It’s wrong how much this turns me on.
Like, I wanna get fucked from behind against one of these machines in the back hallway of some shitty dive bar, and then right afterwards, yank one of those levers, tear open the pack with my teeth, and let him light my cigarette as I pull my underwear back on.
Hot damn, I gotta get back to New Orleans.
(Photo by the brilliant Clayton Cubbitt)

It’s wrong how much this turns me on.

Like, I wanna get fucked from behind against one of these machines in the back hallway of some shitty dive bar, and then right afterwards, yank one of those levers, tear open the pack with my teeth, and let him light my cigarette as I pull my underwear back on.

Hot damn, I gotta get back to New Orleans.


(Photo by the brilliant Clayton Cubbitt)

In honor of Hatefuck Tuesday, and by special request of several of you twisted bitches, I’ve put together The Ultimate Hate Fuck Mix, a fresh playlist of my favorite dark and angry fuck tunes. Try not to leave too many marks.

In honor of Hatefuck Tuesday, and by special request of several of you twisted bitches, I’ve put together The Ultimate Hate Fuck Mix, a fresh playlist of my favorite dark and angry fuck tunes. Try not to leave too many marks.

One of the ugliest summers on record is finally over, and not a moment too soon. In honor of the fall, both seasonally and spiritually, here’s my September Playlist.

One of the ugliest summers on record is finally over, and not a moment too soon. In honor of the fall, both seasonally and spiritually, here’s my September Playlist.

After yesterday’s termination incident, I’ve taken out an insurance policy by creating a completely separate tumblr account called Kill Coke Talk where I’ve duplicated my various themes and general data structure. 
It’s sort of the blogging equivalent of a FEMA trailer, where if my original account is ever terminated permanently, I’ll be able to flip a few switches and at least have a digital roof over my head.
It’s not an ideal solution, and hopefully I’ll never have to use it, but it’s really all I can do until someone develops a robust tumblr backup and archiving app.
In the meantime, go ahead and follow Kill Coke Talk. If anything ever happens to my original account, that’s where you’ll be able to find me.
Thanks, everyone.

After yesterday’s termination incident, I’ve taken out an insurance policy by creating a completely separate tumblr account called Kill Coke Talk where I’ve duplicated my various themes and general data structure. 

It’s sort of the blogging equivalent of a FEMA trailer, where if my original account is ever terminated permanently, I’ll be able to flip a few switches and at least have a digital roof over my head.

It’s not an ideal solution, and hopefully I’ll never have to use it, but it’s really all I can do until someone develops a robust tumblr backup and archiving app.

In the meantime, go ahead and follow Kill Coke Talk. If anything ever happens to my original account, that’s where you’ll be able to find me.

Thanks, everyone.

I’m back, bitches.

I’m back, bitches.

This is the email I woke up to. Terrifying.
Honestly, I don’t know what to do at this point. Within ten minutes of sounding the alarm via Twitter, my account had been restored, but I’m one of the lucky ones. I have the privilege of asking tens of thousands of people to write into Tumblr on my behalf, and I can only imagine how helpless someone might feel who woke up to the same letter with no way to do anything about it.
I went back and searched through my old email address. Sure enough, under the “Social” tab of a gmail account that I never use anymore were a handful of Tumblr DMCA notices, all originating from some sniveling cunt stain named Jeremy Banks of the IFPI. I saw none of the notices until this morning, not that it would have mattered, because they were all for songs that I posted years ago.
I’ve been posting music for over half a damn decade. I have no idea what songs Jeremy Banks is suddenly going to give a shit about. Short of deleting every song I’ve ever posted, there’s nothing I can do to retroactively protect myself from this kind of arbitrary account termination.
Shit, we all post music. We all click the little box. We all know damn well that we don’t own the copyright, but we do it anyway. We’re not stealing. We’re not making money off the backs of musicians. We’re sharing our favorite songs with our friends.
God damn, I’m still shaking from all the adrenaline. I’m genuinely upset right now. People are suggesting that I export my blogs and migrate to independent hosting, but I don’t want to have to do that.
I love Tumblr. I love the community it fosters. I love my dashboard full of people I follow, and I love the interactions I have with all the people who follow me. I don’t want to leave Tumblr, but I don’t want to be so beholden to the whims of some DMCA termination robot either.
At the very least, I need to find a way to separate and protect Dear Coquette and my other blogs where I’ve never posted any music.
Ugh. This is not good. This is not good at all.

This is the email I woke up to. Terrifying.

Honestly, I don’t know what to do at this point. Within ten minutes of sounding the alarm via Twitter, my account had been restored, but I’m one of the lucky ones. I have the privilege of asking tens of thousands of people to write into Tumblr on my behalf, and I can only imagine how helpless someone might feel who woke up to the same letter with no way to do anything about it.

I went back and searched through my old email address. Sure enough, under the “Social” tab of a gmail account that I never use anymore were a handful of Tumblr DMCA notices, all originating from some sniveling cunt stain named Jeremy Banks of the IFPI. I saw none of the notices until this morning, not that it would have mattered, because they were all for songs that I posted years ago.

I’ve been posting music for over half a damn decade. I have no idea what songs Jeremy Banks is suddenly going to give a shit about. Short of deleting every song I’ve ever posted, there’s nothing I can do to retroactively protect myself from this kind of arbitrary account termination.

Shit, we all post music. We all click the little box. We all know damn well that we don’t own the copyright, but we do it anyway. We’re not stealing. We’re not making money off the backs of musicians. We’re sharing our favorite songs with our friends.

God damn, I’m still shaking from all the adrenaline. I’m genuinely upset right now. People are suggesting that I export my blogs and migrate to independent hosting, but I don’t want to have to do that.

I love Tumblr. I love the community it fosters. I love my dashboard full of people I follow, and I love the interactions I have with all the people who follow me. I don’t want to leave Tumblr, but I don’t want to be so beholden to the whims of some DMCA termination robot either.

At the very least, I need to find a way to separate and protect Dear Coquette and my other blogs where I’ve never posted any music.

Ugh. This is not good. This is not good at all.

I’ll be back in a few days. In the meantime, I’ve put together a little playlist titled August Can Go Fuck Itself.
Seriously, though. This entire month turned out to be one long state of emergency, just a stream of bad news both for me personally and for the rest of the world. (I had to go through some shit, and I haven’t been well.)
Anyway, some of the songs on the August Can Go Fuck Itself playlist seemed appropriate, and some just helped get me through the past couple weeks.
Here’s to a better September.

I’ll be back in a few days. In the meantime, I’ve put together a little playlist titled August Can Go Fuck Itself.

Seriously, though. This entire month turned out to be one long state of emergency, just a stream of bad news both for me personally and for the rest of the world. (I had to go through some shit, and I haven’t been well.)

Anyway, some of the songs on the August Can Go Fuck Itself playlist seemed appropriate, and some just helped get me through the past couple weeks.

Here’s to a better September.

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.