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.

Is the tag on my reputation showing?

One of my vanilla flavored colleagues just pulled me aside and asked me to recommend a place where she could buy some kinky sex gear.

“Oh,” I said, “are you planning a halloween outfit?”

She got very serious. As if she were trying to score some street corner smack, she leaned in and whispered, “No. This is for real. I want the good stuff.”

Now I’m mildly concerned, because I have no idea how she would know to ask me about that kind of shit.

I’m standing there in work hair and a blazer, and suddenly I feel like everybody knows that I’m wearing La Perla.

Admittedly, I could have given her three phone numbers to various specialty and high-end custom shops and told her to drop my name if she wanted a discount, but this is the kind of woman who leaves lipstick on her diet coke can.

While I have nothing against her, she’s never seen anything other than my fake smile, and I want to keep it that way.

I told her to go to the Hustler Store on Sunset, and she thanked me like a fucking tourist.

In hindsight, it may have been a mistake.

Sure, the Hustler Store may be the Disneyland teacup ride for me, but now I’m worried that it’s enough to confirm all that bitch’s suspicions.

Coke Talk of the Day

Los Angeles doesn’t have any Walmarts.

The surrounding suburbs all have one, so if you look at a map you’ll see twenty Walmarts ringing the city in a barbarians-at-the-gates sort of way, and I’ve got no business going into those neighborhoods.

I mention this so I can justify not having stepped foot into a Walmart since childhood, because it’s not that I’m a snob.

Well, it wasn’t that I’m a snob. Over the weekend I visited a Walmart in the deep south, and now I can safely say that the Walmart experience is beneath me.

I have nothing against big box or discount stores — I fucking love Target, and I’ll chainsaw though a TJ Maxx like Rachel Zoe on crack — but Walmart, oh dear. It hurt my soul.

Fuck the everyday low prices. I’m talking about the undignified humanity. I did not think it was possible to combine that much morbid obesity with such a sheer lack of personal hygiene.

The average family had to weigh close to a thousand pounds. I actually saw a woman stuffing her face with a Big Mac while she was shopping for food.

What a fucking horror show.

I will give them credit for truth in advertising, because they’re right. Beauty costs less at Walmart.

There is a reason beauty costs less, and I assure you it is not because supply outweighs demand.

It is because at Walmart, beauty is cheap.

Life too, for that matter.

Coke Talk of the Day

Everyone has three lives: a public life, a private life, and a secret life.

Updating your resume reflects your public life. The stories you tell about your co-workers over dinner reflect your private life, and the fact that you’re fucking your boss or embezzling money from the company reflects your secret life.

Certain professions get more face time with folks in their secret life. If you’re a lawyer, priest, or prostitute you probably already know what I’m talking about.

I much prefer the secret life, and for whatever reason, people are very comfortable letting me be a part of theirs. Ask anyone who’s watched a sunrise with me, and they’ll admit that I’m pretty much a lawyer, priest, and prostitute all rolled into one.

The secret life is a much more raw and visceral way to experience the human condition. Loyalties run deeper. Friendships are more intimate. People are more honest, even when they’re lying.

The flip side is that betrayals are dangerous. They aren’t just mildly embarrassing. They cause legitimate harm.

In fact, the whole notion of honor among thieves is really just a way of describing the higher standard of integrity required of those who operate in the realm of the secret life.

It’s because of this higher standard that I choose to remain anonymous.

Social media is doing a hell of a job blurring the lines between public and private, but we can all agree that blogging is inherently public.

Personal blogs — when they’re at their very best — share moments that are intensely private, but unless they are anonymous, they can never delve into the secret without causing harm.

I want to cram as much brutal truth into my writing as possible, and I can only do that when I’m free to share experiences from my secret life. Names are omitted to protect the guilty, including mine.

For those of you who’ve been asking, this is why I won’t reveal who I am.

Coke Talk of the Day

One of my favorite conversations when making new acquaintances over a coke mirror occurs when I discover that my fellow party enthusiast is on some sort of highly ritualized, self-inflicted starvation regimen.

These are usually rail thin model types in from New York who are a delightful combination of dumb and worldly, and I take great pleasure in listening to to them expound on the health benefits of raw veganism.

They ramble on about whatever rare fruit is currently setting antioxidant world records, and then express little pangs of guilt as they hoover up line after line with comments like, “I really shouldn’t be doing this.”

I can’t help but fuck with them a little bit. You should see their eyes light up when I explain to them in all seriousness that this cocaine is 100% organic and that it’s infused with all natural plant extracts from the mountains of Peru that clarify the mind, reduce hunger, and promote an overall sense of well-being.

You’d be surprised how often they say, “Oh my god, I’ve heard about this stuff!”

Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll be able to pull it off ever again.

I just read Molly Young’s latest article where she cleverly describes a rule of thumb about whether to take self-important food-stuffs seriously by asking “What Would Steve Martin Eat?”

Steve Martin is the court jester of my older-man crushes, and I can’t help but smile when I think about him. Inevitably, the next time I utter the phrase “100% organic cocaine,” I will first hear it in my head in Steve Martin’s voice.

There’s no way I’ll be able to keep a straight face.

Coke Talk of the Day

The most powerful drug? It isn’t a white powder or a little red pill. It’s the scent still fresh on my pillow the night after a love affair.

There isn’t a chemical that can compare to the signature of infinite subtlety left behind on my sheets that when inhaled leaves me instantly drunk, swimming in euphoria, and drifting off to sleep with a silly grin.

I just shared my bed with someone new who left me a heroic dose so delicious that I’ve been walking around high for days.

This is trouble. I could easily get addicted.

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