Coke Talk of the Day

I wasn’t going to say anything, but the Salinger worship is getting a bit out of hand. Honestly, people. Catcher in the Rye is basically a Judy Blume book that grew a little hair on its balls.

Before all you English majors get your panties in a twist, go pull that paperback with the red cover off your top shelf and give it a fresh look now that you’re not writing a high school book report on the significance of the elephants on Phoebe’s pajamas.

Read it with the eyes of an adult.

I think you’ll quickly realize why Salinger knew better than to let it become a movie, because it’s hard not to imagine some ineffectual little pussy like Robert Pattinson in the role of Holden Caulfield.

If you loved the book, fine. That’s great. I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m just agreeing with everyone who thinks Salinger is overrated.

I mean, come on. The guy lived for ninety-one years. He basically hit the literary lottery over a half-century ago with one little novel about teen angst. Good for him, but let’s stop confusing Salinger for guys like Vonnegut and Hemingway.

How is it possible that I am still this high?

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.


Jersey Shore



Immediately after this photo was taken, a group of golfers mistook Pauly D for their caddy and started giving him shit for wearing a hat indoors.

Snooki got all up in their faces, grabbed a nine iron, and started chasing them around the country club like she was married to Tiger Woods.

The Situation lifted up his cardigan to show everyone his six pack while asking for directions to the women’s locker room.

Jwoww threw her tea all over a bunch of girls named Heather for commenting on her pearl necklace, and then she thundered off to the buffet to find some ham.

Sammi shot her mouth off about Ronnie’s “little pinky,” and Ronnie exploded in a fit of roid rage that ultimately led to him ripping off his jacket and tie.

Vinny just sat there.


Coke Talk of the Day

This past weekend was a barrage of holiday parties and best friends. Now that I’m re-entering the atmosphere, I’m realizing that I may have made a deal with the devil.

At one point, we were all talking about our christmas lists in a typical four a.m. conversation over a coke mirror. I half-jokingly mentioned that I wanted a red 1961 IBM Selectric typewriter. I described this thing like it was a classic Mustang.

They all kind of looked at me funny. Why would I want something like that? I explained that my grandfather had one, and him letting me type on it was one of my fondest memories. Plus, it’s just a cool ass piece of hardware that would look great on my desk at home.

One of my really close friends who knows about my blog pressed me a little further. He wanted to know if I would actually use it. I told him of course I would.

He asked me if I could write a book on a typewriter. I said, well, probably not a whole book, but it’s one of the tools I would lean on heavily because it’s so tactile and analog and linear.

Then he said, so if the typewriter showed up under your tree, you would write a book?

Without even thinking, I said hell yes.

This is the kind of guy with the check book to actually get me a gift like that and the and brass balls hold my feet to the fire. I have no idea if he’ll actually do it, but if he does, he’s gonna make me stick to my word.

Now I’m kind of nervous.

Coke Talk of the Day

Today my family dragged me to see “The Blind Side.”

It’s the one about a nouveau riche soccer mom who rescues a gentle giant teenager from being black in Memphis because it seems like the good christian thing to do for college football.

Sandra Bullock basically proves that if you henpeck your country music star husband who owns fifty Taco Bells into buying a pickup truck and a private tutor, you can teach any old kid from the projects to read at a fifth grade level as long as he’s got NFL potential.

The moral of the story is pretty simple — white people are benevolent do-gooders, and black people are helpless, scary animals.

Feel-good movie my ass. After watching that train wreck, my soul had never felt so empty.

Of course, everybody else loved it. Loved it.

Sitting in that theater — with that crowd — I was surrounded, completely engulfed by the shallow ignorance of the red state zeitgeist.

How horrifying.

Call me an elitist bitch, but I can’t wait to get back to LA.

Coke Talk of the Day

Today I baked two pumpkin pies and built a croquembouche with spun caramel sugar and chocolate sauce.

This is what happens when I’m home for the holidays. I make bad ass desserts.

That, and I watch way too much History Channel. With my family it’s either the History Channel or Fox News, so I opt for the lesser of two evils.

It was a typical pre-Thanksgiving afternoon of stacking cream puffs and daydreaming about the kind of guy I’d like to share a sniper rifle with in World War II era Germany.

Yeah, if I had to do the whole World War thing, I’d definitely prefer to do it as a hot sniper couple — you know, lining up people in our crosshairs by day, and by night recreating that filthy hot sex scene between Jude Law and Rachel Weisz in “Enemy at the Gates.”

These are the things that fill my head when I’m surrounded by Republicans.

Anyways, tomorrow we all exchange Christmas lists.

This year mine includes the new Crayola Crayon Maker (better late than never with that childhood fantasy), and this little Polaroid Mirror (the coolest cocaine mirror ever!)

I also want a vintage 1961 IBM Selectric typewriter in bright red like the one my granddaddy used to have.

It’s a long shot, but maybe Santa will be good to me this year.

Sarah Palin’s Autograph


How to pay for this year’s christmas presents:

Step 1: Fuck her — steal every last copy of Sarah Palin’s book I can get my hands on.

Step 2: Fuck it — forge her loopy-ass autograph on each one.

Step 3: Fuck ‘em — sell the books on eBay to Republicans who deserve exactly what they get.

At $80 to $100 per signed copy, these should cover quite a bit of egg nog and artificial snow.

You know that ugly feeling when a smug little man smiles at you like he just bought you on sale and suddenly your spine turns to glass and your ears become refrigerator coils and your guts squeeze dry and you’re filled back up with the warm oily urge to cross the room for no other reason than to smash all five of your ring encrusted knuckles through the soft meat of his lower jaw and relish the sound of his teeth hitting linoleum like you’d just dropped a handful of Skittles?

That is how I feel about Jason Schwartzman.

Coke Talk of the Day

I went to visit my friend in prison again. He’s bored as hell.

When I mentioned that I was writing a whacked-out advice column, he begged me to let him read it. He suggested I print it out and send it to him like a letter. I thought that was a damn fine idea.

As it was my first time writing to someone in the slammer, I decided to check the manual. Every correctional institution in California has it’s own fancy-pants website, wherein you’ll find a comprehensive list of do’s, don’ts, and other little known jailhouse etiquettes to observe when sending a friendly letter.

I was rather disheartened to learn that “letters and envelopes must be free from any white-out, lipstick marks, address labels, or stickers of any kind. No large cards, musical cards, cards with glitter or other items attached will be allowed.”

As tempting as it was, I resisted the urge to leave him a lipstick mark in white-out and glitter.

Instead, I printed out Dear Coke Talk. Every last entry.

I followed the rules to the letter. Plain white paper. No paper clips or staples. No pictures or photocopies of pictures. It was a sixty page stack of dense black-and-white text that looked as boring as an insurance policy.

I slapped some stamps on that sucker and sent it off to the big house.

That was two weeks ago.

Guess what came back in the mail today? Yep. Return to motherfucking sender. At first, I thought I’d screwed up the address or something, but then I realized it had been opened.

Sure enough, there was a big red sticker on the front of the envelope with three check boxes. The first was labeled “Not in Custody,” the second was labeled “Need Inmate Number,” and the third was labeled “Unacceptable Items.”

Someone had checked the “Unacceptable Items” box.

Then, just to go the extra mile, they did something that made me very, very proud. Right there next to the checkbox, some corrections officer went out of his way to scribble out two additional words:


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