The Day I Took Seven Inches

Note: mild language and donut-related anatomy ahead.

The day started off windy and slightly overcast, like the city was still hungover from the storms a few days before. The sky was a bright blue, with clouds drifting through as if they were innocent passersby to the slaughter Los Angeles took from the downpour.

North Hollywood had very much the same vibes—puddles evaporating, palm trees doing their best impression of mood lighting while the homeless figured out their living situation. The whole place sat somewhere between “movie set” and “miscellaneous side quest.” It was the kind of weather that made you feel like something was about to happen, even if it was just you, sitting in a dark theater, watching other people run for their lives. The irony of me watching people on a screen watch The Running Man on a screen was not lost on me.

This week’s run started in North Hollywood with the new Running Man reboot. I’d taken a week off from writing, and the second the opening titles hit — this cyberpunk-esque sequence in dark red, off-neon slicing through the dark — it felt weirdly on-brand for the blog. Like Danny on the Run somehow got a studio budget and more than one follower: grimy, loud, and just stylish enough that I could pretend the whole thing counted as research… for a moment, anyway.

The lead actor, Glen Powell, basically spent two hours doing his Mission Impossible audition. Wall runs, jumps, hanging off things, the whole “I live on caffeine and stunt insurance waivers.” And honestly? I’d say he passed. He’s up there with Tom Cruise in terms of commitment-to-possibly-dying-on-camera vibe. It was one of those movies that for sure made me think, “Hmmm, if I just ate fewer donuts, then maybe I could do that too.” But then the thought of donuts overshadows that.

Which brought us to the real issue of the day: I’d been on a mild pizza bender. Several days, or weeks, in a row. No regrets, but my body was starting to send little “maybe don’t” notifications. So when we walked out of The Running Man, it just felt like a burger movie. I couldn’t explain it, it was just a feeling — a “society is collapsing, please hand me something wrapped in paper” movie — much like the first Iron Man movie when he returned from being captured.

We didn’t want to hit the same old burger spot we always went to, so we ended up at Mr. Charlie, which is basically McDonald’s if it went vegan and joined a punk band. Same visual language: bright boxes, familiar shapes, suspiciously nostalgic layout. But the whole thing was meatless, which sounded like a gimmick to throw shade until you bit into it and your brain went, “Yep, that’s a McDonald’s burger,” while your logical side quietly short-circuited.

The wild part? It was better than actual McDonald’s on every axis that mattered. Same price. Same or less wait time than whatever McDonald’s was doing these days. More fries. Burger tasted better. And no crowd.

From there we walked over to Voodoo as we spotted it right away, heading to Mr. Charlie’s. We knew the mission as soon as we spotted it.

I’d been saying I’d get one of their giant penis donuts, then I’d see the size and think, yeah, that’s a lot of pastry to explain to my digestive system. But recently I survived one of those oversized birthday donuts, the kind that looks like a prop from a kid’s cartoon. After that, I figured I’d unlocked a new level.

So today I finally did it. I ordered the giant dick donut. Chris did too, actually — we even touched tips… donut tips, that is. I mean, you kind of have to when you’re out with your buddy from high school and ordering penis donuts.

There’s a dumb little moment of self-awareness when you’re standing at the counter saying, “Yeah, I’ll have the penis donut.” I’d joked about ordering it, people had even asked if I attempted it, and this time I had to put the glazed donut tip where my mouth was, literally.

Was it obscene? Yes. Was it unnecessary? Also yes. Did it pair perfectly with a dystopian game-show movie and a vegan knockoff McDonald’s burger in the middle of Hollywood? Weirdly, yeah. The whole day had that “late-stage capitalism but make it fun” energy: media-collapse action movie, counterculture fast food, and a donut shaped like something that should probably be left to private group chats and not a blog. But hey, I could text this to my one follower or write about it.

So that was the day I took seven inches in Hollywood: a cyberpunk reboot, a punk rock McDonald’s clone, and a novelty donut I’d been threatening to order since I first knew of its existence. Honestly, it felt pretty on-brand for me, and for Danny on the Run—slightly unhinged, vaguely unhealthy, and somehow still cheaper and more satisfying than the regular options.