Seriously, though. How the fuck does this have 5000 notes?

Seriously, though. How the fuck does this have 5000 notes?

(Source: lingerandwonder)

"What is your theme song then?"

Imagine if LCD Soundsystem got back together for one night to play a secret show with Daft Punk in your favorite underground club, and for their encore, they let you and everyone you love take the stage and dance as they performed a throbbing and flawless live mash-up of All My Friends and One More Time.

That’s my theme song.

Listen, motherfucker. I don’t know what you thought would happen when you picked me as your spirit animal, but you can take all that adorable woodland creature nonsense and shove it up your unenlightened ass. I’ve been around. I’ve seen shit. I fucked Bambi’s mother back when she was still hot.
That’s right, bitch. This ain’t gonna be some gentle cleansing of the soul. We’re not gonna skip through any dreamscape meadows together. We’re not gonna dip our cute little noses in any babbling brooks of mystic energy. I’m gonna drag your useless shrieking ego through the black forest shadow dimension until your higher consciousness can move through the eternal nothingness without fear of its own annihilation.
You think you’re ready for a vision quest? You’d better be, asshole. I’m gonna eye fuck so much ancient sacred wisdom into your thick human skull that time and space will melt away into harmonic vibrations of universal oneness.
Go ahead. Whisper your darkest fears and deepest secrets into my furry little ears. I’m the righteous guardian of your fate, and I’ve already seen your death.

Listen, motherfucker. I don’t know what you thought would happen when you picked me as your spirit animal, but you can take all that adorable woodland creature nonsense and shove it up your unenlightened ass. I’ve been around. I’ve seen shit. I fucked Bambi’s mother back when she was still hot.

That’s right, bitch. This ain’t gonna be some gentle cleansing of the soul. We’re not gonna skip through any dreamscape meadows together. We’re not gonna dip our cute little noses in any babbling brooks of mystic energy. I’m gonna drag your useless shrieking ego through the black forest shadow dimension until your higher consciousness can move through the eternal nothingness without fear of its own annihilation.

You think you’re ready for a vision quest? You’d better be, asshole. I’m gonna eye fuck so much ancient sacred wisdom into your thick human skull that time and space will melt away into harmonic vibrations of universal oneness.

Go ahead. Whisper your darkest fears and deepest secrets into my furry little ears. I’m the righteous guardian of your fate, and I’ve already seen your death.

This is the sunrise I was tweeting about this morning. No filter. No retouching. Still, this pic barely does it justice.

This is the sunrise I was tweeting about this morning. No filter. No retouching. Still, this pic barely does it justice.

"Jamiroquai is a band, not a dude."

No, Jamiroquai is a dude. Miike Snow told me that Bon Iver met him once with Lynyrd Skynyrd over at Uncle Tupelo’s house.

(Yes, Jethro Tull was there with Sade.)

(No, Steely Dan wasn’t there. He couldn’t get off work making Led Zeppelins at the Aerosmith plant.)

Coke Talk of the Day

I stayed in last night. Didn’t want to be in public. Turns out it was for the best, because Avicii headlined at the Hollywood Bowl. It was madness down there. Aside from the usual traffic related fuckery, the streets of Hollywood were choked with insufferable euro-trash freaks. Much more so that usual. (Your honor, in my defense, the German tourist I ran over with my car was wearing tripp pants and a neon mesh shirt.)

Ugh. The worst part was that Avicii closed his show with fireworks. (I guess eardrum-shattering pyrotechnics are necessary if you want to distract a bunch of idiots from the fact that they paid eighty bucks to watch a teenager with no musical talent hit play on his iPod for an hour and a half.) I wasn’t there, but fuck, I didn’t need to be. Anyone within a two mile radius of the Bowl was treated to a series of sudden and unexpected explosions in the sky.

Normally that kind of thing is no big deal. I love fireworks, but last night I wasn’t prepared. When they went off, the reptilian part of my brain instantly processed the percussive staccato as gunfire. Fucking hell. A fraction of a second later, my conscious mind realized what the sound really was, but it was too late. That’s the nature of a trigger. It’s not rational, and it’s not something you can control.

For those of you who are familiar with PTSD related panic attacks, you’ll know what I mean when I say I already knew that I was fucked. There’s a certain walking dead phase before the physical symptoms of a panic attack set in where a tiny part of your conscious mind is fully aware that you’ve been betrayed by your own subconscious.

You know what’s coming, but there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. You try to breathe your way through it. You try to outmaneuver your sympathetic nervous system with calm thoughts. You try and pretend that you’ll be fine, but that’s not the way it works.

I can’t remember if this is something I’ve written about before. I doubt it, but it’s one of those things I carry with me. It’s not quite emotional baggage. It’s more physiological baggage from a violent event in my past that involved three men with guns to my head.

I don’t care to talk about it more than that except to say that guns and gunfire are a trigger for me. Not all the time. I’m not a skittish little bunny rabbit, but it’s something that I know might happen. Part of the reason I own a gun and regularly go shooting is because the activity has legitimate therapeutic value for me. I’m not afraid of guns, but a panic attack isn’t about that kind of timid, nervous fear most people associate with being afraid.

A panic attack is fear. It’s a savage orgasm of distilled terror that is almost indescribable to someone who’s never experienced it. The physical symptoms are horrifyingly real. My arms and legs turn into cold, shaking rubber. All the warm important stuff inside the center of my chest constricts, and with every shallow gulping breath, it dares my heart to stop beating. Every fiber in my being screams for me to call 911 and tell them I’m dying, but I’ve learned that if you do that, they’ll actually show up.

Last night’s was relatively mild compared to some. I was able to whack myself in the head with a double dose of xanax before the worst of it could render me a sobbing pile of shit. Goddamn, that stuff is a miracle drug. Actually, I think it’s still in my system, because I woke up this morning feeling absolutely peachy.

That’s probably the strangest part of a panic attack. It ends. Quite suddenly, as if nothing ever happened. Afterwards you’re left to sit in a puddle of your own sweat during a benzodiazapine-induced refractory period where you feel perfectly fucking fine. Never mind that mere moments before your heart was pumping hot black oil and your brain was on fire.

I used to think the sharp contrast between the panic and the calm was somehow profound, but these days I just let myself fall asleep. Fuck having deep thoughts after that kind of petrifying bullshit.

Dear Jessica Bari,
I understand the appeal of working from your bed, but it’s kinda difficult to get any good writing done with your vagina all over the keyboard like that.
Perhaps that’s why you found it necessary to plagiarize whole swaths of my fun-sized advice from Dear Coquette. Honestly, did you really think that someone wouldn’t eventually notice?
Every single one of your TMI Tuesdays posts are riddled with both questions and answers lifted directly from my site. Naturally, you changed a few of the bigger words so as not to seem too smart. (That was on purpose, right?) And of course, you mixed in a few original thoughts to keep things less interesting. Clever as you tried to be, the theft is still plainly evident.
Oh, Jessica. What to do with you now?
Obviously, you’re a fan — and hey, I appreciate it — but if you’d been paying any attention at all, you’d know I don’t take kindly to people stealing my work. Last time it happened, a girl named Brianna tried to pass off my advice as her own, and I brought the hammer down so hard and fast that she fell off the face of the fucking internet.
You on the other hand, well, I just don’t know. It seems you have a thriving life coaching business to maintain where you teach fellow sociopaths how to “Rationalize Anything.” That or you’re using your masters degree in family counseling to do what appears to be softcore webcam modeling. Either way, I don’t expect you’re the type who’ll take down your website just because you got caught being completely full of shit.
So, here’s what I propose: Take the rest of the week to comb through each of your TMI Tuesdays posts and remove every last one of the questions and answers that you lifted directly from my site.
Once that’s done, I’d like you to sit at your keyboard (be sure and wipe it down first) and compose a written apology for trying to pass off my work as yours. Please use your own words, and then submit it to me over at Dear Coquette. (Clearly, you’ve been there before.)
Finally, don’t ever pull this kind of shit again. You may think that anything goes these days, but this is the fucking internet. You can’t get away with plagiarism.
Good luck with the whole life coaching thing.
Yours in rationalization,
The Coquette

Dear Jessica Bari,

I understand the appeal of working from your bed, but it’s kinda difficult to get any good writing done with your vagina all over the keyboard like that.

Perhaps that’s why you found it necessary to plagiarize whole swaths of my fun-sized advice from Dear Coquette. Honestly, did you really think that someone wouldn’t eventually notice?

Every single one of your TMI Tuesdays posts are riddled with both questions and answers lifted directly from my site. Naturally, you changed a few of the bigger words so as not to seem too smart. (That was on purpose, right?) And of course, you mixed in a few original thoughts to keep things less interesting. Clever as you tried to be, the theft is still plainly evident.

Oh, Jessica. What to do with you now?

Obviously, you’re a fan — and hey, I appreciate it — but if you’d been paying any attention at all, you’d know I don’t take kindly to people stealing my work. Last time it happened, a girl named Brianna tried to pass off my advice as her own, and I brought the hammer down so hard and fast that she fell off the face of the fucking internet.

You on the other hand, well, I just don’t know. It seems you have a thriving life coaching business to maintain where you teach fellow sociopaths how to “Rationalize Anything.” That or you’re using your masters degree in family counseling to do what appears to be softcore webcam modeling. Either way, I don’t expect you’re the type who’ll take down your website just because you got caught being completely full of shit.

So, here’s what I propose: Take the rest of the week to comb through each of your TMI Tuesdays posts and remove every last one of the questions and answers that you lifted directly from my site.

Once that’s done, I’d like you to sit at your keyboard (be sure and wipe it down first) and compose a written apology for trying to pass off my work as yours. Please use your own words, and then submit it to me over at Dear Coquette. (Clearly, you’ve been there before.)

Finally, don’t ever pull this kind of shit again. You may think that anything goes these days, but this is the fucking internet. You can’t get away with plagiarism.

Good luck with the whole life coaching thing.

Yours in rationalization,

The Coquette

Gun Talk of the Day

My little gun nut made good on his promise. I’ve been featured as the “quote of the day” on his blog, The View From North Central Idaho: Ramblings on explosives, guns, politics, and sex by a redneck farm boy who became a software engineer.

Yeah. I’ll let that description speak for itself.

Joe and I sit on opposite sides of the ideological fence. That much is obvious. I call him a wingnut. He calls me a liberal. Both of us are proud to be labeled as such. He didn’t quite use the word, but you can tell that he very much wants to call me a Nazi. He thinks I completely ignore the concept of rights, which he says, “is how governments end up murdering millions of their own people.”

This little Reductio ad Hitlerum speaks volumes about the kind of world view we’re dealing with here. When I call a guy like Joe myopic, I am specifically referring to his inability to focus on the greater good. Joe doesn’t disagree. He actively spits out the concept of “the greater good” as distasteful. He hears that phrase and immediately calls it “the ever present excuse for genocide.”

It’s hard to have a rational conversation with someone like this. Joe’s rabid libertarianism makes him blind to any ethical concept that extends beyond the limited scope of individual rights. Joe puts individual liberty above all other kinds. Individual freedom is the only freedom he recognizes. He interprets any argument that involves the public good as a slippery slope to Nazi Germany.

This refusal to acknowledge the practical implications of life in a cooperative society is the single greatest shortcoming of Joe’s world view. There’s just no reasoning with a man who sees the greater good as an inherent evil.

That’s fine. The view from North Central Idaho is bound to look different than the view from the Hollywood Hills. What Joe considers rugged individualism, I consider puerile selfishness. What I see as a sensible position on gun control, Joe sees as tyrannical fascism. We have a fundamental philosophical disagreement about the role of government as it relates to the social contract, and neither of us is going to change the other’s mind.

Still, the most ridiculous part of this whole conversation is that I don’t want to ban guns. My position on gun control is about as centrist as it gets. Hell, I own a gun, and I wouldn’t want to live in a society where I couldn’t. Nevertheless, Joe thought my opinions were a threat. He felt it necessary to come at me with his wingnut opinions blazing.

Well, you know what? I shoot back. I’ll put my .357 Magnum mind against his .22 caliber opinions any damn day of the week. If Joe wants to hit me with a rational argument against centralized firearm registration and mandatory liability insurance, I’m open to it. He just can’t keep screaming tyranny or equating guns to bibles and expect me to take him seriously.


(If you have something to add to the conversation, feel free to leave your comments on Joe’s blog. Keep your shit crisp and on point. The wingnuts may be infuriating, but let’s not let our side be the one to devolve into cheap ad hominem attacks.)

It’s still dark outside.

There’s a trick to waking up in Los Angeles before the sun rises.

Take a moment to look out over the city. Center yourself on the downtown skyline shimmering in the distance, and focus on the low hum that radiates upward from the palm trees. The resonant frequency of the urban sprawl is the closest thing to silence you’ll hear for the rest of the day, and for some reason, it’s peaceful.

Los Angeles is benevolent at this hour. You feel totally alone and hyperaware of your insignificance, but it’s soothing, and in that moment before the horizon fades from black ink to blue, it’s just you and the city.

At almost any other time of day, Los Angeles stares back at you with total fucking indifference, but if you take a deep breath during one of these quiet pre-dawn moments, you can make eye contact with something out there, and it will make you feel like you belong.

UnderTech Women’s Compression Shorts
So yeah, someone thought it would be a good idea to combine Spanx and a motherfucking concealed carry holster, and now this is a thing that exists in America.
Fucking hell. All I can think about is having to peel these things off to go to the bathroom, and then having to sit in a stall holding a gun while you pee.
When am I gonna learn that browsing the internet at three in the morning is no cure for insomnia?

UnderTech Women’s Compression Shorts

So yeah, someone thought it would be a good idea to combine Spanx and a motherfucking concealed carry holster, and now this is a thing that exists in America.

Fucking hell. All I can think about is having to peel these things off to go to the bathroom, and then having to sit in a stall holding a gun while you pee.

When am I gonna learn that browsing the internet at three in the morning is no cure for insomnia?

Do you ever feel like changing that image of Britney holding a baby bottle? You’ve come a long way since Coke Talk.

Yeah, well. You gotta consider the alternative.

Ugh. This lazy bullshit has all the artistic merit of a low-rent “Dirty Debutantes” porn shoot. The only difference between Terry Richardson and actual pornographers like Ed Powers is the dwindling cultural relevance ascribed to him by his proximity to celebrity.
And Miley? We get it. You’re a wild child now. Whoop-de-fuckin’-do. At least the girls who do gonzo porn have the courage to fuck on camera, so until you’re sticking out that tongue to catch a load in your face, I’m not impressed with all your silly pretending. (Oh, and thanks for reminding us that Arizona Grapeade is for white trash.)
Fuck all this stupid nonsense.

Ugh. This lazy bullshit has all the artistic merit of a low-rent “Dirty Debutantes” porn shoot. The only difference between Terry Richardson and actual pornographers like Ed Powers is the dwindling cultural relevance ascribed to him by his proximity to celebrity.

And Miley? We get it. You’re a wild child now. Whoop-de-fuckin’-do. At least the girls who do gonzo porn have the courage to fuck on camera, so until you’re sticking out that tongue to catch a load in your face, I’m not impressed with all your silly pretending. (Oh, and thanks for reminding us that Arizona Grapeade is for white trash.)

Fuck all this stupid nonsense.


Hey Coke Talk!
Hope 2013 has been treating you well…just wanted to let you know that we are still reading and still out here making things happen, but all the while, keeping your motto in mind (see attached picture from our 2nd anniversary).
Thank you again from the bottom of our hearts for writing our wedding vows. They hold just as true today as they did the day we said them. We are building a wonderful life together as absolute best fucking friends, and our marriage has been more fucking awesome than we could ever imagine.
Cheers and love and all good things,
Jacob & Emma

Holy shit, you two are sickeningly adorable. I can’t believe it’s been two years already. Thank you for this!

Hey Coke Talk!

Hope 2013 has been treating you well…just wanted to let you know that we are still reading and still out here making things happen, but all the while, keeping your motto in mind (see attached picture from our 2nd anniversary).

Thank you again from the bottom of our hearts for writing our wedding vows. They hold just as true today as they did the day we said them. We are building a wonderful life together as absolute best fucking friends, and our marriage has been more fucking awesome than we could ever imagine.

Cheers and love and all good things,

Jacob & Emma

Holy shit, you two are sickeningly adorable. I can’t believe it’s been two years already. Thank you for this!