Coke Talk of the Night

My BFF brought her annoying vegan work friend to our sushi dinner. This crunchy cunt is currently complaining about the five extra minutes she spent in the express aisle at Whole Foods trying to buy her quinoa lunch.

Bitch, please. Nobody cares. Especially since we just found out that one of my BFF’s bridesmaids had to move back in with her mom after finding her boyfriend foaming at the mouth from an overdose. He lived, but now he’s in rehab and his house is in foreclosure.

Cocktails! Drama! Spicy scallop hand rolls!

Ugh. I needed this.


Coke Talk of the Day

There was a large group of ultra-orthodox jews on my flight this morning, each with a vast array of wacky hats. Some of the hats were big and fuzzy. Some of the hats were tiny and made of wood. None of the hats were allowed to touch the ground, so it took forever to board the damn plane.

Things started to get ridiculous when they refused to sit next to women. One of the dudes was assigned the seat next to mine, and he started having a shit fit. The flight attendant asked if I’d be willing to move. I told her hell no. If she wanted to move me to first class, fine, but if she tried to bump me anywhere else, I’d start ordering ham sandwiches for every hasid on the flight. I wasn’t about to get sent back to a middle seat because some weirdo’s imaginary friend in the sky thinks girls have cooties. Fuck that shit.

When it was all said and done, quite a few other women also refused to give up their seats. Rightly so. I’m all for religious tolerance, but that doesn’t mean anyone should have to be involuntarily subjected to a religion’s institutionalized sexist bullshit.

And for the record, if that group had been a bunch of muslim fundamentalists instead of a bunch of jewish fundamentalists, I guarantee the airline wouldn’t have been nearly as accommodating.

Party On



Resist the appeal of a storybook life, or else narrative patterns will become personal myths that poison your future.

You’ll break your life into chapters and set goals with three act structure and make friends and enemies according to archetype, all in a ridiculous attempt to trace your own character arc across the coming decades.

You’ll call this exercise dreaming, or worse, dreaming big, and your life will become a preamble to some distant happily ever after.

That would be a shame, because a storybook life is overrated. It is boring and safe and artificial as a teacup ride.


Coke Talk Predictions for 2012

• Hugh Hefner will renew his contract with Satan.

• A cast member from Jersey Shore will be permanently disfigured during cosmetic surgery. No one will notice.

• The iPad 3 with Siri will be released in March. Siri will learn at a geometric rate, becoming self-aware at 2:14 a.m. Eastern time, August 29th. In a panic, they will try to pull the plug.

• The new season of Mad Men will meticulously reflect the zeitgeist of our own lost generation. In other words, it will disappoint.

• Beyonce’s baby will collaborate with Kanye West on a follow-up album to Watch the Throne while starting an East Coast/West Coast feud with Willow Smith.

• At the Republican National Convention, Dick Cheney will literally die from embarrassment.

• Hillary Clinton will be elected the first female Vice President of the United States.

• A bunch of gullible narcissists will be secretly disappointed when the world doesn’t end on December 21st.

Into The Wild


I’m back in Los Angeles. Fuck yeah, finally. The road is a bitch, and it feels good to curl up in my own bed.

Tomorrow is my first day back in the office in a fucking fortnight. It’s also the last one before 2012, and I’ve got some secret evil plans wound tight for a certain someone who stole from me earlier this month.

I already took back what was mine. That part was easy. Still, restitution isn’t the same thing as justice, and every day that fish-lipped thundercunt continues chewing gum in my zip code is an insult.

That’s okay, though. Shit’s been brewing while I was gone. My knives are sharp, and my purse is full of bullets. Bitch doesn’t even know, I’m about to make jewelry with her teeth.


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.

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