The Strikingly Bizarre Patches of the DEA
Just a bunch of fucking dorks earning Girl Scout merit badges.

The Strikingly Bizarre Patches of the DEA

Just a bunch of fucking dorks earning Girl Scout merit badges.

Here, LAPD. I fixed your shitty press release.

BEFORE:

Los Angeles
Police Department
News Release
Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Officer-Involved Shooting in Newton Area NR14309lp

Los Angeles:  On Monday, August 11, 2014, around 8:20 pm, Newton Patrol Division officers conducted an investigative stop in the 200 block of West 65th Street.

During the stop a struggle ensued, which resulted in an officer-involved-shooting. It is unknown if the suspect has any gang affiliations.

The suspect was transported to a local hospital and after lifesaving efforts he succumbed to his injuries.

No officers were injured.

Force Investigation Division responded to the incident and will conduct a thorough investigation of the officer-involved-shooting.

The investigation will ultimately be reviewed by the Chief of Police, the Office of the Inspector General and Board of Police Commissioners for compliance with the Departments use-of-force policy, which states that an officer’s use-of-force actions must be objectively reasonable.

Additionally, the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Justice System Integrity Division will conduct a comprehensive review of the facts of the officer-involved-shooting.

Anyone with information is asked to call Force Investigation Division at (213) 486-5230.  During non-business hours or on weekends, calls should be directed to 1-877-LAPD-24-7 (877-527-3247).  Anyone wishing to remain anonymous should call Crime Stoppers at 1-800-222-TIPS (800-222-8477).  Tipsters may also contact Crime Stoppers by texting to phone number 274637 (C-R-I-M-E-S on most keypads) with a cell phone.  All text messages should begin with the letters “LAPD.”  Tipsters may also go to LAPDOnline.org, click on “webtips” and follow the prompts.


AFTER:

Los Angeles
Police Department
News Release
Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Officer-Committed Homicide in Newton Area NR14309lp

Los Angeles: On Monday, August 11, 2014, around 8:20pm, Newton Patrol Division officers conducted a Fourth Amendment violating stop in the 200 block of West 65th Street.

During the stop, a black man tried to defend himself from being beaten by police, which resulted in one of the officers panicking, drawing his weapon, and shooting the unarmed, mentally ill man three times in the back while he was laying on the ground. It is unknown if the officer is a racist.

The victim was transported to a local hospital, and after lifesaving efforts, he succumbed to his multiple gunshot wounds.

No officers were ever in any danger.

The Rat Squad responded to the incident, and will conduct a self-serving exercise in public relations as per usual.

The public relations effort will ultimately be reviewed by the Chief of Police, the Office of the Inspector General, and Board of Police Commissioners to make sure the shooting won’t blow back on anyone’s political career, and if public opinion requires it, they might make an example out of the officer by suspending him without pay.

Additionally, the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Justice System Integrity Division will attempt to justify its annual budget by filling out a bunch of forms.

Any rats who’d like to rat are asked to call the Rat Squad at (213) 486-5230.  During non-business hours or on weekends, calls should be directed to 1-877-LAPD-24-7 (877-527-3247).  Rats wishing to remain anonymous should call the Rat Line at 1-800-222-TIPS (800-222-8477).  Rats may also contact the Rat Line by texting to phone number 274637 (C-R-I-M-E-S on most keypads) with a cell phone.  All text messages should begin with the letters “LAPD.”  Rats may also go to LAPDOnline.org, click on “webtips” and follow the prompts.

A man in a stars-and-stripes t-shirt picks up burning tear gas canister, hurls it back at the militarized riot cops who just shot it at him, and all the while he never puts down his bag of chips.*
This photograph captures the purest essence of America I’ve ever seen. I hope everyone under siege in St. Louis finds safety tonight, and of course, fuck the police.
* RED HOT RIPLETS #fortherecord

A man in a stars-and-stripes t-shirt picks up burning tear gas canister, hurls it back at the militarized riot cops who just shot it at him, and all the while he never puts down his bag of chips.*

This photograph captures the purest essence of America I’ve ever seen. I hope everyone under siege in St. Louis finds safety tonight, and of course, fuck the police.


* RED HOT RIPLETS #fortherecord

A friend of mine was going through some boxes and found her Sony Walkman from back in the day. The cassette inside was an old-school mixtape her very first boyfriend had made for her called, “A Tape To Remember 1988.”
The damn thing hadn’t been played in a quarter century, but it still worked. She shared the track listing with me, and it’s such an amazing mix, I couldn’t help but pass it along to all of you.
Enjoy the latest playlist!

A friend of mine was going through some boxes and found her Sony Walkman from back in the day. The cassette inside was an old-school mixtape her very first boyfriend had made for her called, “A Tape To Remember 1988.”

The damn thing hadn’t been played in a quarter century, but it still worked. She shared the track listing with me, and it’s such an amazing mix, I couldn’t help but pass it along to all of you.

Enjoy the latest playlist!

The conversation continues

errantventures said:

Deflection is cute, I almost forgot the bit where you called 5 million Israelis advocates of genocide because a revolting woman wrote something sick. 1500 civilian casualties is nauseating to think about, but it’s not a genocide. There’s almost 2 million people in the Gaza strip, and the IDF are shelling the launch sites of mortars. Shells miss. The IDF doesn’t try anywhere near enough to make sure that shit doesn’t happen. But we’re not talking deaths squads mowing down civilians in the street.

I apologize if my comments came off as glib. Your post angered me. It made me angry because I lost three cousins in 2006 when a member of Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigades walked into a cafe in Jerusalem with a backpack stuffed with construction explosive and nails. It made me angry because my grandmother spent 6 hours in a bomb shelter in Tel Aviv yesterday while the air raid sirens wailed.

It made me angry that the first sentence of Hamas’s charter declares their intent to exterminate Jews across the globe, and an LA socialite has the gall to sit behind her laptop and call Israelis everywhere genocidal. Hardly any of us desire the murder of civilians, we want to be able to take the bus in the morning without wondering if the man next to us is about to trigger a small ball of plastic explosives in a fit of religious ecstasy.


Have you ever actually read the Hamas charter? It’s a pathetic document distilled from the purest forms of willful ignorance and human weakness.

The first sentence doesn’t declare their intent to exterminate Jews across the globe. The first sentence is just a verse from the Qur’an, a bit of scriptural puffery basically saying that the nation of Islam has a right to exist and a right to defend itself. (Sound familiar?)

The second part of the preamble is what you’re referring to. It’s a quote by the asshole who started the Muslim Brotherhood that translates as, “Israel will exist and will continue to exist until Islam will obliterate it, just as it obliterated others before it.”

It’s a nasty sentiment to be sure, but it’s completely irrelevant in the contemporary political landscape, and Hamas certainly doesn’t call for “exterminating Jews across the globe.” That idea belonged the Germans a while back, but Israel gets along fine with Germany these days, and quite frankly, that means there’s hope for us all.

You can call me an LA socialite, but I’m not some dilettante. I have a deeper understanding of Middle Eastern politics than most folks you’ll meet this side of the fertile crescent. I could blather on for hours about how the Palestinians are pawns and Israel is a castled rook in what is essentially an international round of energy policy chess, but I really don’t give a shit about geo-political game theory when children are being slaughtered.

If you set aside all the external bullshit, the Palestinian/Israeli problem as it exists today is really about two things: god and anger. Get rid of the god and get rid of the anger and everything else becomes a simple zoning issue. (You may think I’m being glib, but I’m not.)

The only reason it remains impossible is because both sides feel justified in their god and their anger. You certainly feel justified in yours. You snipe at me from across the internet because of your cousins and your grandmother and because you feel righteous. I understand that. Really, I do.

Now, imagine your anger multiplied by a thousand, and then give that anger an actual sniper rifle with permission from god and country to kill. You wanna know what happens? This. You may not want to believe it, but death squads really are mowing down civilians in the streets. Deny it all you want, but what’s happening in Gaza really is a genocide, and it all comes back to god and anger.

The anger you feel at me is the same anger those IDF soldiers feel as they shoot innocent civilians in the streets. It’s the same anger that every Palestinian teenager feels who’s ever thrown a rock on the West Bank. It’s the same anger that every Israeli settler feels who’s ever committed an act of violence. It’s the same anger that every member of Hamas feels who’s ever fired a rocket or strapped on a vest of explosives. It’s the same anger for everyone, and the most ridiculous irony is that it’s also the same stupid, jealous bronze-age god.

The Israelis and the Palestinians both say they want to live in peace, and almost all of them do, but the realities of the world make that impossible. Old and ignorant men and their intractable, hard-line politics make peace impossible. Tribalism makes peace impossible. Religion makes peace impossible. Anger makes peace impossible, and all sides are equally to blame.

Meanwhile, children are being slaughtered in the streets. Innocent children, and all you care to say is, “Shells miss.”

Shells miss, indeed. Shells miss, and innocents are murdered, and it doesn’t matter what side you’re on. You don’t ever get to defend that.

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.

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.

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.

"Beauty privilege is very real. None of us are imagining it, and if we aren’t born genetic lottery winners, our only option is to compensate with style, grace, and charm. Of course, none of that shit comes cheap. That’s kind of the whole point. It’s all meant to be aspirational and exclusionary. We’re supposed to feel depressed by our skin, agitated by our bodies, and anxious about our invisibility. That’s the insidious subtlety of social control. The worst part is that we know in our rational minds that it’s all bullshit, and yet we’re still plagued with self-loathing when we can’t live up to unattainable beauty standards. No matter how much self-acceptance we achieve, we can still look in the mirror and instantly catalog all the things about ourselves that we don’t think measure up. It’s maddening. It makes us feel like hypocrites even though it’s not our hypocrisy."

The Coquette @ Adult-Mag

(I love this. There’s nothing that makes me happier as a writer than finding my work quoted and reblogged all over tumblr.)

For those of you who dig my taste in music, I’ve added a new playlists section to my website. I started with six playlists, and I’ll try and add at least one every month. The music is playable through the site directly, and you can download each playlist as a zipped folder of MP3s.

For those of you who dig my taste in music, I’ve added a new playlists section to my website. I started with six playlists, and I’ll try and add at least one every month. The music is playable through the site directly, and you can download each playlist as a zipped folder of MP3s.

There must have been at least one ancient culture whose name for the Milky Way would have translated as “Giant Nighttime Sky Vagina.”

There must have been at least one ancient culture whose name for the Milky Way would have translated as “Giant Nighttime Sky Vagina.”

Oh, by the way. I finally got around to updating my website.
Check that shit out.

Oh, by the way. I finally got around to updating my website.

Check that shit out.

A friend of mine did a tarot card reading for me the other night, and it was actually a lot of fun.
Apparently, the King of Cups in that position means I’m about to meet some kind of sugar daddy. I dunno. The King of Swords as my challenge card means I have a problem with authority. Duh.
She mentioned past tricksters, possible burdens ahead, and an inner conflict that comes from my fear moving into the future. It wasn’t exactly fortune telling, but I really enjoyed the process of building a narrative out of the cards and their relative positions.
How would you guys interpret my reading?

A friend of mine did a tarot card reading for me the other night, and it was actually a lot of fun.

Apparently, the King of Cups in that position means I’m about to meet some kind of sugar daddy. I dunno. The King of Swords as my challenge card means I have a problem with authority. Duh.

She mentioned past tricksters, possible burdens ahead, and an inner conflict that comes from my fear moving into the future. It wasn’t exactly fortune telling, but I really enjoyed the process of building a narrative out of the cards and their relative positions.

How would you guys interpret my reading?

Frances Bean Cobain Warns Lana Del Rey Not To Romanticize Early Death Of The Universe
Frances Bean Cobain – daughter of the late Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain –  added her voice to the debate surrounding Lana Del Rey’s controversial Guardian interview in which she said “The universe should be dead already.”
In the exclusive interview earlier this month, Del Rey made a number of controversial remarks regarding cosmic inflation theory. The “Born to Die” singer noted that, “properties of the newly discovered Higgs boson suggest that the universe should have collapsed just microseconds after its explosive birth.”
Cobain took to Twitter to address Del Rey’s comments: “I know ppl like u think it’s ‘cool’ to theorize about quantum fluctuations, but the heat death of the early universe isn’t something to romanticize.”
Del Rey replied to Cobain on Twitter, alleging that the Guardian reporter had baited her, adding, “I 💜 conventional models of cosmic inflation, but we have to explain primordial gravitation waves.”
Cobain responded, “I’m not attacking anyone. I have no animosity toward Lana. I was just saying that gravity wasn’t the only force at play after the Big Bang.”
With the news that Lana Del Rey recently split with her boyfriend of three years, Barrie-James O’Neill, we can’t imagine the singer is factoring in all the latest advances in supersymmetry theory when speculating about quantum disruptions in the Higgs field.

Frances Bean Cobain Warns Lana Del Rey Not To Romanticize Early Death Of The Universe

Frances Bean Cobain – daughter of the late Nirvana frontman Kurt Cobain – added her voice to the debate surrounding Lana Del Rey’s controversial Guardian interview in which she said “The universe should be dead already.”

In the exclusive interview earlier this month, Del Rey made a number of controversial remarks regarding cosmic inflation theory. The “Born to Die” singer noted that, “properties of the newly discovered Higgs boson suggest that the universe should have collapsed just microseconds after its explosive birth.”

Cobain took to Twitter to address Del Rey’s comments: “I know ppl like u think it’s ‘cool’ to theorize about quantum fluctuations, but the heat death of the early universe isn’t something to romanticize.”

Del Rey replied to Cobain on Twitter, alleging that the Guardian reporter had baited her, adding, “I 💜 conventional models of cosmic inflation, but we have to explain primordial gravitation waves.”

Cobain responded, “I’m not attacking anyone. I have no animosity toward Lana. I was just saying that gravity wasn’t the only force at play after the Big Bang.”

With the news that Lana Del Rey recently split with her boyfriend of three years, Barrie-James O’Neill, we can’t imagine the singer is factoring in all the latest advances in supersymmetry theory when speculating about quantum disruptions in the Higgs field.