First Encounters: Charlie Sheen in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off

My best friend from elementary school had an older brother with a motorcycle. The motorcycle isn’t at all relevant to this story, except to say that he was the first boy I ever met who had one. He also had a VHS cassette of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

We were little girls — way too young even to be watching a PG-13 movie by ourselves, but on the days when I would come to her house after school, my best friend’s mother didn’t give a shit what we stuck into the basement VCR as long as we didn’t bother her in the living room while she smoked cigarettes and drank pink wine during General Hospital.

It must have been dozens, but I honestly can’t remember how many times the two of us snuck down the stairs to watch her brother’s copy of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, my first of many John Hughes movies that made Chicago seem like a faraway land where the luckiest kids in the world got to go to a magical place called high school.

My best friend was obsessed with Sloane Peterson. That was fine with me, because I always thought Sloane was kind of boring. I was obsessed with Jeanie Bueller. (All you misunderstood brats out there know exactly what I’m talking about.) I wanted to be constantly scowling and still look super cute. I wanted my own room where everything was mauve and I had my own telephone. I wanted pretty much everything about her life, but what I really wanted most of all — like, more than anything else in the world — was to make out with a teenage delinquent Charlie Sheen on a police station bench.

Holy shit. To this day, when the camera pans off Jeanie’s look over to “boy in the police station,” it still gives my insides a little flutter. It’s an easily overlooked moment in a movie already crammed full of ridiculous hijinks, but damn, Charlie Sheen’s minor character in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off quietly established the foundational archetype for my life-long bad-boy fantasy.

That scene made me feel things, and I don’t mean emotionally. I mean physiologically. My reaction was chemical, and wow did it feel good. There was nothing overtly sexual about their interaction, but something about Sheen’s posture, his leather jacket, his mussed up hair, his literally “too cool for school” attitude — I was instantly and for the very first time a warm gooey pile of boy crazy.

I got such a thrill when later in the movie they cut back to the two of them making out on the police station bench. At the time, I hadn’t kissed any boys. Hell, that wasn’t even a thing yet, but I totally understood why Jeanie was suddenly acting so smitten, and I knew I wanted to feel that for myself.

Even now as an adult, when I watch the way Jennifer Grey projects her character’s sheer infatuation by goofball giggle-snorting her exit down the stairs, I still want to feel that. Every once in a while, I still do, and of course, whenever I get giddy over a boy, the theme music that plays in my head is “Ooo Shawna.”

(Read my First Encounters piece over at


The End Of An Era

RIP Power House

This breaks my fucking heart, you guys. The Power House was one of my all-time favorite dive bars in the world.

That joint was a legendary shit hole from way back in the days when nobody checked ID’s, you could still smoke in a fucking bar, and the neighborhood had some stank on it.

Even after Hollywood and Highland became the Times Square of the West Coast, the Power House still managed to stick to its low life roots, and I will definitely make it there to raise one last stiff-as-fuck well drink before the doors close forever next week.

Goodbye, Power House. You were a dirty alcoholic hooker who knew how to have a good time, and Hollywood will be that much worse without you.

What’s The Difference Between Steve Ballmer and Donald Sterling?

A quick disclaimer: I’m not much of a sports fan.

Actually, no. In the interests of full disclosure, I fucking loathe professional sports, but “I’m not much of a sports fan” is what I have to say in public so dudes don’t look at me like I’m a communist space alien who eats live puppies.

Point is, I do what I can in my day-to-day life to avoid getting any sports on the rest of my popular culture, but every once in a while, a story from that crass and pointless world comes along that is just too mythically preposterous to avoid.

Cue Donald Sterling.

I’ve lived in Los Angeles for well over a decade, and in all that time I was happy never knowing the name of the racist slumlord who owned the LA Clippers. In fact, if his tacky airhead of a mistress hadn’t grossly miscalculated the public’s lust for schadenfreude, I might very well have gone my entire life without ever learning of Donald Sterling’s existence.

Oh, well. Too late now. It’s been over a month since TMZ released that bizarre bit of eavesdropping, and Donald Sterling continues to be the nation’s devil du jour. I’m totally fine with that. Personally, I think the misogynistic gender dynamics on that recording between Mr. Sterling and Ms. Stiviano are far more insidious than all the hamfisted racism, but that’s an opinion for a different article.

Yes, Donald Sterling is easily hatable for all kinds of reasons, and it’s always nice to see a villain’s legacy go down in flames, but there’s something shady about this whole courtside coup d’état. I call shenanigans. It’s all just a little too convenient, and I’m sorry, but I can’t quite get comfortable with the way everyone is licking their lips and strapping on their knee pads to welcome former Microsoft CEO Steve Ballmer as the Clipper’s new owner.

All I keep seeing are stories about how Steve Ballmer is the perfect guy to buy the team with his “booming voice and energetic high-fives,” and how word on the street is that Clippers fans are embracing Ballmer as the team’s future owner. Of course, “word on the street” almost always means “carefully crafted public relations narrative,” but that’s beside the point.

There’s this sick notion being floated around that everything is okay now because the evil racist billionaire is out and the cuddly benevolent billionaire is in, and it’s such a steaming pile of bullshit. The idea that Steve Ballmer is somehow any less grotesque than Donald Sterling is absolutely ridiculous.

Both of these guys are villains. Hell, they’re practically caricatures of classic movie bad guys. Donald Sterling is a cartoonish composite of every corrupt string-pulling bossman from every Blaxploitation film ever made, and Steve Ballmer is the boring corporate version of every super-wealthy Bond villain since Blofeld.

Both men represent the very sinister realities of that rags-to-riches American dream an entire generation now knows to be a great lie built on a rigged and rigid class system with no real chance of any social mobility, a lie that nevertheless continues to unabashedly celebrate obscene levels of wealth inequality. We call these men moguls and magnates. We hold them up as paragons of achievement. In a nation of consumer capitalism, these men are considered American nobility, and yet they are anything but noble.

Donald Sterling’s personal character flaws turned out to be glaring under the harsh light of public scrutiny, but let’s not forget that Steve Ballmer has been hailed as the worst CEO ever. In a category teeming with avaricious sociopaths, he wasn’t even any good at his damn job. He founded nothing. He invented nothing. He added no value to the world whatsoever. It seems all he did during his tenure as Microsoft CEO was erode over $300 billion worth of market capitalization from what was once the greatest computer company in the world. Still, the genetic lottery winner who happened to share a sophomore dorm with Bill Gates managed to walk away with a net worth of $20 billion.

Sure, I guess that’s the kind of guy who’d be willing to pony up the gross domestic product of Greenland to be the latest spoiled billionaire with the ultimate status symbol. (Mega-yachts are so 2000. These days, it’s all about owning a professional sports team.) Still, why are we all supposed to be rooting for him? What’s in it for us, the general public? As per usual, absolutely nothing.

How about instead of all screaming, “Sterling bad. Ballmer good. Yay basketball!” let’s all take a step back and realize what’s really happening here: A buffoonish billionaire with money to burn is getting a shiny new toy, and a racist slumlord is making an obscene profit as a direct result of his disgusting behavior.

Dear Miley Cyrus



Dear Miley,

I know Dolly Parton is your godmother and all, but there’s a fine line between homage and outright plagiarism. You should be horrified that this quote — the crown jewel in Dolly Parton’s collection of shit-kicking, self-deprecating one-liners — is attributed to you.

This kind of bullshit bubble-gum intertextuality reeks of a crass and transparent desperation. Furthermore, it should be stated that no matter how hard you try to position yourself as heir apparent to Dolly’s country-crossover diva legacy, you will never — I repeat never — be the next Dolly Parton.

Stick to the smirking, self-reflexive exploitation of teenage rebellion thing you’ve got going. It seems to be working just fine.

Yours with a wrecking ball,

The Coquette


Coke Talk of the Morning

I just woke up from a vivid dream where Lindsay Lohan picked me up in a black Chevy Suburban. We both drove around a post-apocalyptic hellscape drinking coffee and patiently waiting our turn to rainbow mind-meld in preparation for battle with time-eaters from that one Steven King novel.

At one point, I had to jump out of the truck and rescue Shia LeBeouf before his downed airplane burst into flames. He sat comfortably in my lap in the front passenger seat like a napping toddler. It’s not that he was short. It’s more like he was 5/8 scale, a sort of miniature fighter pilot, still unconscious and wearing the exact same flight suit that George W. Bush wore for that aircraft carrier photo-op before his Mission Accomplished speech.

Anyway, Lindsay got jealous that I had a miniature Shia LeBeouf in my lap, and so she refused to rainbow mind-meld with me so we could continue our battle with the time-eaters. Instead, she pretended to spill her coffee, and I made a passive aggressive comment about her nails, despite the fact that the time-eaters were rapidly approaching and everything around us was being devoured into a haunted void of nothingness.

We sped away as fast as our Chevy Suburban could take us, all the while relaying back to central command that we weren’t engaging the enemy due to some petty drama over a boy. Central command wasn’t the least bit surprised.

Eventually, I awoke from this dream to find my television on mute and tuned to a Proactiv infomercial. It was oddly comforting. I actually laid there and watched it for quite some time without changing the channel or turning up the volume.

So yeah, I was supposed to go to the gym this morning, but instead I stayed in bed and dream journaled this stupid post.

Have a lovely day, everyone.

Coke Talk of the Day

Hatefuck Tuesday went a little awry. Not in the typical manner — nobody’s feelings got hurt or anything. (Feelings? Who the fuck has feelings?) No, this bit of angry afternoon delight got dirty the old fashioned way — he knocked my period loose a few days early.

You see, this guy isn’t really an ex. He’s just some self-absorbed asshole I dated for a hot minute longer than I otherwise would because he happens to have the biggest dick I’ve ever seen in my life.

I’m not a size queen, but even I appreciate the novelty of a cock that cartoonishly large. Truly, it is a fearsome thing to behold. It’s so big, every time he sticks it in it’s like getting fisted by Peter Dinklage.

Don’t ask me for exact dimensions. I don’t know them. I would never ask a big dicked man for his measurements in the same way I would never ask a famous person for an autograph. That’s a basic bitch move, and egos like that don’t deserve the satisfaction.

Anyways, he pounded me bloody. It’s like my cervix went three rounds with Mike Tyson. I completely ruined his sheets, which I consider an added bonus, because afterwards I just got up and left while he had to deal with cleaning up a crime scene.

It was glorious. I left my mark in every way possible, didn’t even say goodbye, and then drove through In-N-Out for a little hatefuck afterglow animal style indulgence.

Not a bad way to spend a lunch hour.

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