*68
*61

My Favorite Mutiny - The Coup

You guys got me going deep this evening, reaching way back into the collection to find good stuff I haven’t heard in a while.

Bling Bling - Junglepussy

Tonight’s getting ready music.

Wait for it.

*77

Busy Earnin’ - Jungle

Today’s theme: Finally gettin’ shit done.

*63

Day Dreams (MyKill Remix) - Midi Matilda

Today’s theme: Aggressive procrastination.

You know what? Sassy McJean-Shorts is fresh out of the gym rocking a killer smile and looking a helluva lot cuter than that birch pole of a supermodel behind her, so fuck it. She wins all of the style points.

*47

Home Sweet Home - Mötley Crüe

This one goes out to my homegirls making drunken fools of themselves tonight at the bowl.

Coke Talk of the Day

I woke up this morning in a fog thick as soup, an extended version of that final stage of sleep where dreams still have more clarity than whatever reality you’re facing. Some part of my conscious mind had latched onto a key phrase that seemed very important, and I had to memorialize it immediately.

I reached over to my computer still open on the floor next to my bed, and I hit ⌘V on the keyboard, fully expecting it to paste my thoughts directly onto the screen.

Nothing happened. I was confused for more than a second until it dawned on me that even if the technology did somehow exist to bridge a direct neural link to my MacBook Pro, I had forgotten to hit ⌘C first.

I quickly typed out the phrase that was floating in my head, one that dissolved into the ether in the very moment I wrote it. Satisfied, but still not quite awake, I rolled out of bed and began my morning routine.

When I came back to my computer freshly scrubbed and fogless, I looked down to find the cursor still blinking at the end of my dream sentence:

Diagram the gem of the eternal tides.

Yeah. I have no idea what it means either. The only thing I remember is that it felt terribly significant at the time. Still, I dig it. It’s as though I received a mysterious order from my subconscious.

I love that just over an hour ago, I existed in a state where the command to “diagram the gem of the eternal tides” made perfect logical sense as part of some grander dreamscape narrative, and in that unconscious pastiche of people and places that promptly receded into the depths of some black and unrecoverable trench, one tiny little sentence managed to crystalize and become solid, the words dropping like fresh die-cast metal into my waking life, still glowing red from their transition.

I love that every night a whole other hidden world flashes its momentary existence through our synapses. I love that it’s a part of us, but it’s somehow not ours to keep. I love that we occasionally catch glimpses and fragments, and while most of the time they may mean absolutely nothing, every once in a while it can still feel like they’re dripping with magic.

I went ahead and got In-N-Out for breakfast. This skanky yet somehow adorable little club kid couple were comatose on the benches by the door, proof that when the meth finally wears off, you sleep where you fall.
If I had to guess, I’d say our 90’s raver-era Sid and Nancy crawled out of some after-hours sewer (most likely Avalon) sometime after the sunrise, walked like zombies through Hollywood until reaching In-N-Out, only to find that it doesn’t open until 10:30 on Sundays. They promptly passed the fuck out waiting for the promise of animal style cheeseburgers, and the security guard took pity and decided not to poke them with a stick.
Pretty sure they’re still there.

I went ahead and got In-N-Out for breakfast. This skanky yet somehow adorable little club kid couple were comatose on the benches by the door, proof that when the meth finally wears off, you sleep where you fall.

If I had to guess, I’d say our 90’s raver-era Sid and Nancy crawled out of some after-hours sewer (most likely Avalon) sometime after the sunrise, walked like zombies through Hollywood until reaching In-N-Out, only to find that it doesn’t open until 10:30 on Sundays. They promptly passed the fuck out waiting for the promise of animal style cheeseburgers, and the security guard took pity and decided not to poke them with a stick.

Pretty sure they’re still there.

No One’s Gonna Know - Tristen

I’d have started posting playlists a lot sooner if I’d known you guys were gonna introduce me to so much good music.

I knew the evening was doomed the moment my friend extended a dinner invitation to our drug dealer. He did it without thinking. Between the cocaine and his permanent erection he had absolutely zero blood flowing to his brain, so he didn’t recognize how bad an idea it was until much later.
Of course, our drug dealer immediately accepted. There was no way he was passing up an opportunity to rub elbows on the Chateau terrace. In addition to delivering high quality party favors directly to the hotel suite, he had musical aspirations and was a bit of a social climber.
He was also the type to never show up without at least two women on his arm. This night was no exception, although to call them women would only be correct insofar as it identified their gender. These were girls, not women. In fact, they were prostitutes. More specifically, they were ratchet ass hoes. (I would never slut-shame a woman for being a sex worker, but I’ll style-shame a bitch all night long for being a tacky, gum-smacking hoodrat.)
The table for six had become a table for nine, and I’m still amazed they were able to accommodate us. Our original party included an award winning documentary filmmaker and his wife, my friend who is the head of production at a major company, his friend who is the head of security for a major celebrity, my BFF, and me. At the last minute, we added our drug dealer and two hookers.
I ended up seated next to one of them at dinner, and let me tell you, aside from her confusion about the silverware, bringing a street-walker to a fancy restaurant is nothing like the movie Pretty Woman.
At first, I thought she was a sweet kid, but after she gulped down a few glasses of Bordeaux (accented heavily by the Passionberry Twist gum still in her mouth), all hopes for an adult conversation went out the window. She talked loudly about nonsense, she gawked at celebrities, and she ordered the most expensive piece of meat off the menu for no other reason than she could.
What was supposed to be a pleasant dinner filled with sparkling repartee quickly became an exercise in biting my tongue. My BFF and I spent most of the evening communicating our mortification through sideways glances.
Still, there were several priceless moments. When the other girl reminded our drug dealer that she had to be on stage later that night, the documentary filmmaker assumed she was in a play. I’ve never seen a bushier pair of eyebrows raise higher than when she told him the name of the strip club instead of the name of a theater.
The documentary guy obviously wasn’t used to this kind of mixed company, and true to form, he started asking the hookers a series of personal interview questions that would have made Errol Morris proud. The moment that defined the evening happened when the girl next to me revealed that her earliest lesbian experience had been at age fifteen, and it had been with the middle-aged mother of her boyfriend at the time.
Every other conversation at the table immediately stopped, and all eyes went to her. Without missing a beat, she shrugged her shoulders and said, “What? It’s not like she did anything wrong. I was into it.”
I saw the documentary guy’s finger go up, and I knew in my heart he was about to explain to her the statutory nuances involved in that kind of situation, but before he could say another word, his wife kicked him in the shin so hard underneath the table that we all felt it.
By that point, it had dawned on my friend the sheer enormity of the mistake he had made, and as is customary when one no longer gives a fuck, he decided to remedy the situation by drinking heavily. The rest of us followed his lead.
By the end of the dinner, the celebrities were the ones staring at us, and that’s not a good thing. Thankfully, the staff never once batted an eye. (Those dudes have seen far worse than our little wine-soaked shit show.)
I hit my limit when the hooker sitting next to me asked for a to-go box for the rest of her steak. A fucking to-go box. At the fucking Chateau. Every fiber in my being wanted to scream, “This isn’t Applebee’s, bitch!”
I didn’t, though. It wasn’t my party. I too was just a guest. Instead, I looked over to my BFF who already knew exactly what I wanted to say.
Oof. When I think about it now, it still makes me shake my head. Then again, a doggie bag may very well have been the most perfect way to end that meal.


I knew the evening was doomed the moment my friend extended a dinner invitation to our drug dealer. He did it without thinking. Between the cocaine and his permanent erection he had absolutely zero blood flowing to his brain, so he didn’t recognize how bad an idea it was until much later.

Of course, our drug dealer immediately accepted. There was no way he was passing up an opportunity to rub elbows on the Chateau terrace. In addition to delivering high quality party favors directly to the hotel suite, he had musical aspirations and was a bit of a social climber.

He was also the type to never show up without at least two women on his arm. This night was no exception, although to call them women would only be correct insofar as it identified their gender. These were girls, not women. In fact, they were prostitutes. More specifically, they were ratchet ass hoes. (I would never slut-shame a woman for being a sex worker, but I’ll style-shame a bitch all night long for being a tacky, gum-smacking hoodrat.)

The table for six had become a table for nine, and I’m still amazed they were able to accommodate us. Our original party included an award winning documentary filmmaker and his wife, my friend who is the head of production at a major company, his friend who is the head of security for a major celebrity, my BFF, and me. At the last minute, we added our drug dealer and two hookers.

I ended up seated next to one of them at dinner, and let me tell you, aside from her confusion about the silverware, bringing a street-walker to a fancy restaurant is nothing like the movie Pretty Woman.

At first, I thought she was a sweet kid, but after she gulped down a few glasses of Bordeaux (accented heavily by the Passionberry Twist gum still in her mouth), all hopes for an adult conversation went out the window. She talked loudly about nonsense, she gawked at celebrities, and she ordered the most expensive piece of meat off the menu for no other reason than she could.

What was supposed to be a pleasant dinner filled with sparkling repartee quickly became an exercise in biting my tongue. My BFF and I spent most of the evening communicating our mortification through sideways glances.

Still, there were several priceless moments. When the other girl reminded our drug dealer that she had to be on stage later that night, the documentary filmmaker assumed she was in a play. I’ve never seen a bushier pair of eyebrows raise higher than when she told him the name of the strip club instead of the name of a theater.

The documentary guy obviously wasn’t used to this kind of mixed company, and true to form, he started asking the hookers a series of personal interview questions that would have made Errol Morris proud. The moment that defined the evening happened when the girl next to me revealed that her earliest lesbian experience had been at age fifteen, and it had been with the middle-aged mother of her boyfriend at the time.

Every other conversation at the table immediately stopped, and all eyes went to her. Without missing a beat, she shrugged her shoulders and said, “What? It’s not like she did anything wrong. I was into it.”

I saw the documentary guy’s finger go up, and I knew in my heart he was about to explain to her the statutory nuances involved in that kind of situation, but before he could say another word, his wife kicked him in the shin so hard underneath the table that we all felt it.

By that point, it had dawned on my friend the sheer enormity of the mistake he had made, and as is customary when one no longer gives a fuck, he decided to remedy the situation by drinking heavily. The rest of us followed his lead.

By the end of the dinner, the celebrities were the ones staring at us, and that’s not a good thing. Thankfully, the staff never once batted an eye. (Those dudes have seen far worse than our little wine-soaked shit show.)

I hit my limit when the hooker sitting next to me asked for a to-go box for the rest of her steak. A fucking to-go box. At the fucking Chateau. Every fiber in my being wanted to scream, “This isn’t Applebee’s, bitch!”

I didn’t, though. It wasn’t my party. I too was just a guest. Instead, I looked over to my BFF who already knew exactly what I wanted to say.

Oof. When I think about it now, it still makes me shake my head. Then again, a doggie bag may very well have been the most perfect way to end that meal.