Dear Jessica Bari


Dear Jessica Bari,

I understand the appeal of working from your bed, but it’s kinda difficult to get any good writing done with your vagina all over the keyboard like that.

Perhaps that’s why you found it necessary to plagiarize whole swaths of my fun-sized advice from Dear Coquette. Honestly, did you really think that someone wouldn’t eventually notice?

Every single one of your TMI Tuesdays posts are riddled with both questions and answers lifted directly from my site. Naturally, you changed a few of the bigger words so as not to seem too smart. (That was on purpose, right?) And of course, you mixed in a few original thoughts to keep things less interesting. Clever as you tried to be, the theft is still plainly evident.

Oh, Jessica. What to do with you now?

Obviously, you’re a fan — and hey, I appreciate it — but if you’d been paying any attention at all, you’d know I don’t take kindly to people stealing my work. Last time it happened, a girl named Brianna tried to pass off my advice as her own, and I brought the hammer down so hard and fast that she fell off the face of the fucking internet.

You on the other hand, well, I just don’t know. It seems you have a thriving life coaching business to maintain where you teach fellow sociopaths how to “Rationalize Anything.” That or you’re using your masters degree in family counseling to do what appears to be softcore webcam modeling. Either way, I don’t expect you’re the type who’ll take down your website just because you got caught being completely full of shit.

So, here’s what I propose: Take the rest of the week to comb through each of your TMI Tuesdays posts and remove every last one of the questions and answers that you lifted directly from my site.

Once that’s done, I’d like you to sit at your keyboard (be sure and wipe it down first) and compose a written apology for trying to pass off my work as yours. Please use your own words, and then submit it to me over at Dear Coquette. (Clearly, you’ve been there before.)

Finally, don’t ever pull this kind of shit again. You may think that anything goes these days, but this is the fucking internet. You can’t get away with plagiarism.

Good luck with the whole life coaching thing.

Yours in rationalization,

The Coquette


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.)

It’s still dark outside.

There’s a trick to waking up in Los Angeles before the sun rises.

Take a moment to look out over the city. Center yourself on the downtown skyline shimmering in the distance, and focus on the low hum that radiates upward from the palm trees. The resonant frequency of the urban sprawl is the closest thing to silence you’ll hear for the rest of the day, and for some reason, it’s peaceful.

Los Angeles is benevolent at this hour. You feel totally alone and hyperaware of your insignificance, but it’s soothing, and in that moment before the horizon fades from black ink to blue, it’s just you and the city.

At almost any other time of day, Los Angeles stares back at you with total fucking indifference, but if you take a deep breath during one of these quiet pre-dawn moments, you can make eye contact with something out there, and it will make you feel like you belong.

Consider the Alternative




Do you ever feel like changing that image of Britney holding a baby bottle? You’ve come a long way since Coke Talk.

Yeah, well. You gotta consider the alternative.



Lazy Bullshit



Ugh. This lazy bullshit has all the artistic merit of a low-rent “Dirty Debutantes” porn shoot. The only difference between Terry Richardson and actual pornographers like Ed Powers is the dwindling cultural relevance ascribed to him by his proximity to celebrity.

And Miley? We get it. You’re a wild child now. Whoop-de-fuckin’-do. At least the girls who do gonzo porn have the courage to fuck on camera, so until you’re sticking out that tongue to catch a load in your face, I’m not impressed with all your silly pretending. (Oh, and thanks for reminding us that Arizona Grapeade is for white trash.)

Fuck all this stupid nonsense.


Jacob & Emma



Hey Coke Talk!

Hope 2013 has been treating you well…just wanted to let you know that we are still reading and still out here making things happen, but all the while, keeping your motto in mind (see attached picture from our 2nd anniversary).

Thank you again from the bottom of our hearts for writing our wedding vows. They hold just as true today as they did the day we said them. We are building a wonderful life together as absolute best fucking friends, and our marriage has been more fucking awesome than we could ever imagine.

Cheers and love and all good things,

Jacob & Emma

Holy shit, you two are sickeningly adorable. I can’t believe it’s been two years already. Thank you for this!


Pulp Fiction Sequel



I’m in the mood to write a present-day sequel to Pulp Fiction centered around Butch and Fabienne’s nineteen year old daughter.

Her name would be Emmanuelle, and the main story would revolve around her cross-country revenge quest to retrieve her father’s gold watch after it is stolen off his arm the day he’s murdered during a robbery at his Big Kahuna franchise in Knoxville, Tennessee.

Jules, still on his righteous path to “walk the earth,” becomes Emmanuelle’s unlikely mentor as she learns about her father’s shady past, and her journey of self-discovery turns into a bloody rampage through the streets of Los Angeles when she figures out how Butch’s murder is linked to Marcellus Wallace’s crumbling criminal empire.

She eventually finds the watch (a potent symbol of the American Dream, each generation sacrificing to pass it on as a birthright.) Of course, she finds it damaged beyond repair and realizes that it’s just a useless hunk of metal she never even wanted in the first place.

It all works out in the end when Mia Wallace, now a powerful TV executive, offers Emmanuelle a role in the remake of Fox Force Five.


Pacific Road Trip



1. In the interest of getting the fuck out of Los Angeles as quickly as possible, I took the 5 up through the Central Valley. It’s an ugly drive, but I made great time. Crashed with friends in Marin. Grilled out. Smoked out. Passed out. I got a lazy start the next day, but finally made it up the 101 through redwoods and rocky beaches to Oregon.


2. Woke up early and went whitewater jet boating through the Rogue River wilderness. The day was wet and majestic. I saw punk-as-fuck bald eagles, a goofball sea lion, a herd of elk, an adorable family of otters, a ridiculous pile of turtles, and most amazingly, a deer and a bear eating berries out of the same briar patch. Fuckin’ nature, man.


3. Digs at the Jupiter Motel. Dinner at Doug Fir. Drinks at Union Jacks, where I got hit on by a dreadlocked lesbian stripper named Pantera who swore it was her real name. (Her mom apparently had a thing for/with Phil Anselmo.) The next morning, I brunched at Pine State Biscuits and briefly attended the Soapbox Derby at Mount Tabor Park as my Portland-flavored ironic hipster experience. I walked into Powell’s and signed a copy of my book, which felt like checking an item off my bucket list. After dinner and drinks at Clyde Common at the Ace Hotel, I felt like I’d done Portland properly.


4. Scored a last-minute room at the Crater Lake Lodge. (That never happens. They made me promise not to tell anyone.) Ate a weed krispie treat and hiked down to the bottom of Crater Lake in my Chanel sandals (definitely not the recommended footwear.) Fully clothed and high as fuck, I jumped off the cliff rock into the freezing cold lake. It was baptismal. The jump was terrifying, the water was delicious, and the plunge was the most refreshing thing I’ve ever felt in my life. I got to watch the sunset over the rim during the hike back up, and there was a roaring fire waiting for me back at the lodge where I feasted on bison and a bottle of pinot noir.


5. The lake was too beautiful. I needed a buffer of ugliness and shit before heading back to Los Angeles, so I decided to poison myself by driving to Reno. It worked. I tried to get in the mood to play a little blackjack, but all I could do was smoke a few cigarettes and watch morbidly obese gamblers feed bills into the Dolly Parton themed slot machines. I nearly choked on the metaphor.


6. The drive through the Sierras was gorgeous. I wasn’t quite ready to go home yet, so I pulled off at Mammoth, rented a little motor boat for twenty bucks, and got caught in the rain out in the middle of Lake Mary. It felt like the perfect way to end my trip. The rest of the drive was one long exhale as the mountain range receded into urban sprawl.


Page 18 of 56« First...10...1617181920...304050...Last »