According to the Village Voice, @coketweet is number three.
Remember when you were a kid, no impulse control whatsoever, unable to resist even the slightest temptation to fuck shit up?
Remember the first time in your life you got your grubby little hands on the volume knob of a gut-thumping stereo as it blasted your favorite dance song?
Remember how you thought that by jerking that volume knob along with the beat you were somehow imparting your own whomping thrust into the rhythm of the music?
Yeah. That’s dubstep.
— My answer when asked what I think of Charlie Sheen.
So I’ve been loving this song for a few days now, and I thought I’d share it. I heard Mellencamp sing it the other weekend, and it got me. I’m kind of a sucker for ballads that manage to turn a rear view mirror on life without being drippingly sentimental.
Besides, this shit was so good live. Seriously, it was gorgeous. That’s no surprise, really. A man doesn’t make twenty-five albums without having something worth saying about the human condition, and Radio City Music Hall was the perfect room to hear a legend like John Mellencamp hurl out every last ounce of his soul.
In all my trips to New York, I’d never been to Radio City. Lemme tell ya, that joint was a candy store for an architecture whore like me. Art Deco was dripping out of every nook and cranny. My friends think I’m crazy, but I still haven’t stopped talking about the original foot pedal hand dryers in the woman’s lounge.
It was a New York crowd, a lot of industry types and hipsters pretending to be there ironically. There were only a few hardcore fans scattered throughout the hall, and to their credit, they were the ones doing their level best to swill beer like it was a fairground in Bloomington.
There wasn’t an opening act. Instead, they screened “It’s About You,” a documentary about John shot entirely on Super 8 film that set the gritty, foot-tapping tone for the music we were about to hear.
The band was a well-greased machine. Bacon grease, with a side of hot damn. You could tell they’ve been jamming together for decades, and it was hard not to be impressed by the general badassery of Miriam Sturm, the fiddle playing Tinkerbell who zigged and zagged around the stage rocking the fuck out.
Naturally, Mellencamp owned the room. Dude sang with perfect pitch, and even though his voice sounded like he gargles with charcoal briquettes, it all still came out sounding like honey.
Some things are just timeless, ya know?
Facebook just broke up with me in an email. No joke. At first, I thought it was spam: “Hi, your personal account was recently disabled by Facebook.”
Turns out, they really do send corporate fortune cookie emails upon summarily detaching you from the matrix and shitting you out of the machine world.
Not that they asked me first, but apparently, they don’t believe that my real name is Coke Talk. What a shame, because that’s a violation of their ridiculous credo:
“Facebook is built around real world interactions. Operating under an alias detracts from the value of the system as a whole. Users who operate under fake names are also prone to abuse. We take this standard very seriously and remove fake accounts as we become aware of them.”
Honestly, good riddance. I’ve always loathed Facebook. There was a time when it was a necessary evil, but not anymore. This bullshit is my official tipping point. I’ve had enough of Zuckerberg’s hideous blue and white monster. I’m out.
Not only do I refuse to start new a Facebook account for Coke Talk, but I’m deleting my real life account too. I’m tired of all the digital trespass. I’m tired of all the cursory acquaintanceship. It’s a fucking burden not worth the upkeep and not nearly worth the potential embarrassment.
I encourage every last one of you who know what I’m talking about to join me. If you’ve ever considered brushing aside that tangled web of bullshit, deactivate your account as well.
Start the trend. I promise, you won’t regret it. Fuck ‘em where they live.
Facebook has been little more than an irrelevant intrusion for the last couple years anyway, and now that it’s blown its mythological load with the big movie, I officially declare Facebook to be done and done.
Mark my words, The Social Network is gonna sweep the Academy Awards next weekend. That will represent Facebook sucking its last remaining drops of cultural significance out of the zeitgeist. It’s all downhill after the Oscars.
Sure, it’ll take a few years for the empire to crumble, but eventually even the red state dial-up crowd will realize they’ve been masturbating to the yellow pages for the last half decade.
In the meantime, I’ve got much better ways to play around on the internet.
So do you.
I love this so much. Nothing makes me happier than offending people who use frowny face emoticons.
Listen up, all you lovers and fuckers. I’ve got some killer news. I’m pleased to announce that I’ve been tapped to be the advice columnist for The Daily, Rupert Murdoch’s new iPad newspaper.
That’s right. I done sold the fuck out to the man.
I’ll be writing a Wednesday and Sunday column in the Arts & Life section called Dear Coquette that will be every bit as shady as Dear Coke Talk. It’s great. Not only do I get to stay anonymous, but they really are letting me do whatever the hell I want.
If you don’t have an iPad, now you gotta reason to go get one. If you do have an iPad, download The Daily app. Do it now. Don’t worry, it’s free for the first two weeks, and after that it’s only 99 cents a week. You know I’m worth it, bitches.
Go ahead, read my shit in today’s special Valentine’s edition. It’s a column about laziness, monogamy, and hot MILF action. Good times.
Just so you all know, I’m about to hop on a plane to New York City for fashion week. I’m gonna take a few days off from the blogs while I’m whore talking it up around Manhattan, but don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.
Happy V Day, bitches.
My cab driver on the ride from the airport was Hosni Mubarak’s doppelganger in a soccer jersey. I didn’t waste much time before asking him if I could smoke. “Fourteen dollar,” he said.
“It’s fourteen dollars to smoke?”
“Yes, yes. They fine here, but fourteen dollar and you can smoke.”
I gave him a smirk. “I appreciate your take on capitalism, but that’s cool. I can wait.” We chatted for a few more seconds, just small talk about the city, the weather, and the usual opinions.
Ten minutes of silence later he looks back at me, shrugs his shoulders, and says, “Okay. Smoke. For free. I let you.” I cracked the window, lit the fuck up, and realized that I had just been welcomed to New York.
He dropped me off at a Starbucks where I’m posted up before my first appointment, and I gotta say, I enjoyed the hell out of my ride into Manhattan.
Of course, I tipped the guy fourteen dollars.
If I pulled out my tampon and used it to sign headshots on the corner of Hollywood and Highland, I would be arrested and put on involuntary psychiatric hold.
If Marina Abramović did the same thing, she would be hailed a genius and get another write up in The New Yorker.
These are the things I think about when I’m stuck in traffic.