A Fucking Unicorn



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.


Coke Talk of the Day

One of my favorite conversations when making new acquaintances over a coke mirror occurs when I discover that my fellow party enthusiast is on some sort of highly ritualized, self-inflicted starvation regimen.

These are usually rail thin model types in from New York who are a delightful combination of dumb and worldly, and I take great pleasure in listening to to them expound on the health benefits of raw veganism.

They ramble on about whatever rare fruit is currently setting antioxidant world records, and then express little pangs of guilt as they hoover up line after line with comments like, “I really shouldn’t be doing this.”

I can’t help but fuck with them a little bit. You should see their eyes light up when I explain to them in all seriousness that this cocaine is 100% organic and that it’s infused with all natural plant extracts from the mountains of Peru that clarify the mind, reduce hunger, and promote an overall sense of well-being.

You’d be surprised how often they say, “Oh my god, I’ve heard about this stuff!”

Unfortunately, I doubt I’ll be able to pull it off ever again.

I just read Molly Young’s latest article where she cleverly describes a rule of thumb about whether to take self-important food-stuffs seriously by asking “What Would Steve Martin Eat?”

Steve Martin is the court jester of my older-man crushes, and I can’t help but smile when I think about him. Inevitably, the next time I utter the phrase “100% organic cocaine,” I will first hear it in my head in Steve Martin’s voice.

There’s no way I’ll be able to keep a straight face.

What do I think of Kanye interrupting Taylor Swift?

It totally reminds me of that time in Stockholm during the 2008 Nobels when Edmund Phelps grabbed the mic in the middle of Paul Krugman’s acceptance speech and started talking all kinds of smack about his analysis of economic trade patterns.

Seriously, nothing Kanye does is original.

Coke Talk of the Day

The most powerful drug? It isn’t a white powder or a little red pill. It’s the scent still fresh on my pillow the night after a love affair.

There isn’t a chemical that can compare to the signature of infinite subtlety left behind on my sheets that when inhaled leaves me instantly drunk, swimming in euphoria, and drifting off to sleep with a silly grin.

I just shared my bed with someone new who left me a heroic dose so delicious that I’ve been walking around high for days.

This is trouble. I could easily get addicted.



“Cougar Convention” women scare me. I pray my vagina falls out of my undercarriage like a burnt out transmission before I become like them.

When I’m well into my second half-century, I hope I have enough self respect to acquire a taste for equally-aged cock (or hang up the spurs altogether) before feeling the need to suck the life force out of some frat boy with an oedipal complex.


Ask your coke dealer to start stocking clove cigarettes.

Just when you thought the world couldn’t get any more outrageously hypocritical, the authoritarian douche-tanks in DC have up and banned flavored ciggies.

For the record, this bill was sponsored by a republican from Marlboro Country, so don’t kid yourself into thinking it will have any effect on public health. All this restriction will do is frustrate pretentious euro-trash and make a few goth punks run out of safety pins.

Oh, and don’t worry black people. Newports are still legal. Despite them being a legitimate teen gateway to a pack-a-day habit, Menthols make up 28% of the market, and Philip Morris wouldn’t put up with that crap for a second.

Once again, the bullshit that stuck to the wall was that they’re protecting the kids, this time from the evil candied temptation of sweetened smoky-treats.

Nothing makes my cunt pucker more than the phrase “protecting the kids.” Fuck your kids.

Fuck every fat, stupid, overprotected little crotch trophy whose mother’s inability to parent is infringing on my god-given right to blow vanilla flavored smoke all over a cute Frenchman to mask his post-sex body odor.

Fuck anybody anywhere who thinks they have the right to tell me what should go into (or come out of) my body.

Fuck Obama for signing this piece of shit bill.

And finally, fuck clove cigarettes for being the next thing that I have no desire for whatsoever, but will soon crave for no other reason than that they are illegal.

Coke Talk of the Day

I just spent a long, decadent weekend in Malibu celebrating the birthdays of four very close friends. I don’t know why I always end up surrounded by Leos, but a suspiciously large cluster of my inner-circle was born in mid-August.

One of the birthday boys made a shit ton of dot-com cash back in the day, so he and his wife have a ridiculous house at the very tip-top of Las Flores Canyon. It’s one of those rare places where you have the holy trinity of naked fun — a heated pool, a spectacular view, and total privacy.

Now, when I say very close friends, I mean very close. There are about a dozen of us, and we all have the kind of relationship that most folks could never understand. If I even tried to explain it to my workaday friends, my tongue would get tangled trying to describe the love and respect we all share, and then I’d have to suffer the indignity of watching their eyes go wide in judgement when I let it slip about the sex.

Yes, we all fuck, and it’s wonderful.

We share endless sweaty, slippery hours of blissed-out orgiastic fun, and then we all sit around the dining room table and have bacon, eggs, and bloody marys. It’s fucking great.

My vanilla friends are constantly asking me why I’m single, and my canned answer is that I’m picky. The whole truth is that I’m not willing to give up the good times I have with these friends, and it’s surprisingly difficult to find a man emotionally intelligent enough to handle it.

You’d think more guys would be self-aware enough to recognize that fresh attraction to the opposite sex is dictated by biological imperative. But no, most guys are in a constant struggle — to cheat or not to cheat — and it never occurs to them that in order to cheat, you have to accept a set of rules before you can break them.

Why accept the rules? It’s so much healthier to simply reject the underlying premise of the assumption.

Monogamy and fidelity are not the same thing.

It’s such a simple statement, but there is so much freedom in it — monogamy and fidelity are not the same thing. Being true and faithful in your relationship has no inherent connection to how many sexual partners you have. The connection is artificial.

What am I suggesting here? Well, it’s not all that prurient. Really, it’s about integrity and strength — the integrity to be totally open and honest in a relationship, and the strength to allow yourself and your partner to pursue happiness wherever it may be found.

Why should I care if my man has some fun, sexual or otherwise, with another girl?  Why should he care if I do the same?  It would be naive and egotistical of me to think that I could satisfy every emotional and physical need of another person, and yet under the traditional monogamous paradigm, that’s exactly what is expected.

The healthiest relationships I’ve ever known are those based on unwavering mutual respect and the kind of gut-level honesty that most folks can’t handle.  Add to that an intelligent, emotionally healthy habit of saying “yes” instead of “no” to your partner whenever possible, and suddenly you find yourself open to all kinds of possibilities.

It’s not for everybody, I suppose — but it’s too late for me. I can’t imagine life any other way.

Mount Douchemore



Oh look, kids. It’s Dane Cook, Jeremy Piven, and Kid Rock indicating how many dead hookers they have stashed in their Hummers.

I suppose only one question remains — who should be the fourth man on Mount Douchemore?


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