The half-life of whatever chemical was in those pills may require measurement in phases of the moon. Coming to grips with the quiet likelihood that I will never cease being this high.
Also, savoring the notion that at this very moment, millions of otherwise sane adults are getting dressed to go to church. It’s almost sad that they will never feel the kind of bliss that I’m feeling right now.
First off, let me just say thank you. You guys are fucking awesome.
I wanted to take a quick second to tell you how much I appreciate you sending in your questions — from the whacked-out lunatic diatribes to the heartfelt and intimate personal dilemmas, I love ‘em all.
When I first started Dear Coke Talk, I could take my time answering every single question that popped into my inbox. Today, I officially gave up the last shred of hope that I would ever be able to keep up.
What was at first dozens quickly became many hundreds, and now I’m faced with a mountain of questions — good ones — that will never be answered.
I still read them all, but from here on out it’s pretty much random chance which ones I end up answering.
That’s not to say I don’t want to hear from you. By all means, keep sending in your questions.
Just know that this is something I do when I’m killing time at work or recovering from a night of debauchery. It’s not my full time job, so if I haven’t answered your question, it sure as hell isn’t personal.
Thanks again for writing, and stay wild!
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.
I just spent a long, decadent weekend in Malibu celebrating the birthdays of four very close friends. I don’t know why I always end up surrounded by Leos, but a suspiciously large cluster of my inner-circle was born in mid-August.
One of the birthday boys made a shit ton of dot-com cash back in the day, so he and his wife have a ridiculous house at the very tip-top of Las Flores Canyon. It’s one of those rare places where you have the holy trinity of naked fun — a heated pool, a spectacular view, and total privacy.
Now, when I say very close friends, I mean very close. There are about a dozen of us, and we all have the kind of relationship that most folks could never understand. If I even tried to explain it to my workaday friends, my tongue would get tangled trying to describe the love and respect we all share, and then I’d have to suffer the indignity of watching their eyes go wide in judgement when I let it slip about the sex.
Yes, we all fuck, and it’s wonderful.
We share endless sweaty, slippery hours of blissed-out orgiastic fun, and then we all sit around the dining room table and have bacon, eggs, and bloody marys. It’s fucking great.
My vanilla friends are constantly asking me why I’m single, and my canned answer is that I’m picky. The whole truth is that I’m not willing to give up the good times I have with these friends, and it’s surprisingly difficult to find a man emotionally intelligent enough to handle it.
You’d think more guys would be self-aware enough to recognize that fresh attraction to the opposite sex is dictated by biological imperative. But no, most guys are in a constant struggle — to cheat or not to cheat — and it never occurs to them that in order to cheat, you have to accept a set of rules before you can break them.
Why accept the rules? It’s so much healthier to simply reject the underlying premise of the assumption.
Monogamy and fidelity are not the same thing.
It’s such a simple statement, but there is so much freedom in it — monogamy and fidelity are not the same thing. Being true and faithful in your relationship has no inherent connection to how many sexual partners you have. The connection is artificial.
What am I suggesting here? Well, it’s not all that prurient. Really, it’s about integrity and strength — the integrity to be totally open and honest in a relationship, and the strength to allow yourself and your partner to pursue happiness wherever it may be found.
Why should I care if my man has some fun, sexual or otherwise, with another girl? Why should he care if I do the same? It would be naive and egotistical of me to think that I could satisfy every emotional and physical need of another person, and yet under the traditional monogamous paradigm, that’s exactly what is expected.
The healthiest relationships I’ve ever known are those based on unwavering mutual respect and the kind of gut-level honesty that most folks can’t handle. Add to that an intelligent, emotionally healthy habit of saying “yes” instead of “no” to your partner whenever possible, and suddenly you find yourself open to all kinds of possibilities.
It’s not for everybody, I suppose — but it’s too late for me. I can’t imagine life any other way.
I don’t believe in role models, I don’t have any heroes, and I treat fame like it’s a fucking venereal disease. Ask anyone in this town with real money or power, and they’ll whisper a dirty little truth — privacy has a higher street value than fame.
Aside from a few superficial novelties, being famous offers little in the way of real benefit. Notoriety is just a marketing tool, and at the end of the day if you’re not selling anything that makes the world a better place, then you’re just clogging up the drain.
I’m not talking about girls with an overt talent. Certain professions come packaged with fame, and if you’re a gifted artist then good luck and go with god. I’m talking about scene-queens, “it” girls, and fameballs who crave any hollow attention that can be found in front of a lens.
Whenever I see a new fame-hungry girl pop onto the scene, my emotional reflex is pity. It’s like watching somebody slam heroin for the first time. No matter how happy they look, you know they’re totally fucked.
My next instinct is to peer through the heat, look past the pretty, and find out who the real genius is behind the style. For every attention whore, there is always a smarter, more talented girl quietly making the fame possible — Audrey Kitching has Evey Rothstein, Cory Kennedy has Charlotte Ronson, and Julia Allison has David Karp.
When it comes time to get down and dirty, the girl-behind-the-girl is always the one you want to party with. They’ve got better stories, better drugs, and better things to do. These are bitches who manipulate fame like carnival fire-breathers, and yet they respect the value of personal privacy.
And don’t get me wrong — I’m not a hater. Audrey, Cory, and Julia are just off-the-top-of-my-head examples. I find them entertaining as hell, and I have nothing bad to say about any of them. Audrey seems to have parlayed some junior-level starfucking into a pretty decent gig, Cory is a total sweetheart, and I think Julia will eventually find her true path by settling down with a bald Jewish lawyer and adopting a Chinese baby in the series finale.
My larger point is simple. In an era where style is substance in and of itself, check your sources before you get enamored with the window display.
Don’t confuse the mannequins for their maker.
I am wild. I am not crazy. There is a difference.
The stupid can’t see the difference, the inhibited deny the difference, and the authorities just don’t give a fuck about the difference — but the difference is everything.
Wild or crazy. At the extremes of sex, drugs, and rock and roll — anything worth doing, really — you’ll find only these two flavors. They are the chocolate and vanilla of passion. The yin and yang of sin.
Wild explores. Crazy escapes.
Wild is beautiful. Crazy is broken.
Wild seeks enlightenment. Crazy seeks annihilation.
Know the difference. Be aware of the difference. Embrace wild, and send crazy packing.
Savor a savage fuck. Sample a heroic dose. Enjoy any raw and filthy moment of human vulnerability your heart desires, but always ask yourself: are you consciously seeking enlightenment or are you seeking to annihilate your consciousness?
If you don’t know the answer, get the fuck out of the room.
If you’re trying to escape, stop what you’re doing. Get help.
If you’re trying to explore, smile with your soul and take every inch of the experience as deeply as you possibly can.
And no matter what, don’t fucking judge — blowing a fat line of cocaine off a rock hard cock in a Vegas bathroom can be just as valid an exploration of consciousness as dropping acid in the desert with a tantric drum circle of naked hippies.
You don’t need to be burning incense for it to qualify as a religious experience.
You don’t even need a god.
All you need is a brain and a battle-cry:
Bitch, be wild. Don’t be crazy.
Jim Henson should make my pussy into a muppet. My pussy would be called The Rainbow Connection, and she would have a little tampon sidekick named Rag who’d be just like Beeker.
My pussy would be part of the original cast of the Muppet Show and would not live on Sesame Street, because that would be weird.
My pussy would have an on again/off again relationship with Animal, because my pussy likes drummers, and you know that crazy little bastard gives gives good felt.
Kermit would confess that my pussy is the reason he learned to play the banjo.
I am so fucked up right now.