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The Coquette*
Staggering through life with an eager nose and a sharp tongue.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but when publishers start throwing around Hillary Clinton money for a book proposal by a “rare literary talent,” I certainly expect more than this. It’s not funny. It’s not insightful. It’s not the least bit entertaining. It’s just a tepid exercise in neurotic navel gazing by a privileged white girl from New York who just happens to have her own show on HBO. That’s fine, I suppose. The folks at Random House can squander their millions however they see fit, and kudos to Lena for cashing in on her Woody Allen meets Candace Bushnell schtick. Still, in a book that purports to be about advice, you’d think the voice of a generation might have something to say about the world that exists beyond the end of her nose. Then again, maybe not, and maybe that’s the larger point about a generation.
When I found out that CokeTalk, a.k.a. Coquette, had some new handbags, I went out and bought several. They are perfect for a sassy night out on the town, or sassy everyday use.
Oh, Chuck, you magnificent bearded lunatic. You know how to make me smile.
I’d like to announce the latest addition to my handbag collection, The Floozy! This geometric series of chained pochettes is available in a wide assortment of shape and color combinations.
The Floozy is the perfect bag for a night out on the town with just enough room for the essentials (lipstick, cell phone, credit card, ID, and cash.) The gold plated chain is adjustable, and the bag can be worn over the shoulder or as a crossbody. A hidden magnetic closure also allows you to pile the chain on top and use the Floozy as a large wallet.
Each bag is handmade in Los Angeles from suede or metallic lambskin, and of course, every Floozy comes with the Coquette’s signature “Stay Wild” interior condom pocket.
I’ve made a limited number of Floozies available for the holidays. Buy them now at my online boutique!
Someone wrote in asking how things were going in my life. They noticed I hadn’t posted any fresh shenanigans, and that these days I seemed like more of an icon than a person.
Icon. That made me laugh. Honestly, the world has been beating the shit out of me lately. I haven’t been posting about my personal life because I’d rather not bitch and moan on the internet.
On the bright side, Americans are stockpiling Twinkies while Israel gears up for another fucking holy war. Good times.
I just want to curl up in bed until 2013.
“It’s so much better to be an ex-girlfriend than it is to be an ex-wife”
Oh sweet baby Jesus! Somebody finally fuckin gets it!
I forgot to mention this before, but signed copies of Notes To My Future Husband are available here.
Thanks so much for reading!
Real Gargoyles of the One Percent
America’s Next Entry Level Piece of Runway Meat
Keeping Up with A Family of Narcissistic Fame Whores
Dancing with D-List Celebrities Clinging to Cultural Relevance
Here Comes A Child With Type II Diabetes
Jersey Shore
Oh, this movie. This beautiful, beautiful movie. It’s a shame that the word “breathtaking” has been so fucked out by hack movie critics, because it actually applies to Cloud Atlas. Sure, it was three hours long, and I probably shouldn’t have seen it for the first time stoned out of my gourd, but damn — this movie rocked my fucking world.
Structurally, Cloud Atlas is a challenge. There is no way to absorb everything in one viewing. The film’s layers aren’t just stacked on top of one another — they extend outward and through time in an exploding fractal of visual, textual, and cultural motifs. It’s fun when you catch one of the echoing references, but don’t get greedy and try to catch them all. You will only frustrate yourself. Just sit back, let it flow over you, and trust that more will be revealed when you see it again.
It’s not all work, though. Emotionally, Cloud Atlas is as easy as it gets. The narrative may be complicated, but it is still very traditional. People who compare this film to Malick’s Tree of Life are off the mark. Both films are deeply philosophical, but the Wachowskis aren’t writing a poem. They’re telling a story, and they’re damn good at telling stories. You may not know what to think at any given moment, but you’ll know exactly how to feel in every scene.
Intellectually, Cloud Atlas is a fucking masterpiece. Anyone who says otherwise is either incapable or unwilling to deconstruct a film with so many moving parts, the sum of which aren’t meant to be as great as the whole. If you didn’t enjoy it, that’s fine. If you didn’t connect with it, that’s fine too. You don’t have to love it, but you sure as hell have to respect it. It reaches further and achieves more than the very best films from any of the genres it encompasses.
If you haven’t already, go see it. If you have, by all means, go see it again.
All politics aside, I wanted to take a moment out of this ridiculous election cycle to say thank you. You have entertained and instructed four generations of children in over 140 countries. You have revolutionized the way we think about education and childhood development. You are an American institution, and you have made the world a better place. Wall Street gets all the money, and Main Street gets all the love, but Sesame Street has steadfastly been going about its fundamental purpose of preparing kids for school since 1969. It is without a doubt the most important children’s program in the history of television, and all of its denizens — be they Muppet or human — deserve a certain measure of respect. Big Bird, you certainly deserve better than to be made a political symbol. The last two weeks have marked a low point in the national discourse as pundits and political operatives on both sides have played a big, yellow, feathery game of tug-of-war. It would be silly if it weren’t so degrading, and all because the tiniest fraction of our tax dollars account for a small percentage of Sesame Street’s budget. It’s fine if the grown-ups want to squabble over whether federal funds should be used to subsidize public television, but let’s not forget where we learned our 1-2-3’s. Sesame Street is one of the single greatest cultural achievements in American history, and there’s not another instance where we’ve gotten so much educational impact for so little money. (If the Count helped us do the math, no doubt he would laugh at how good a deal we’ve all gotten. You can almost hear him now, “AH! AH! AH!”) On behalf of everyone who understands the importance of early childhood education (and everyone who loves the Muppets), thank you for doing your job, and for doing it so well. Yours where the air is sweet, The Coquette
GPOY
“Notes To My Future Husband” hits the shelves this week!
I have to admit, I woke up this morning pretty fuckin’ excited about it. I might even be a little freaked out, but hey, that’s a good thing.
I know I’m supposed to tell you to go buy a copy, and yeah, that’s awesome if you do, but if you really wanna help me out, I’d like to send you on a larger mission that might turn out to be a lot of fun.
I want you to go to all of your local bookstores this week. Every last one of them. It doesn’t just have to be Barnes and Noble. It can be Urban Outfitters or motherfucking Walmart. (I ain’t gonna judge where you score your reading material.) Just get out there and look for copies of my book.
If a store doesn’t have any copies in stock, find a manager and tell them to order a case of that shit pronto. Put in a formal request. Pester them until they promise to put it on their shelves.
If they do have copies in stock, do me the massive favor of arranging them on the shelf so that the cover faces outward. (It sounds ridiculous, but that shit makes a huge difference.) If you’re feeling feisty, feel free to take a fresh stack and feature them on the most prominent table in the store.
Be sure and snap a picture of your bookstore handiwork, email it to me at dearcoquette@gmail.com, and I promise I will find a way to thank you.
Dear Lindsay Lohan,
This past week, you were arrested. Again. This time, it was for leaving the scene of an accident after hitting a pedestrian on your way to a downtown Manhattan nightclub in a Porsche borrowed from one of your Euro-douche artist friends that happened to be registered to one of the Real Housewives of Miami.
I know that’s just a typical Tuesday night in your whacked-out world, but sweetheart, that kind of absurdity should really prompt you to take a hard look at your life choices. For starters, it’s time for you to hand over the keys. You don’t get to drive anymore.
I know, I know. This latest incident wasn’t your fault. Nothing is ever your fault. Not taking responsibility for your actions is a recurring theme in the storybook nightmare you call a life, but hey, for the sake of argument, let’s say that this one isn’t on you. Let’s assume that the guy you grazed in the driveway of the Dream Hotel really is some shady dude looking for a quick payday. So what? Just because you didn’t bolt à la Halle Berry doesn’t excuse the fact that you were behind the wheel in the first place.
What the hell were you even doing driving to a club in New York? Nobody drives in New York, much less a train-wreck paparazzi magnet on parole with a D.U.I. conviction and a history of hitting things in her Porsche. Come on, girl. You should know better by now. Hire a damn driver already. He can chauffeur you around in another Porsche if you want, but please, let a professional with insurance get you from party A to party B.
It’s a shame that your mother and father can’t be the ones to rein you in when it comes to this kind of nonsense. Unfortunately, you were raised by fame-hungry wolves who’d rather be your publicists than your parents. I’m genuinely sorry that you are the offspring of such shallow, narcissistic monsters, but at a certain point, you have to realize that Michael and Dina will never be a positive influence on your life.
You’re on your own, kid. Sure, you’ve still got a team of lawyers, stylists and other assorted handlers, but you’re the captain of the sinking ship that is your career. “Mean Girls” was an awfully long time ago, and this upcoming Elizabeth Taylor made-for-TV monstrosity is going to be a disaster even by Lifetime Movie standards.
The sad truth is that you don’t have much time left before the pop-culture celebrity machine is finished chewing you up. If you want to be remembered as something other than a hot Botoxed mess, you’d better step up and accept some personal responsibility for your behavior.
Get it together, girl. Start acting like an adult before you flame out forever.
Yours in obscurity,
The Coquette
(Read my Unsolicited Advice column weekends in The Daily.)
Dear Chris Brown,
Three years ago, you punched your girlfriend repeatedly in the face while screaming that you were going to to kill her. You smashed her bloodied head against a car window, bit her ear and fingers, and placed her in a choke hold until she began to lose consciousness. The beating was brutal, sustained, and left your girlfriend hospitalized.
That really should have been it for you, but you hired a crisis management team, expressed an obligatory amount of remorse, and a surprising number of your idiot fans were willing to overlook the fact that you savagely beat a female.
This past week, you revealed your freshly inked neck tattoo, and it’s plainly obvious that it’s the face of a battered woman, one that bears a striking resemblance to your ex-girlfriend.
Of course, being the little punk that you are, you denied that the tattoo was of her likeness. Instead, your publicist went into damage control mode and made the ridiculous claim that your tattoo was based on a MAC Cosmetics face chart inspired by a Mexican sugar skull. To cap off the absurdity, you tweeted, “I’m an artist and this is art. Dia de los Muertos.”
I’m sorry, but you are not an artist. You’re not even a man. You are a stupid, violent child with a minor talent, and you don’t seem to realize how easily replaceable you are. If Ne-Yo and Usher each produced one extra auto-tuned B-side a year, no one would even notice you were gone.
Your music is cheap candy, a bunch of heavily processed garbage filled with artificial sweeteners and no nutritional value. That’s fine. There’s a market for R&B flavored bubble gum, but don’t go around calling yourself an artist, and let’s not pretend that your new tattoo is art.
Your tattoo is nothing but a toy badge, an empty threat from an angry boy who resents his role as a pop culture villain. Well guess what, Chris? You’re always going to be the villain. Nothing is ever going to change that, and if you don’t like it, then feel free to step off the stage.
No one will miss you.
Yours in disgust,
The Coquette
(Read my Unsolicited Advice column weekends in The Daily.)
Dear Ann Romney,
I saw your speech the other night. Thanks for talking to me from the heart, because you pretty much confirmed what I already knew to be true, which is that you’re the type of lady with hand sanitizer coursing through her veins.
I’ve known wealthy, astringent women like you all my life. I grew up around them. Not with them. Around them.
My mother always looked up to women like you. She respects you, and she wants to be more like you. Like the Oscar de la Renta you wore for the speech, you are an aspirational brand for women like my mom. That’s fine. I understand why she thinks that way, and, like Laura Bush before you, my mom is entitled to her heroes.
That’s not to say I don’t respect you. I certainly do. I know how hard it is to maintain that level of poise, and I’m familiar with the pathological dedication it takes to keep up appearances. Women like you are a special breed, and like all your fancy prancing horses, I know how incredibly difficult it is to make it look so easy. (By the way, can we just take a moment and savor the delicious irony of a politician’s wife who competes in dressage? Mmm. That’s some Tom Wolfe-level stuff, right there.)
For the record, I’m not going to vote for your husband. Don’t worry, though. My mother definitely will, and if your husband happens to win, I have no doubt that you’d make an excellent First Lady. You were born for that kind of thing. You’d rock the East Wing Jackie style with a Republican twist, and I’m sure you’d pick one helluva china pattern.
Whichever way it goes in November, you’re destined to continue living a fine life filled with philanthropy and politics. You’ll always be important to some circle, and I’m happy for you. Speaking for the rest of us, though — and this is coming from my heart — stop using your money and influence to chip away at women’s reproductive rights.
That great collective sigh you’re hearing from the women whom you profess to “love” so much isn’t because we had a rough day. It’s because we don’t appreciate the hypocrisy of someone like you kissing our asses on national television while quietly working against us.
Please feel free to do whatever you like with the window dressing, but don’t spend another second advocating against a woman’s choice. At a certain point, that kind of thing is really unforgivable.
Yours in a red dress,
The Coquette
(Read my Unsolicited Advice column weekends in The Daily.)
Listen up, all you lovers and fuckers. I’ve got some more really cool news. I’m pleased to announce that I’ve partnered up with Playboy to write an unfiltered column for all the guys out there on the current state of American manhood.
I’ll be reaching out to Playboy readers to talk about everything from contemporary sexuality and gender politics to basic etiquette and grooming.
My introductory column went live today, so check it out!
