— A lovely new toast by yours truly.
Really? Name-dropping existentialist philosophers in a camera phone pic? Who does that?
Call me a hater, but Sasha Grey is starting to bug me.
Her dead eyes bug me. The fact that she doesn’t smile bugs me. Her pretentious hipster fans who claim pseudo-intellectual pornographic high-ground because their favorite porn star is smug rather than bubbly — they all bug me.
I realize this is probably sacrilege, but so be it.
I’ve always been mildly annoyed by people who don’t know the difference between being serious and taking themselves seriously.
— Overheard while brunching on Melrose
I’ve been sitting alone in an exam room at my new plastic surgeon’s office for about a half hour now with nothing to read but these brochures.
Normally I’d be bored out of my skull, but beyond this wall is some kind of nurse’s lounge, and I can hear everyone talking all kinds of shit.
It’s pretty fantastic water cooler gossip.
There’s talk of a lady “with five inch beef curtains” who got a much needed vaginal rejuvenation procedure.
There’s also talk of a new trend where Asian women are getting heroic doses of Restylane injected into their labias. One nurse says they do it to look like prepubescent girls, and the another nurse thinks it probably gives tiny penised Asian men a little more traction.
Simply Sara is a YouTube based cooking show featuring a morbidly obese housewife from the blue collar south who prepares unhealthy and unsophisticated food from the kinds of recipes one finds on the side of soup cans.
It’s all very grotesque and somehow voyeuristic. The whole affair is filmed with the clumsy and overzealous camerawork of a husband getting a devilish thrill by watching his wife do something naughty.
It really does feel like you’re watching a homemade sex tape. In a sense, you are.
They aren’t having sex on camera (thank god), but these cooking videos are most definitely an expression of two people making love in their own fetishistic way.
I think that’s why I like it so much, because they are so very real.
If these clips were the concocted work of an avant-garde filmmaker, they would win festival awards and be considered brilliant commentary on the gluttony of Ugly Americans.
But no. There’s no double meaning. There’s no symbolism. There’s not the slightest trace of irony in the elevator music or the random cutaways to the house cat.
It’s all real. It’s all just… Simply Sara.
I just got an email from my mom in Florida.
Apparently, her next door neighbor’s cousin’s son is a certain television actor here in LA. Of course, she wants to hook us up.
Here’s a delicious little slice from her email:
“He went to Harvard- no slouch! He is about your age and by all accounts is a fine young man. I personally think you need to meet him- would you like me to work on that?”
Bless her heart, she has such good intentions. I love my mom dearly. She is a stoic Southern woman, and this is the closest she ever comes to meddling.
I know it kills her that I’m still single, but the implications of her trying to set me up with an actor are downright hilarious.
There’s a silver lining to this, I suppose. It’s the first sign that she’s finally accepted the fact that I’m not just “going through a Los Angeles phase.”
Now I just have to find a ladylike way of breaking it down for her:
I don’t date actors. I just fuck them.
One of my vanilla flavored colleagues just pulled me aside and asked me to recommend a place where she could buy some kinky sex gear.
“Oh,” I said, “are you planning a halloween outfit?”
She got very serious. As if she were trying to score some street corner smack, she leaned in and whispered, “No. This is for real. I want the good stuff.”
Now I’m mildly concerned, because I have no idea how she would know to ask me about that kind of shit.
I’m standing there in work hair and a blazer, and suddenly I feel like everybody knows that I’m wearing La Perla.
Admittedly, I could have given her three phone numbers to various specialty and high-end custom shops and told her to drop my name if she wanted a discount, but this is the kind of woman who leaves lipstick on her diet coke can.
While I have nothing against her, she’s never seen anything other than my fake smile, and I want to keep it that way.
I told her to go to the Hustler Store on Sunset, and she thanked me like a fucking tourist.
In hindsight, it may have been a mistake.
Sure, the Hustler Store may be the Disneyland teacup ride for me, but now I’m worried that it’s enough to confirm all that bitch’s suspicions.
Los Angeles doesn’t have any Walmarts.
The surrounding suburbs all have one, so if you look at a map you’ll see twenty Walmarts ringing the city in a barbarians-at-the-gates sort of way, and I’ve got no business going into those neighborhoods.
I mention this so I can justify not having stepped foot into a Walmart since childhood, because it’s not that I’m a snob.
Well, it wasn’t that I’m a snob. Over the weekend I visited a Walmart in the deep south, and now I can safely say that the Walmart experience is beneath me.
I have nothing against big box or discount stores — I fucking love Target, and I’ll chainsaw though a TJ Maxx like Rachel Zoe on crack — but Walmart, oh dear. It hurt my soul.
Fuck the everyday low prices. I’m talking about the undignified humanity. I did not think it was possible to combine that much morbid obesity with such a sheer lack of personal hygiene.
The average family had to weigh close to a thousand pounds. I actually saw a woman stuffing her face with a Big Mac while she was shopping for food.
What a fucking horror show.
I will give them credit for truth in advertising, because they’re right. Beauty costs less at Walmart.
There is a reason beauty costs less, and I assure you it is not because supply outweighs demand.
It is because at Walmart, beauty is cheap.
Life too, for that matter.
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 really like this shot. You can just tell she’s dripping with charisma.
You see a girl like that, and her magic hurts your soul. You know damn well you’re a thoroughbred, but still — she’s a fucking unicorn.
Effortless style. Accessorized perfection. She’s somehow greater than the sum of all those flawless parts, and no doubt she probably shits glitter with a French accent.
You take note of each piece. You take note of each brand. You do the math and stand in front of that dressing room mirror in your mind’s eye only to realize that her outfit wouldn’t make you a unicorn. It’d make you a horse with a designer stick on her head.
My usual move is to bum a smoke from her. That way, I get a closer look at her bag and a little eye contact that tells me whether I can ask her where she shops.