Dear Crazy Bitch,

Stop telling people that you “fell down some stairs.”

You’re a walking Lifetime movie-of-the-week cliche. Everyone knows that “falling down some stairs” is hackneyed code for domestic violence.

If I actually fell down some stairs, I’d say the bruises were from getting fucked on train tracks just so people wouldn’t think I was getting slapped around.

You are deliberately telegraphing the fact that he beats you because you’re a whacked-out cunt that savors drama and thrives on chaos.

God bless and get the hell out of my life.

Chloe Bowie




It’s a little known fact that in 1985, David Bowie’s younger sister Chloe invented a glam-rock designer drug called glowcaine®.

Dubbed “the other new coke,” glowcaine® was a commercial failure due to limited market penetration and “flamboyant” side effects.

Chloe eventually made a small fortune with her line of neon straws.


Mini-Bar Whore



What’s worse than a coke whore? A rock-bottom shameless mini-bar whore. No self-respecting party girl ever asks for an airplane bottle below 30,000 feet.

Dear last night’s DJ,

You fucking sucked. Yes, Michael Jackson died, but that does not give you license to play bad 80’s dance pop sprinkled with a few awkwardly mixed MJ hits.

It wasn’t 80’s night, asshole. Even if it was, I have faith that the club owner would have hired a DJ who didn’t learn everything he knows about that decade from watching a Beverly Hills Cop marathon.

A real DJ would have patiently built up to that perfect 12:45 moment and then dropped an homage of carefully chosen Jackson beats from all four decades.

You used Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’ as cheap ploy to pull people back on the dance floor after losing the crowd before midnight. Dick move, dude.

When a King Dies

Soak it up, kids. This is our “Elvis is Dead” moment. You only get this once in a generation.

It doesn’t matter if you thought he was a freak. It doesn’t matter if you didn’t like his music. It doesn’t matter one bit what you thought of him. He was a king, and when a king dies the world is never the same.

The media circus we will witness in the coming days will seem cartoonishly silly, but I promise you this is an important moment. The cultural implications of June 25th, 2009 will ripple outwards into the Zeitgeist and forever mark your memory.

Michael Jackson is dead, and — let’s be clear — so is your youth.

It’s why you have that knot in your gut, even though your head tells you this is all so ridiculous. Deep down, you know. In the decades to come, this day will forever serve as a demarcation line between being young and being old.

That’s what it meant to our parents when the King of Rock died back in 1977, and that’s what the death of the King of Pop will one day mean to us.

Don’t swallow that lump in your throat. It’s real, and we shouldn’t be ashamed to mourn our youth.





Oh, please. Fuck you and your blonde, lice-ridden dreadlocks.

You pathetic neo-hobos aren’t “beyond capitalism” — you’re frolicking in its shit.

Just because daddy bought you a college degree in bisexual eco-political studies, it doesn’t make you any less of a dumpster diving bum. Actually, your inflated sense of self-importance makes you infinitely worse than the poor bastard who does this out of necessity.

This is a smug, elitist lifestyle choice just like the rest of them.

Put a velvet rope in front of this alley and you’re a Bonnaroo B-list band away from creating the next trendy hipster underground scene.

I may be a shallow scavenging whore, but at least I’m not deluded by the pretentious notion that I exist on some bio-ethical high ground.

Coke Talk of the Day

“I used to love Matt and Kim back when they were jamming Brooklyn art school parties, but ever since they sold out to Bacardi, I just can’t listen to them anymore.”

We’ve all heard something like this before — some Pabst swilling douche in a wolf t-shirt talking endless shit about a formerly-obscure-turned-popular band for no other reason than they’ve tasted commercial success.

I consider it the worst flavor of hipster hypocrisy, but the thing is, I just realized that I’m guilty of it too.

Not with my music, though — with my porn.

Now that she’s gone mainstream, Sasha Grey just doesn’t do it for me anymore.

I was flicking my clit to Sasha back when she was trading spit in Razordolls (look it up, bitches — anything by Jack the Zipper. Trust me, it’s the hottest lo-fi art porn ever made.)

Then Sasha broke like a Kmart condom, and suddenly she was everywhere. Industry awards, music videos, and scenester spreads for American Apparel, Vice Magazine, and Terry Richardson.  All of it, dull-eyed and garish.

And so now, I’m the hypocrite:

“I used to love Sasha Grey back when she was jamming cocks up her ass in gonzo porn, but ever since she sold out to Soderbergh, I just can’t get off to her anymore.”




Oh please. Don’t get all sentimental, bitches!

Audrey Hepburn may not have had a lazy eye, but she sure as shit had a closet full of daddy issues and took it in the ass like the best of us.

Besides, the real trick here isn’t the obvious laundry-list of negative cultural implications one can draw from the generational juxtaposition of two feminist icons.

It’s the fact that in both cases, this amounts to little more than hero worship of contemporary American literature’s ultimate O.G. gold-digging whore — Holly Golightly.

Now that’s something to smirk at.

Wild or Crazy

I am wild. I am not crazy. There is a difference.

The stupid can’t see the difference, the inhibited deny the difference, and the authorities just don’t give a fuck about the difference — but the difference is everything.

Wild or crazy. At the extremes of sex, drugs, and rock and roll — anything worth doing, really — you’ll find only these two flavors.  They are the chocolate and vanilla of passion. The yin and yang of sin.

Wild explores. Crazy escapes.

Wild is beautiful. Crazy is broken.

Wild seeks enlightenment. Crazy seeks annihilation.

Know the difference. Be aware of the difference. Embrace wild, and send crazy packing.

Savor a savage fuck. Sample a heroic dose. Enjoy any raw and filthy moment of human vulnerability your heart desires, but always ask yourself: are you consciously seeking enlightenment or are you seeking to annihilate your consciousness?

If you don’t know the answer, get the fuck out of the room.

If you’re trying to escape, stop what you’re doing. Get help.

If you’re trying to explore, smile with your soul and take every inch of the experience as deeply as you possibly can.

And no matter what, don’t fucking judge — blowing a fat line of cocaine off a rock hard cock in a Vegas bathroom can be just as valid an exploration of consciousness as dropping acid in the desert with a tantric drum circle of naked hippies.

You don’t need to be burning incense for it to qualify as a religious experience.

You don’t even need a god.

All you need is a brain and a battle-cry:

Bitch, be wild. Don’t be crazy.

Cocaine Torches

Police have distributed ten “cocaine torches” to neighborhood policing teams and drug squads in the west of the county. Shone on noses and mouths, they show minute traces of cocaine which might be invisible to the naked eye. Anyone suspected of using the drug will be searched by officers and prosecuted if necessary.

BBC NEWS (via poortaste)

Oh, great. The cops in Britain finally saw that episode of CSI from, like, ten years ago. You know what else shows up under UV light? Semen. How about we shine that little narc lamp on your Freddie Mercury mustache, officer? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.

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