Coke Talk Of The Day

dentist

 

I heard my dentist say, “Oops!” then walk out the room nervously. The assistant came in to take another X-ray, and after a few minutes of staring into the illuminated palm trees on the ceiling that made me eerily crave a Corona with lime, I was informed in vague language that there might be a problem.

Great. I’ve been around enough doctors to know that when they start speaking in the passive voice, that means they’ve suddenly become wary of liability. This dude just fucked something up, and he didn’t want to freak me out about it.

Little did he know I had enough Xanax coursing through my bloodstream that he could’ve informed me the hole he just drilled into my tooth had opened up an evil portal across the 8th dimension, and I would have just smiled and said, “Laugh while you can, monkey-boy!”

No, instead he told me that something or other cracked and blah-blah-blah next to the bone and blah-blah-blah it’s probably not a big deal, but I’m gonna refer you to an endodontist.

Okay, dude. Whatever. Just give me a few of those big white pills, don’t send me a bill, and I won’t sue you. That sounds like a fair deal, right?

Anyways, now my whole week is about this one tooth. On the bright side, I won’t be in any pain, and not being able to chew is a great reason to go on a juice cleanse.

 

Coke Talk Of The Day

I’m frazzled and fried. Clocks are meaningless, and the sun is playing hard to get.

Jet lag is so much worse when all the drug residue is still squishing out of my squash. I have a raging case of sausage fingers, my brain is full of dryer lint, and my body can’t decide which hole to bleed from.

The good news is that my new dental insurance just kicked in, and in my infinite wisdom, I scheduled an appointment on the first Monday of the new year for someone to literally take a drill to my skull.

I can’t decide if that was being a responsible adult, or if the 2013 version of me was just playing a cruel joke on my 2014 self.

Coke Talk of the Day

I stayed in last night. Didn’t want to be in public. Turns out it was for the best, because Avicii headlined at the Hollywood Bowl. It was madness down there. Aside from the usual traffic related fuckery, the streets of Hollywood were choked with insufferable euro-trash freaks. Much more so that usual. (Your honor, in my defense, the German tourist I ran over with my car was wearing tripp pants and a neon mesh shirt.)

Ugh. The worst part was that Avicii closed his show with fireworks. (I guess eardrum-shattering pyrotechnics are necessary if you want to distract a bunch of idiots from the fact that they paid eighty bucks to watch a teenager with no musical talent hit play on his iPod for an hour and a half.) I wasn’t there, but fuck, I didn’t need to be. Anyone within a two mile radius of the Bowl was treated to a series of sudden and unexpected explosions in the sky.

Normally that kind of thing is no big deal. I love fireworks, but last night I wasn’t prepared. When they went off, the reptilian part of my brain instantly processed the percussive staccato as gunfire. Fucking hell. A fraction of a second later, my conscious mind realized what the sound really was, but it was too late. That’s the nature of a trigger. It’s not rational, and it’s not something you can control.

For those of you who are familiar with PTSD related panic attacks, you’ll know what I mean when I say I already knew that I was fucked. There’s a certain walking dead phase before the physical symptoms of a panic attack set in where a tiny part of your conscious mind is fully aware that you’ve been betrayed by your own subconscious.

You know what’s coming, but there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. You try to breathe your way through it. You try to outmaneuver your sympathetic nervous system with calm thoughts. You try and pretend that you’ll be fine, but that’s not the way it works.

I can’t remember if this is something I’ve written about before. I doubt it, but it’s one of those things I carry with me. It’s not quite emotional baggage. It’s more physiological baggage from a violent event in my past that involved three men with guns to my head.

I don’t care to talk about it more than that except to say that guns and gunfire are a trigger for me. Not all the time. I’m not a skittish little bunny rabbit, but it’s something that I know might happen. Part of the reason I own a gun and regularly go shooting is because the activity has legitimate therapeutic value for me. I’m not afraid of guns, but a panic attack isn’t about that kind of timid, nervous fear most people associate with being afraid.

A panic attack is fear. It’s a savage orgasm of distilled terror that is almost indescribable to someone who’s never experienced it. The physical symptoms are horrifyingly real. My arms and legs turn into cold, shaking rubber. All the warm important stuff inside the center of my chest constricts, and with every shallow gulping breath, it dares my heart to stop beating. Every fiber in my being screams for me to call 911 and tell them I’m dying, but I’ve learned that if you do that, they’ll actually show up.

Last night’s was relatively mild compared to some. I was able to whack myself in the head with a double dose of xanax before the worst of it could render me a sobbing pile of shit. Goddamn, that stuff is a miracle drug. Actually, I think it’s still in my system, because I woke up this morning feeling absolutely peachy.

That’s probably the strangest part of a panic attack. It ends. Quite suddenly, as if nothing ever happened. Afterwards you’re left to sit in a puddle of your own sweat during a benzodiazapine-induced refractory period where you feel perfectly fucking fine. Never mind that mere moments before your heart was pumping hot black oil and your brain was on fire.

I used to think the sharp contrast between the panic and the calm was somehow profound, but these days I just let myself fall asleep. Fuck having deep thoughts after that kind of petrifying bullshit.

Gun Talk of the Day

My little gun nut made good on his promise. I’ve been featured as the “quote of the day” on his blog, The View From North Central Idaho: Ramblings on explosives, guns, politics, and sex by a redneck farm boy who became a software engineer.

Yeah. I’ll let that description speak for itself.

Joe and I sit on opposite sides of the ideological fence. That much is obvious. I call him a wingnut. He calls me a liberal. Both of us are proud to be labeled as such. He didn’t quite use the word, but you can tell that he very much wants to call me a Nazi. He thinks I completely ignore the concept of rights, which he says, “is how governments end up murdering millions of their own people.”

This little Reductio ad Hitlerum speaks volumes about the kind of world view we’re dealing with here. When I call a guy like Joe myopic, I am specifically referring to his inability to focus on the greater good. Joe doesn’t disagree. He actively spits out the concept of “the greater good” as distasteful. He hears that phrase and immediately calls it “the ever present excuse for genocide.”

It’s hard to have a rational conversation with someone like this. Joe’s rabid libertarianism makes him blind to any ethical concept that extends beyond the limited scope of individual rights. Joe puts individual liberty above all other kinds. Individual freedom is the only freedom he recognizes. He interprets any argument that involves the public good as a slippery slope to Nazi Germany.

This refusal to acknowledge the practical implications of life in a cooperative society is the single greatest shortcoming of Joe’s world view. There’s just no reasoning with a man who sees the greater good as an inherent evil.

That’s fine. The view from North Central Idaho is bound to look different than the view from the Hollywood Hills. What Joe considers rugged individualism, I consider puerile selfishness. What I see as a sensible position on gun control, Joe sees as tyrannical fascism. We have a fundamental philosophical disagreement about the role of government as it relates to the social contract, and neither of us is going to change the other’s mind.

Still, the most ridiculous part of this whole conversation is that I don’t want to ban guns. My position on gun control is about as centrist as it gets. Hell, I own a gun, and I wouldn’t want to live in a society where I couldn’t. Nevertheless, Joe thought my opinions were a threat. He felt it necessary to come at me with his wingnut opinions blazing.

Well, you know what? I shoot back. I’ll put my .357 Magnum mind against his .22 caliber opinions any damn day of the week. If Joe wants to hit me with a rational argument against centralized firearm registration and mandatory liability insurance, I’m open to it. He just can’t keep screaming tyranny or equating guns to bibles and expect me to take him seriously.
(If you have something to add to the conversation, feel free to leave your comments on Joe’s blog. Keep your shit crisp and on point. The wingnuts may be infuriating, but let’s not let our side be the one to devolve into cheap ad hominem attacks.)

Schadenfreude of the Day

A conspicuous number of the married couples in my life are starting to get divorced. This isn’t a surprise. It’s right on schedule.

I called it years ago. I knew this shit would happen at a ridiculously high rate to all my idiot friends who got married between 2008 and 2010, especially the ones coasting on the fumes of their extended adolescence right as the economy took a shit all over their dreams. You know, the clueless souls who didn’t have anything better to do with their lives, so they figured they’d solve all their problems with a bunch of big dumb weddings.

I spent three years biting my tongue in a bridesmaid dress, letting everyone have their temporary high, hoping against hope that none of my friends got knocked up before the novelty wore off and they finally woke up one morning horrified at the thought of spending the next half century with the first one-night-stand who bought them breakfast.

Well, that morning has long since past, and the forces of matrimonial inevitability have brought forth the great crumbling of 2013. It’s ugly out there, and if I danced to that godforsaken Jason Mraz song at your wedding, it’s safe to assume your marriage is fucked.

It’s the kind of thing that would be funny if it weren’t so sad, because these days when a marriage implodes that shit turns into an interactive social media soap opera. I’ve spent hours looking over my BFF’s shoulder witnessing the intimate, gory details of divorce splayed out on public timelines that read like a Nora Ephron screenplay in reverse.

Not to sound terribly voyeuristic, but this is the first time I’ve ever really been tempted to sign myself back up for Facebook.

Horrible, I know, but I’m a sucker for tragic comedies.

Fuck Sleep

It’s five in the morning. Still dark outside, and I’ve given up on the possibility of going back to sleep. Three hours is enough, right? Right. At least I can read a few emails in the relative silence of the dawn.

One of my internet friends who calls me her Tyler Durden wrote to tell me that she spilled half a bag of blow into the bottom of her vintage bag. It was, as she puts it, a big white mess. (I’m assuming she’s talking about the bag.) I like getting her emails. They are comforting. She doesn’t ask questions so much as she updates me on her life, which is mostly fabulous and occasionally a trainwreck. Good times.

Someone else just wrote in with the following line: “your so annoying you only write back to the shit that you know you will sounds the most intelligent answering.” Well, duh. I’m glad there’s some random fuckface out there in the world annoyed with my intelligence at this ungodly hour. That gives me the warm and fuzzies.

I think I’ll go start my day now. The sun is starting to come up, and I have a doctor’s appointment in a few hours. Should be fun.

It’s good to type this shit out.

I’m hurting pretty badly right now. I’ve been dealing with the 10th anniversary of a traumatic event, one that fucked me up and dramatically altered the course of my life.

Ten years. The anniversary snuck up on me. I didn’t see it coming until it was too late, and it fucking clobbered me. I spent the weekend partying with old friends, trying to annihilate myself, knowing full well none of it would make me feel any better or any less.

The party’s over now, and I’m alone in my room watching Nurse Jackie re-runs and crying my eyes out. I guess I’m writing this down just to prove to myself that I know what’s going on in my head, that I have a name for it, that I know empirically all the causes and reasons.

Not that it matters. A rational explanation for all this pain won’t help make it go away. I just have to feel this shit and move on.

It’s hard, though. The worst part is that I feel ashamed to be hurting like this. It’s not the better part of my nature, but I’m angry at myself. This is weakness, and I’m supposed to be stronger than this. I’m supposed to be over this already.

Ugh. I hate feeling broken.

Coke Talk of the Day

I’m sick and tired of all the speculation about what Kim and Kanye might name their baby. If those two media whores were honest about their process, they would just up and sell the naming rights to the highest bidder.

The end result wouldn’t be any worse than the stupid shit they’d come up with, and quite frankly, I think “MasterCard presents Starbucks Kardashian-West” has a nice ring to it.

Spring Breakers is a mythical allegory with a raging case of neon herpes.

Early on, I said the movie was going to be an epic poem, an Odyssey of American trash culture. I was damn close.

Structurally, it bears a striking resemblance to Dante’s Inferno. Each of the nine circles of hell are represented in almost perfect descending order — limbo, lust, gluttony, greed, anger, heresy, violence, fraud, and finally treachery.

I have more to say about the film and its layers, but I don’t want to spoil anything before the wide release.

Coke Talk of the Day

In the spirit of Harmony Korine’s “Spring Breakers” and Sophia Coppola’s “The Bling Ring,” I’d like to make a pseudo-intellectual exploitation film about American trash culture.

It would be loosely based on the sick fuck life of Hunter Moore, and it would star Corey Feldman in his comeback role as a repulsive anti-hero for a whole new generation.

I’d get some sick bastard like David Cronenberg or Jonas Akerlund to direct, and I’d just let everyone go nuts. If we did it right, we’d be lucky to even get an NC-17 rating.

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