Coke Talk Of The Day

I’m watching the debate, and it occurs to me that if you took the very best traits from each of the Republican candidates — Ron Paul’s integrity, Newt Gingrich’s guile, Mitt Romney’s looks, Rick Perry’s swagger, Michelle Bachmann’s vagina, and Rick Santorum’s tie — and then combined them into one über-Republican candidate, that asshole still couldn’t beat Obama.

I take comfort in that.

Coke Talk of the Year

I’ve decided that I’m officially done living in Hollywood. I haven’t picked which sunny corner of Los Angeles will be my new stomping ground, but then again, it was never about my zip code. When I say I’m done with Hollywood, what I really mean to say is, I’m done being a kid.

Hollywood was always a sandbox filled with glitter and the expensive toys of other children. This was the year I spent climbing out and dusting off my knees. It was long overdue. There hasn’t been a righteous good time in Hollywood for over a thousand nights, not since the big bubble burst and everyone’s ass fell out. That’s fine, though. These things are cyclical, and I lived it at a frothy peak.

The first decade of the new millennium had a thick, juicy center cut. I was a hot raging bitch during those middle years, a shimmering feral beast getting away with bloody murder back before bottle service was for tourists. Hollywood was different then. We were all stupid and beautiful, and everyone was rich or pretending to be. It was decadent and shady in ways that simply do not exist anymore. It sounds silly. Hell, it probably was, but if you powered through to the sunrise back then, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

I consider myself blessed and lucky to have danced around in all that shallow obscenity. It was ridiculous fun right up until it wasn’t, but now the party’s over. That’s not to say I’m done doing crazy shit. I’ll always stay hungry and foolish, and I still know better than to take any of this seriously, but I’m done playing around for its own sake. I’m ready for it to mean something now.

When I started this Coke Talk nonsense back in 2009, everyone in my world was at the tail end of a wild ride. I think I knew it then, and my instinct was to start writing it all down before the music stopped. Good thing, too. This shit kept me sane at all the funerals, and it kept me centered when friends started getting locked up or drifting away.

I’m not saying things suck now. Quite the opposite. It’s rough out there, but I like it this way. The zeitgeist is finally getting crisp. We’ve all toughened up these past few years, and an entire generation sloughed off its sense of entitlement. We’re lean and raw, and we can taste the impending social revolution like metal in our mouths.

I think that’s why I’m ready for a fresh view out my window. It’s time for a new chapter. It’s time to raise the stakes. I’m looking forward to whatever comes next with unironic optimism.

There are exciting times ahead, and I want to rise up and meet them.

Bring it the fuck on, 2012.

Coke Talk Of The Day



This is a 9mm bullet and a full bar of xanax I found in the sofa cushions on a photo shoot I was at a couple weeks ago.

It was funny at the time, so I snapped a quick pic and then promptly forgot about it until a few moments ago when this inadvertently became the “Key Photo” after importing all my Thanksgiving pics into iPhoto.

I was gonna change it, but upon reflection, I think this is the perfect image to represent my time spent at home with the family.


Coke Talk of the Day

I just unplugged for a solid week. No phone. No internet. No news. I may have been drunk with friends on a Mexican beach the whole time, but still, I haven’t been off the grid like that since grade school.

I’m back now, and taking it slow. My head is thick, my blood is sore, and it turns out the world is still full of assholes. For now, I’m just gonna watch some Jon Stewart and sort through a thousand emails.

Happy Holidays.

Coke Talk of the Day

Shit’s gone pear shaped in my little corner of paradise. Just this weekend alone, I’m dealing with a birthday, a wedding, and a suicide. Luckily, none of them are mine.

I miss being able to blast out all the craziness going on in my life. I wish I still could, but too many people are reading it now, and the days really are getting shorter.

Whatever. I’m leaving the country in forty-eight hours, and I’ll be gone for a sizable chunk of November. Maybe I’ll find a way to write it all down while I’m maid-of-honoring it up in Mexico. We’ll see.

In the meantime, I’m gearing up for tears of every flavor, and I don’t know whether to shit, go blind, or get my nails done.

See you after the roller coaster.

Coke Talk of the Day

Who else is watching the new season of Tough Love on VH1? Reality television is usually a guilty pleasure, but I’m not the least bit ashamed to admit I love that show. It’s female positive, Steve Ward is the real deal, and I’m genuinely rooting for those crazy bitches.

I actually got a dose of Steve’s tough love once. It was on a girls night out at Crown Bar back when that place was hot for a minute. He happened to be there, and we did one of those locked eyes from across the room things. We chatted for a bit, and being my usual smart-ass self, I told him, “You’re cute. Too bad you’re gay.”

That was definitely his button, because once I pushed it, he launched into Tough Love mode. It was awesome. He cornered me and started pouring on the relationship advice. If any other dude had tried that, I would have shredded his ass, but Steve in his usual way managed to be a total sweetheart.

He said I was hot, and that I could have my pick of guys, but I was too strong. Too mouthy. He called me a runner, and that the reason I hadn’t settled down was because I move too fast.

Duh, Steve.

Still, I appreciated that he took the time to dress me down. It was fun. At the end, we hugged it out, and to this day I’m a total fan. He really is a cutie.

Too bad he’s gay.

Coke Talk of the Day

I just finished watching the latest episode of Jersey Shore right after watching the republican debate in Iowa, and damn, those two shit shows have surprisingly similar casting:

Mitt Romney is The Situation. He’s an untrustworthy narcissist with way more money and screen time than he deserves.

Rick Santorum is Ronnie. He’s a total schmuck who makes terrible decisions and overcompensates for a tiny penis with confrontational behavior.

Tim Pawlenty is Pauly D. He’s a harmless grinning idiot that doesn’t cause much drama and no one takes too seriously.

Ron Paul is Vinny. He’s the sweet one who’s almost adorable until he opens his mouth, and then you realize that he’s just as ridiculous as all the others.

Newt Gingrich is Snooki. He’s a disgusting little goblin that repeatedly gets his ass kicked on the way out the door, yet somehow manages to stay relevant.

Michele Bachmann is Jwoww. She’s the hottest chick in the room, which isn’t saying much, and she’s damaged to the point where she can’t tell when she’s hooking up with a closeted gay dude.

Sarah Palin is Angelina. She’s not even officially part of the show, but she still manages to make appearances, and everyone fucking hates her.

Coke Talk of the Day

The first words out of my mouth this morning were into the hotel phone asking the front desk for a late checkout and for housekeeping to bring up some toothpaste.

There’s a mysterious can of Four Loko nestled next to liquor bottles by the mini bar. It’s unopened, which means that someone brought it with them last night and then changed their minds at the last minute. Probably for the better.

We are in the midst of ordering a hangover pizza to the room, and The Real Housewives of New York are cunting it up in the background. Pretty inexcusable, I know, but fuck it. My first meeting of the day isn’t until after lunch, so the weekend doesn’t end for a couple more hours.

Coke Talk of the Day

I finally rolled back into LA last night. Still recovering. I’ll be kinda stupid for the next forty-eight hours. Forgive my dumbfuckery.

Vegas was, well… Vegas. I finally got to see Bob Dylan live in concert. Amazing. Then came poolside at Morea and Wet Republic, dinners at Mesa and Nobu, and clubbing at Moon and XS, and of course, suites at the Palms and Hard Rock, where me and my stripper friends ended up blowing lines off passages of the hotel room bible (Proverbs 2:16-19, to be specific.)

Now comes the part where I cram a week’s worth of work into two days while I’m half retarded. Wheee!

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