Coke Talk of the Day

So yeah, things at work are fucked up right now. Shit’s been brewing since the first day of January, but there’s no tip-toeing around it anymore.

We’ve been working a business model that was built before the internet in a corporate climate based loosely on Lord of the Flies. Somebody was bound to break their glasses.

I have no idea what will become of the company, much less my future in it. That’s fine. This is the kind of shit that happens every five to seven years anyways. Life has big cycles, and nothing lasts forever. Whatever comes next, I’m sure I’ll find a way to enjoy it.

One thing I’m sure of, I’m going to make damn sure my assistant qualifies for unemployment. Hell, I’m probably going to take care of her out of my own pocket for a little while. That hardcore bitch is worth her weight in gold.

Fuck it. Maybe it’s time to go do some Oprah shit.

Coke Talk of the Day

So yeah, Vajazzling exists.

This is another one of those moments where I’m jealous of all those Pasadena housewives who got to whore it up on the sunset strip in an old-school era when nobody had to get their shit waxed.

Those leathery bitches must be laughing at the sorry state of our scene. It’s not enough for us to pour a hot sticky mess all over our lady business to rip thick hairs out from the root, but now our pussies have to be dunked in glitter?

Swarovski crystals? Please. Like the sparkly shit you glue to your vagina needs fucking brand recognition. I blame Christian Audigier’s influence on popular culture. That motherfucker desensitized us all to the inherent tackiness of cheezy bling.

Remember folks, we still live in an era where it’s culturally acceptable to slice open your breasts and fill your guts with squishy sacks of silicone. Vajazzling is literally child’s play. I yawn at this shit.

Although I’ll have to admit, the first crazy bitch to get a sunburst pattern of crystals around her asshole will forever have a place in my heart.

Coke Talk of the Day

If I were the director of marketing for the lady-business division over at Johnson & Johnson, my first day on the job would involve forming a strategic partnership with Christian Audigier’s various lifestyle brands to develop a cross-promotional line of feminine hygiene products.

That’s right. I would literally make Ed Hardy and Von Dutch Douchebags.

Coke Talk of the Day

I wasn’t going to say anything, but the Salinger worship is getting a bit out of hand. Honestly, people. Catcher in the Rye is basically a Judy Blume book that grew a little hair on its balls.

Before all you English majors get your panties in a twist, go pull that paperback with the red cover off your top shelf and give it a fresh look now that you’re not writing a high school book report on the significance of the elephants on Phoebe’s pajamas.

Read it with the eyes of an adult.

I think you’ll quickly realize why Salinger knew better than to let it become a movie, because it’s hard not to imagine some ineffectual little pussy like Robert Pattinson in the role of Holden Caulfield.

If you loved the book, fine. That’s great. I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m just agreeing with everyone who thinks Salinger is overrated.

I mean, come on. The guy lived for ninety-one years. He basically hit the literary lottery over a half-century ago with one little novel about teen angst. Good for him, but let’s stop confusing Salinger for guys like Vonnegut and Hemingway.

Coke Talk of the Day

This past weekend was a barrage of holiday parties and best friends. Now that I’m re-entering the atmosphere, I’m realizing that I may have made a deal with the devil.

At one point, we were all talking about our christmas lists in a typical four a.m. conversation over a coke mirror. I half-jokingly mentioned that I wanted a red 1961 IBM Selectric typewriter. I described this thing like it was a classic Mustang.

They all kind of looked at me funny. Why would I want something like that? I explained that my grandfather had one, and him letting me type on it was one of my fondest memories. Plus, it’s just a cool ass piece of hardware that would look great on my desk at home.

One of my really close friends who knows about my blog pressed me a little further. He wanted to know if I would actually use it. I told him of course I would.

He asked me if I could write a book on a typewriter. I said, well, probably not a whole book, but it’s one of the tools I would lean on heavily because it’s so tactile and analog and linear.

Then he said, so if the typewriter showed up under your tree, you would write a book?

Without even thinking, I said hell yes.

This is the kind of guy with the check book to actually get me a gift like that and the and brass balls hold my feet to the fire. I have no idea if he’ll actually do it, but if he does, he’s gonna make me stick to my word.

Now I’m kind of nervous.

Coke Talk of the Day

Today my family dragged me to see “The Blind Side.”

It’s the one about a nouveau riche soccer mom who rescues a gentle giant teenager from being black in Memphis because it seems like the good christian thing to do for college football.

Sandra Bullock basically proves that if you henpeck your country music star husband who owns fifty Taco Bells into buying a pickup truck and a private tutor, you can teach any old kid from the projects to read at a fifth grade level as long as he’s got NFL potential.

The moral of the story is pretty simple — white people are benevolent do-gooders, and black people are helpless, scary animals.

Feel-good movie my ass. After watching that train wreck, my soul had never felt so empty.

Of course, everybody else loved it. Loved it.

Sitting in that theater — with that crowd — I was surrounded, completely engulfed by the shallow ignorance of the red state zeitgeist.

How horrifying.

Call me an elitist bitch, but I can’t wait to get back to LA.

Coke Talk of the Day

Today I baked two pumpkin pies and built a croquembouche with spun caramel sugar and chocolate sauce.

This is what happens when I’m home for the holidays. I make bad ass desserts.

That, and I watch way too much History Channel. With my family it’s either the History Channel or Fox News, so I opt for the lesser of two evils.

It was a typical pre-Thanksgiving afternoon of stacking cream puffs and daydreaming about the kind of guy I’d like to share a sniper rifle with in World War II era Germany.

Yeah, if I had to do the whole World War thing, I’d definitely prefer to do it as a hot sniper couple — you know, lining up people in our crosshairs by day, and by night recreating that filthy hot sex scene between Jude Law and Rachel Weisz in “Enemy at the Gates.”

These are the things that fill my head when I’m surrounded by Republicans.

Anyways, tomorrow we all exchange Christmas lists.

This year mine includes the new Crayola Crayon Maker (better late than never with that childhood fantasy), and this little Polaroid Mirror (the coolest cocaine mirror ever!)

I also want a vintage 1961 IBM Selectric typewriter in bright red like the one my granddaddy used to have.

It’s a long shot, but maybe Santa will be good to me this year.

Coke Talk of the Day

I went to visit my friend in prison again. He’s bored as hell.

When I mentioned that I was writing a whacked-out advice column, he begged me to let him read it. He suggested I print it out and send it to him like a letter. I thought that was a damn fine idea.

As it was my first time writing to someone in the slammer, I decided to check the manual. Every correctional institution in California has it’s own fancy-pants website, wherein you’ll find a comprehensive list of do’s, don’ts, and other little known jailhouse etiquettes to observe when sending a friendly letter.

I was rather disheartened to learn that “letters and envelopes must be free from any white-out, lipstick marks, address labels, or stickers of any kind. No large cards, musical cards, cards with glitter or other items attached will be allowed.”

As tempting as it was, I resisted the urge to leave him a lipstick mark in white-out and glitter.

Instead, I printed out Dear Coke Talk. Every last entry.

I followed the rules to the letter. Plain white paper. No paper clips or staples. No pictures or photocopies of pictures. It was a sixty page stack of dense black-and-white text that looked as boring as an insurance policy.

I slapped some stamps on that sucker and sent it off to the big house.

That was two weeks ago.

Guess what came back in the mail today? Yep. Return to motherfucking sender. At first, I thought I’d screwed up the address or something, but then I realized it had been opened.

Sure enough, there was a big red sticker on the front of the envelope with three check boxes. The first was labeled “Not in Custody,” the second was labeled “Need Inmate Number,” and the third was labeled “Unacceptable Items.”

Someone had checked the “Unacceptable Items” box.

Then, just to go the extra mile, they did something that made me very, very proud. Right there next to the checkbox, some corrections officer went out of his way to scribble out two additional words:

OBSCENE MATERIAL

Coke Talk of the Day

A friend of mine has a roommate who voted Yes on Prop 8, the California ballot measure that made it unconstitutional for gays to marry in my state.

I know this because my friend just asked for my advice on how to handle her. They’ve known each other all their lives — childhood friends who these days don’t seem to have anything in common other than childhood.

Until now, it hasn’t really been an open problem, but it’s turning into one.

The roommate is a sweet but very naive young girl. Lately, she’s discovered just how much fun it is to go out partying with our flamboyantly gay friends. She loves them. She thinks they’re great. She just doesn’t think they deserve equal rights. (The great irony here being that she also happens to be black.)

All of this might have been overlooked had Maine not recently been in the news, but now it’s this big ugly thing between them.

The roommate has asked my friend to lie — that’s right, lie on her behalf so as not to offend our gay friends.

Rightfully, my friend refuses to lie. She wants her roommate to suffer the social consequences of her beliefs — as well she should.

Thing is, my friend is a better person than me. I would have kicked her out of the house the second I heard she voted Yes on Prop 8.

Naive childhood friend or not, there are times when a harsh lesson is in order.

If it were up to me, the consequences wouldn’t have been mild embarrassment. The consequences would have been banishment. Total fucking exile.

We live in a world that is almost all grey area, but on those rare occasions when things are pure black and white, you pick a fucking side and you defend it.

This is one of those occasions.

If you vote to ban gay marriage, you are a small-minded bigot. You are wrong. You are the enemy. No exceptions.

Coke Talk of the Day

I just got an email from my mom in Florida.

Apparently, her next door neighbor’s cousin’s son is a certain television actor here in LA. Of course, she wants to hook us up.

Here’s a delicious little slice from her email:

“He went to Harvard- no slouch! He is about your age and by all accounts is a fine young man. I personally think you need to meet him- would you like me to work on that?”

Bless her heart, she has such good intentions. I love my mom dearly. She is a stoic Southern woman, and this is the closest she ever comes to meddling.

I know it kills her that I’m still single, but the implications of her trying to set me up with an actor are downright hilarious.

There’s a silver lining to this, I suppose. It’s the first sign that she’s finally accepted the fact that I’m not just “going through a Los Angeles phase.”

Now I just have to find a ladylike way of breaking it down for her:

I don’t date actors. I just fuck them.

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