“Hey. If any of you are looking for any last-minute gift ideas for me, I have one. I’d like Frank Shirley, my boss, right here tonight. I want him brought from his happy holiday slumber over there on Melody Lane with all the other rich people and I want him brought right here with a big ribbon on his head! And I want to look him straight in the eye, and I want to tell him what a cheap, lying, no-good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where’s the Tylenol?”—Clark W. Griswold is the 99%.
Ugh. That shit was like standing in the snow for three hours watching David Fincher masturbate. I’m gonna have to go screen Fight Club again just to remind myself why they let him make this movie.
Credit where credit is due, Rooney Mara’s eyebrows both deserve a nomination for best supporting actress. Also, this movie contains the greatest use of an Enya song in the history of white people music. Orinoco Flow is the new Sussudio.
Other than that, I don’t have a kind word to say. Julia McNamara is still the worst part of Nip/Tuck. That bitch ruins everything, and no, I don’t think that qualifies as a spoiler.
My last month at work has been a fresh hell. A key person exited the company, leaving behind an ever-so-predictable power vacuum. I had no choice but to strap in and let it suck. Unfortunately, I’ve found myself engaged in a battle of wills with a woman who is superior in rank, but inferior in character.
She is well positioned because of her relationship with the owner, but the only thing she lacks more than integrity is competence. I never gave her the time of day until this past week when the cunt started fucking with my livelihood. She flat out stole from me. Took money out of my pocket. It was both flagrant and malicious. It’s open war now, and she has no idea what she’s gotten herself into. I’ll cut a bitch.
Anyway, this is the music I listen to at my desk while I’m sharpening my knives.
This song causes sense memories from my childhood so intense they border on synesthesia. Every time I hear the opening chord progression, I smell the cedar, smoke, and moth balls from my grandmother’s house where I used to help her unpack and hang the Christmas stockings over the fireplace.
She was into the whole new-agey soft-folk Windham Hill thing, and this George Winston album was her tree trimming jam. I’d totally forgotten about this song until I heard it playing in a boutique the other day. It made me feel like a kid for the rest of the afternoon. Shit, I even called my mom just to say hi.
and it occurs to me that if you took the very best traits from each of the Republican candidates — Ron Paul’s integrity, Newt Gingrich’s guile, Mitt Romney’s looks, Rick Perry’s swagger, Michelle Bachmann’s vagina, and Rick Santorum’s tie — and then combined them into one über-Republican candidate, that asshole still couldn’t beat Obama.
This is tonight’s “driving home from work after a long hard day” music. It’s also tonight’s “can’t decide if I wanna smoke a cigarette” music, and maybe tonight’s “someone should take me out to dinner” music.
I’ve decided that I’m officially done living in Hollywood. I haven’t picked which sunny corner of Los Angeles will be my new stomping ground, but then again, it was never about my zip code. When I say I’m done with Hollywood, what I really mean to say is, I’m done being a kid.
Hollywood was always a sandbox filled with glitter and the expensive toys of other children. This was the year I spent climbing out and dusting off my knees. It was long overdue. There hasn’t been a righteous good time in Hollywood for over a thousand nights, not since the big bubble burst and everyone’s ass fell out. That’s fine, though. These things are cyclical, and I lived it at a frothy peak.
The first decade of the new millennium had a thick, juicy center cut. I was a hot raging bitch during those middle years, a shimmering feral beast getting away with bloody murder back before bottle service was for tourists. Hollywood was different then. We were all stupid and beautiful, and everyone was rich or pretending to be. It was decadent and shady in ways that simply do not exist anymore. It sounds silly. Hell, it probably was, but if you powered through to the sunrise back then, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
I consider myself blessed and lucky to have danced around in all that shallow obscenity. It was ridiculous fun right up until it wasn’t, but now the party’s over. That’s not to say I’m done doing crazy shit. I’ll always stay hungry and foolish, and I still know better than to take any of this seriously, but I’m done playing around for its own sake. I’m ready for it to mean something now.
When I started this Coke Talk nonsense back in 2009, everyone in my world was at the tail end of a wild ride. I think I knew it then, and my instinct was to start writing it all down before the music stopped. Good thing, too. This shit kept me sane at all the funerals, and it kept me centered when friends started getting locked up or drifting away.
I’m not saying things suck now. Quite the opposite. It’s rough out there, but I like it this way. The zeitgeist is finally getting crisp. We’ve all toughened up these past few years, and an entire generation sloughed off its sense of entitlement. We’re lean and raw, and we can taste the impending social revolution like metal in our mouths.
I think that’s why I’m ready for a fresh view out my window. It’s time for a new chapter. It’s time to raise the stakes. I’m looking forward to whatever comes next with unironic optimism.
There are exciting times ahead, and I want to rise up and meet them.