going to be able to eat.’ The next thing you know, I’m walking around here looking good now [laughs].”

The Machine

Term, on the other hand, has always smoked for recreation. But the days of rolling his own joints or blunts are long gone.

“My man’s got the machine where he makes the pre-rolls, so I just buy the pre-rolls 100 at a time,” he says. “I got them at the crib. I grab one a day and I just smoke it. I’ll have a few in the trunk of the car in case I’m in a party or session, or in case one of the homies want to smoke, I’ll just pass him his own.”

Being a well-known rapper doesn’t hurt either. Any time he does a show, someone is bound to toss him a few nugs.

“I got this big chest in my house full of weed,” he says. “A dude done gave me eight different flavors. People come to my house and they’re like, ‘What you got today?’ It’s funny, man. I really don’t have to roll up anymore. I ain’t rolled in a long time because I don’t have to [laughs].” 

Flying High

Wall and Term have decades of fond memories from their weed-smoking adventures. Term will never forget going toe-to-toe with cannabis king B-Real of Cypress Hill, while Wall will always remember his first experience with Satellite OG.

“We were in the studio in L.A., me and a couple of my boys, and we were just smoking some good-ass weed,” Wall says. “All of a sudden, my boy rolls up with Satellite OG. I hit it and immediately was like, ‘Whoa, what is this? Is this like a sherm stick or something? It’s some wet in there? What’s going on?’ He’s like, ‘Nah, it’s just that Satellite OG,’ and I’m like, ‘Damn, this shit is weed?!’ It wasn’t even concentrate, wax, kief, none of that—it was just straight weed.”

The “Sittin’ Sideways” rapper only hit it a couple of times and had to book it to Los Angeles International Airport shortly after—but he was in an entirely different world.

“I’m just looking out the window on another level,” he continues. “I remember some music coming on the radio, and I remember telling my boy, ‘Oh, yeah, yeah. This that new Mary J. Blige, ain’t it?’ He like, “What?! That’s Ne-Yo!’ I was just tripping out of my mind.’”

By the time he got to the TSA line, he couldn’t figure out how to get his identification card into the machine, and paranoia quickly set in.

“I remember trying to get it in the hole and it wouldn’t fit in the hole,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m like, ‘Shit!’ This is ’05, so everybody’s staring at me, and I’m like, ‘Shit, is everybody staring at me because they like, ‘Oh, there go Paul Wall,’ or everybody’s staring at me because they like, ‘That dude high as fuck.’ I’m just trying to keep my composure to get on the flight because keep in mind too, in Texas, they catch you high, they taking you to jail.”

Asked if he ever smoked Satellite OG again, he replies without hesitation, “Every day.”

This article appears in the July 2022 issue of High Times. Subscribe here.

The post Smoking with the Homies Paul Wall & Termanology appeared first on High Times.

Cash Only’s 420 Recs: Sean Yeaton of Parquet Courts

This article was originally published on Cash Only. Sign up for the newsletter here and follow Cash Only on Instagram and Twitter.

Sean Yeaton is nothing short of brilliant. The way his brain works—under the influence of weed or otherwise—should be an inspiration to all other musicians and artists out there. Some people say tomato, some say tomatoe… Sean’s like, “big red hand fruit.” The way this man thinks is inimitable!

Yeaton is the bass player for beloved rock band Parquet Courts, as well as a sonic maestro in his own right. He’s also a writer and damn good storyteller, who will melt your mind if you’re lucky enough to hear him spin a yarn.

Fortunately for us, the man is here to discuss his relationship with all things 420. When first asked if he’d be game to participate, Sean wrote, “I’m the only game in town, sweetie <3.” Hell, yeah.

Below, Yeaton highlights what strains he likes to smoke and discusses his beloved grinder. Then he spirals out about why we need a documentary on the Reese’s HQ in 2022, the merits (or lack thereof) of being able to solve a Rubik’s cube, and why he likes to watch a video of Joseph Kittinger “jumping out of a motherfucking balloon from the edge of space in 1965.”

There’s also an extended meditation on trails, slugs, and Robert Moor that gave my brain whiplash. I can’t even explain it. Yeaton just has that effect.

Sean Yeaton in Parquet Courts’ video “Walking at a Downtown Pace,” directed by Daniel Arnold

What’s your favorite strain and how do you like to consume it?

Sean Yeaton: I’m currently sipping on this Casey Jones—and Jack Herer some hours before that. I’ve found they complement each other nicely, in that my mind is buzzing with conceptual insights. Playful but weirdly deep, with potentially abysmal thoughts… like a Todd Solondz movie or something—that’s where Casey Jones and Jack Herer take me.

Some effects these strains have on me: Lots of great texting material undulating, the desire to stretch, waking earlier and with more !zhuzh! in the mind, lots of epiphanies—very Adam Curtis vibes.

Side note: I feel like there needs to be a documentary about whatever the fuck is going on at Reese’s HQ right now. New Reese’s releases have rivaled the original shit and with zero fanfare…

What’s your current favorite weed product?

Truthfully, my grinder. Just a simple, stylish, metallic-red magnetic grinder—kind of an impulse buy from the local head shop where I usually buy my papers. I rarely buy new pieces these days, but I’m curious about new trends in paraphernalia. So if I go out of my way to interact with a wook in a non-Spencers Gifts or Bonnaroo situation, chances are I’m at least prepared to drop a little extra money on something special, should it catched my eye.

I was way more into the ritualistic stoner process of having a sensibly-curated inventory of shit to smoke weed out of in college and I do sincerely just want to own a gas mask bong again… but more as a conversation piece. I have two little kids, though, and it’s hard enough finding a space at home to put my music shit and, like, cool tour ephemera. I mean if you walked into my house, you’d have no idea a mid-level indie musician lives there. I guess I’ll have to hold off on putting a gas mask bong over the mantel until I’ve managed to sneak at least a framed Parquet Courts poster on the wall or something.

Anyway, my grinder is tight as hell—easy turn, four chambers, nice hand-feel, and it grinds very quickly, very well. Definitely on the smaller-side of grinders at 2.2”, but it works for me and I find that the kief chamber fills up really fast, which I like a lot. Oh, and it came with one of those fun/funny little kief shovels. Always fun finding a free accessory with anything, I don’t care what it is! Lol.

Also, I think I wanna get a Protopipe… I love my little red grinder, though.

Sean Yeaton, photographed by Zach Sokol

What activity do you like to do after you’ve gotten stoned?

Goddamn, this is a tough one. There are a lot of great places to hike, snowshoe, swim, run, and fuck around out where I live in rural Pennsylvania, so any of that shit is great. I’m on tour a lot, though.

That said, here are some things I especially appreciate when stoned:

Reading: When I’m the right type of stoned—maybe I’m nursing a hog leg or something—there’s nothing like a great read. Books are tight but so is Wikipedia, Yelp reviews, Reddit, etc. I think any book, at the right time, regardless of genre or date of publication, can be transformative when read with a cannabis sidecar. Even just the notion and process of reading at all is a worthy curiosity to explore stoned, in my experience. I could go on forever about that, but here are the Wikipedia pages for aphantasia and hyperphantasia, which are cool places to start lol.

Rubik’s Cube: This was my “sourdough starter” at the beginning of COVID. I became obsessed with solving a Rubik’s Cube that first pandemic spring/summer. I felt the need to start adding some new shit to my setlist as a human person in reality so as to impress and amaze people and ensnare them in the emotional thrill ride of being friends with me forever!

I spent something like three months twisting and turning this thing, charting moves I’d made to get to certain stages successfully every time… until one piping-hot day in July it all came together. It was a real personal triumph to say the least! But also to say the most because honestly no one gave a shit at all!

I think it’s only impressive to people when they see some sort of gifted child solve one in under 30 seconds. I’m proud to say I can solve a Rubik’s Cube, but it’s still not really a party trick or anything unless you hate parties! If you hate parties and see me at one, bring me a Rubik’s cube and pull up a chair because I’ll keep you company for the entire party without a doubt.

Zelda Breath of the Wild: I love this fucking game so much! I’ve logged an embarrassing amount of hours playing it on the Switch. I am genuinely proud of how good I am at this game. Don’t ever @ me.

Drawing: Love to draw when I’m stoned. I’ve always loved doodling and whatnot, but when I’m stoned and in the mood to draw, I’ll spend hours letting my mind drift slowly and purposefully to the limits of my imagination—like on some gravitational slingshot shit—all so I can draw a picture of, like, a skull or a little horse or just a bunch of weird random shit lol.

“Yeaton’s Treat,” a Cash Only fantasy weed strain we created in Photoshop. This product does not currently exist, but we hope to see it on dispensary shelves one day!

Can you recommend something to watch while stoned?

Oh my god, this is very tough because it all really depends on my mood, I guess. I don’t want to spend too much time thinking about this or else I’ll be here all day, but my very first inclination is to suggest this video of Joseph Kittinger jumping out of a motherfucking balloon from the edge of space in 1965. Smash this link because I know it has that U.N.K.L.E. track featuring Moby that works so well with the footage—the John Malkovich sample from Alive is chilling, and even though I’d say thematically that Alive and the Kittinger space jump are kinda different, the pairing really works for this.

Here’s the part of the video where the mf actually jumps in case you aren’t a patient person:

And, for the Alive-heads out there, here’s a very weird video using Google Earth to see the VERY REAL crash site where the VERY REAL survivors of the Uruguayan rugby team ate the dead bodies of their VERY REAL friends and loved ones. The music is chilling in a way different manner for this one, though:

What do you like to listen to after smoking?

I’m firing on all cylinders for this question, my friend. I’m spurting out my two favs THIS VERY SECOND and also because I really miss Bryce! Love you, Bryce! Peep Bryce Hackford’s Bandcamp here.

Also love you, Claire Rousay (but we’re not BFFs yet). Check out her stuff here.

Can you recommend something to read once really baked?

On Trails by Robert Moor.

I wasn’t expecting to love this book; I picked it up because my coolest friend was reading it and I wanted to be cool. I read this book during the first COVID summer when all the bitchin’ trails I’m blessed to live so close to were busier than the goddamn TSA line at JFK. Everyone was a hiker all of a sudden. I’m not Reinhold Messner or anything, but I’m experienced enough to remember when it was gauche to chuff bubblegum vape clouds on a nature preserve.

Anyway, it was the right time to be reading about trails, even if outdoor recreation was new to you.

I love reading and all; crazy to look at squiggly shapes in a line and be like, “Holy shit! My brain is scarfing this down and getting hornier and hornier!” But for a book to really click with me, I like for it to feel almost like a targeted ad, like FATE was conditioned for me to be reading the words in front of me!

On one hand, this is great because I can honestly fuck with any kind of reading without clear classification when it comes to, like, genre and sub-genre. I’ve read instruction manuals I’d recommend to people as a sort of pulp… and if you ask me, reading the Wikipedia page for Alf is better than watching Permanent Midnight. But I really fuckin’ digress here…

On Trails kicks ass because it’s more than a book about paths through the woods and way more than adventure hippie porn! You don’t really have to give a shit about hiking or the outdoors at all to appreciate this book and it’s perfect for the STONED MIND. Each chapter recalls some experience the author has had with a sort of “trail adjacent” thing or individual.

I was first pretty hooked on this book when I read the bit about how the interstate system in the U.S.—not to mention railways and just about every other artery that links living beings to one another and what they need to survive—was at least initially based on the deep, hard-packed trails made by the fucking marvelous BISON! There’s also a chapter about a deer hunter that’s great. Really every chapter is great, but it all builds up to how the way the internet works and how our minds work and how flight paths and other shit that has nothing to do with buffalo at all follow the same sort of logic that links all trails ever for as long as they’ve been getting carved into time and space!

The whole book about trails is about trails to trails to trails! By the end of the book, the title becomes a double entendre and a eureka moment. When I’m high, this book is a chef’s fucking kiss!

There’s also a bit about slugs in this book that I won’t spoil for you, but… holy shit! Slugs don’t fuck around!

I also want to recommend Extraterrestrial: The First Sign of Intelligent Life Beyond Earth by Avi Loeb.

Jesus Christ, what a book! I’m gonna try to limit my rambling on this one since it’s pretty hard to imagine anyone is still reading this. If you are, prove it by DMing me on Instagram @yeatons a picture of your favorite alien from popular culture.

If nothing else, this book is great if you’re on the fence about whether or not Neil deGrasse Tyson is kind of a poser. If Neil deGrasse Tyson is The Sex Pistols to you, then Avi Loeb is Chumbawamba. One is essentially, like, the manufactured results from a focus group. You smell me?

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Sizzling Str8jaket X Skitzo X Lyte Collabo “Summer Vibes” Out Now!

The brand new sizzling collabo “Summer Vibes” single between Str8jaket, Skitzo, and Lyte via Monstar Ent. is now available for your listening pleasure! Fans can support “Summer Vibes” through Apple Music here:

from Faygoluvers