I've received several heartening emails from male Ranch readers reassuring me that they will continue to be faithful readers despite my recent focus on menstruation and diet chow. However, it looks like I've now managed to piss off a large klatch of chicks. Downer! DIABLO CODY IS HAVING THE WORST WEEK EVER!

I wrote this article with only a modicum of controversy in mind; really, it was intended as a harmless trend piece with the slightest frisson of feminist criticism nestled within. And now I've managed to anger lots of crafters who've accused me  (based on this wee creampuff article!) of hating women, being angry at the world, disemboweling manatees with a spork, killing hobos just to get an erection, etc. I feel like Ann Coulter!

As a journalist, I have to take criticism with a grain of Papa Dash; hostile letters come with the territory. Besides, I'm used to enraging certain women--for God's sake, my cell phone screensaver says "Tit Inspector." I like to assume a sexist pig persona for entertainment purposes--and I rarely get any flak because people understand my loony, priapic schtick. And I would have gotten away with it entirely if it weren't for these meddling girls!

 (Cody is led away by the sherriff, shaking her fists in disbelief.)

Of course, I've also received plenty of positive letters and feedback--lots of knitters and crafters were overjoyed that I chose to spotlight their obsession, and most people that read the entire article were pleased by the upbeat, redemptive tone of the ending. Plus, it probably generated some publicity for Crafty Planet, which has become the official supplier/pusherman for my nascent crossstitch addicition. I like Crafty Planet. And needles. And thread. And women. Especially strippers, because they always rub their noses in my pussy.

I don't normally acknowledge anything anyone writes about me, so this is kind of weird. But hey, it's refreshing to be panned after weeks of having my anus French kissed by various industry types. There's nothing like a flock of irate Midwestern knitters to reduce inflammation of the ego!

(A female journalist I know says she once received a letter from some feminists calling for her sterilization. I suppose I got off easy. As far as I know, I'm still allowed to reproduce, but if I turn up stabbed in the womb with a knitting needle, you know who to blame!)

I might actually finish this blog entry today, as I dutifully took my Sudafed (I don't have allergies, but psueudoephedrine focuses my poor scrambled noggin when all else inevitably fails.)

That said, let the grumping commence!

*Carrie Underwood won American Idol. Lovely. I hate that "Place Inside You" song she sang. Sure, I want Bo Bice inside me, but if Carrie Underwood was inside me, I'd be on the first bus to the Mayo Clinic. Hopefully, their world-renowned oncologists would be talented enough to remove all traces of the dense, spidery Carrieblastoma. Seriously, though, she seems like a nice enough kid. I wish her all the success of Ruben Studdard. 

*Recently, after ten years of Swatch-like regularity, my period decided it wanted to start coming a day earlier than usual. This would be find if it also ended a day earlier, but no such luck. So now I get an extra day of crimson joy each month. Meanwhile, my dog keeps tearing apart the bathroom wastebasket in search of delicious spent tampons. If you thought my house was unhygienic before, what with the pets and the child and the laziness, get ready for a whole new world of scatalogical ooginess! That's not Vamp on my nails, kids.

*I have visible black roots advancing on my scalp. Not exactly a tragedy, but annoying enough. I would touch them up, except I have no idea what color to choose, seeing as my hair is a crazy quilt of contrasting shades. It's dark at the roots, then the next two inches are a tawny light brown, then the rest is a spectrum of blondes ranging from strawberry to platinum. I look like a fugitive who bleached her hair in a mirrorless truckstop bathroom to evade the cops.

*I'm suddenly tired of getting drunk and watching television. I have no idea what to do with myself!

*These two Hollywood hotshots called my house yesterday, which is becoming a not-uncommon occurance, and I was so caught off guard that I came off like an utter northwoods hick. I actually told them I had to go because my casserole was ready. Wince.

*Carrie Underwood.

*A Lean Cuisine is not enough food. Two Lean Cuisines are not enough food.

*Once I'm blogging about Lean Cuisine, hair dye and menstrual blood, I've officially lost my male audience.

I think I like Tom Cruise now. This is after years of finding him nauseating.

Did you see him on Oprah? Boyfriend was chock full o' nuts. He was enflamed. He was leaping onto the couch, yelping, writhing, genuflecting to O.

I had no idea he was that insane, that unbridled, that giddy. Maybe Tom and I have something in common. Neither of us believes in being subtle when we have an urgent, throbbing boner for someone extraordinary. Tommy's in love with Mushy McValtrex, and he wants all of us to know!

I might have even let out the faintest squee while I was watching. He's kind of cute in a shameful, reptilian, Justin Guarini way. Sue me.

Weirdly, I think this kind of works for me.

Been spendin' most our lives livin' in a gangsta's paradise!

So I got the new Weezer album this weekend. I've had an on/off obsession with the world's least cohesive band since their debut dropped; my high school friend Pat sounded exactly like Rivers Cuomo and used to sing "The Sweater Song" all the time. (Pat is a Broadway performer these days, so I can only assume that he surpassed Cuomo in vocal talent at some point. Although probably not in cocaine consumption.)

Cuomo is such a marblemouth. Until a very close listen this morning, I thought their new single went, "Beverly Hills...rollin' like a sufarfaree." I thought perhaps a sufarfaree was some kind of Buddhist-chic luxury vehicle piloted by Rick Rubin.

(Alas, the actual lyric is celebrity. So much for seducing Ione Skye in saffron-upholstered reclining rear seats.)

Anyway, the Weezer album is good, and I suspect it will endear itself to me even further upon subsequent listenings. I used to strip to "Hash Pipe" almost every day, and I never got sick of that song. I'd spin on the pole so fast that the "money girls" would purse their glistening lips disapprovingly; speed and enthusiasm were discouraged in those places. Plus, I'd always forget to land facing the customer. Always land facing the customer. You don't want him to think you're using that pole for fun, do you?

I'm having a pretty bad hair day. I always overdo it with product and then my hair is the worst kind of blonde--a sticky, fluffy, '80s blonde that can't be fingercombed into slick, piece-y submission. I could do pigtails but they always look like horns, and that's too cutely self-referential for my taste.

Smoothie-flavored Skittles should not exist. They're like hardened discs of fruity blender schmutz. Besides, Skittles are just not the right medium with which to exploit the smoothie craze. What's next, wheatgrass-flavored Spree? Breastmilk-flavored Doritos? The juxtaposition of perishable freshness with essential Skittle-ness just doesn't work. I like classic Skittles, the kind in the red pouch that you spilled all over the movie theater floor when you went to see The Black Cauldron with your mom and cousins.

P.S. JENNIFER VEJVODA, nee GLOSA: Email me. This is my first plea of many to come. I can't find your number(s) and your address has too many numbers for my tiny dinosaur brain. I have to tell you something that's going to crack your ass up.

Interesting tidbit: When I asked for opinions about blue nail polish (survey says: not dag!) I received responses exclusively from women. But when I asked for opinions about God, all my responses came from dudes. Either the ladies are totally self-absorbed (woo!) or the dudes fail to acknowledge the sobering, near-religious importance of having au courant fingertips. I choose to believe both.

More polish nostalgia (polishstalgia?): I watched part of Pulp Fiction last night and found myself ogling Uma Thurman's short, Vamp-lacquered nails. Remember Vamp? It was the color of a really gnarly menstrual clot, and everyone, even squeamish Gap girls in straw espadrilles, wore it. Of course, if you were anything like me, you weren't about to shell out $15 for a bottle of viscous trend-goo. Revlon's shameless knockoff, "Vixen," worked just fine. Hell, even Wet n' Wild (which dried to the consistency of Liquid Paper and chipped if you touched it, breathed on it, or even examined it too intently) came out with a Vamp doppelganger.

You'll notice that the article I linked to above came out in 1995. That means Vamp is at least ten years old, and therefore acceptable for use once again. Actually, a lot of people never stopped wearing it, which means Vamp, in all its dark gory glory, has acheived unlikely classic status. I just might buy a bottle this weekend, since I'm clearly obsessed with 1995. Oh to be 17 again, mouth smeared in a brown impasto of ColorStay lipstick, nails varnished with discount Vamp, breasts pointing skyward, pubic thatch endearingly ungroomed!

I can't get that new Gwen Stefani jam out of my head. (And yeah, it's "new" to me. I never claimed to be on the cutting edge of pop radio; recall I've got "Ultimate Dirty Dancing" on my iPod and I don't skip over "Kellerman's Anthem." Don't cry for me, I'm already dead.)

So let's join in just one last chorus, visitors, staff and guests...

I have one of those zits that hurts. Nice. Gosh, what else can I disclose that's totally dag? Ah yes, I had doughnut holes for breakfast this morning. Cold, stale doughnut holes. And some Gummi Savers, also improperly stored and hardening from exposure. I had to eat them quickly, because my dog appeared at my knee and began begging aggressively. Ah, canis domesticus, eater of gummi treats, soiler of futon covers, feline rimjob enthusiast!

(Seriously, my cat's asshole hasn't been this clean since he was slender enough to wash himself. Thank God for that dog and her insatiable appetite for Fatty's neglected colorectal area.)

Hm, what else? I'm going to post some pictures soon. I know it's been a while, and there's nothing quite so bleak as a photo-less blog. I've been living kind of ascetically, in terms of vanity. I only went to MAC once in the past week (for electric-blue eyeshadow and beige spackle for my ruddy drunk-uncle complexion) and I haven't changed my hair color in, like, three months. I think this is the longest I've ever been blonde, and I sense the fun I'm having is unrelated to peroxide.

Informal survey: If you believe in God, raise your hand.

Hollaback: dcody@citypages.com

And that's saying a lot, since I'd wager we've got more titty bars per capita than any other city (Let's define "titty bar" as any establishment which regularly features nude or topless women for entertainment purposes; the organic grocery doesn't count, even though lactating exhibitionists are always whipping out their tits in the Kashi aisle. Sorry ladies; you are turning me on and I refuse to stop sexualizing your hot, engorged funbags. Oink!)

The total population of Minneapolis hovers anemically around 400,000, and there are at least twelve titty bars here--and that's not even counting several clubs in Saint Paul. In fact, I'm almost positive there are more titty bars in Minneapolis than there are in Chicago, and Chicago has nearly three million people. It's utterly senseless. It's easier to get a handjob here than it is to get a half-skim latte. I guess the sheer volume of overtanned flesh available for purchase is kind of cool, but it's also overwhelming. How does one decide where to spend their hard-earned $15?*

*Please bring more than $15 to a strip club.

Anyway, on Saturday evening Jon and I got some prime rib at a very old school joint where seniors and their supersenior parents nurse Sidecars at the bar. Northeast Minneapolis is excellent for such places. Guts bloated, we set out in search of a different kind of choice cut. (Oink squared! I'm on a roll today in terms of chick-on-chick sexism.)

The Station is very unassuming for a titty bar. In fact, the ladies pacing the stage seem to be a mere distraction from the important business of drinking. Half the place is an average Nordeast bar: beer, a pulltab booth, weekly meat raffles advertised on plastic banners. The other half is an endearingly unglamorous runway-style stage with a comically short pole attached to the low ceiling. The dancers work in shifts, three at a time (they split their time between the Station and a couple of other bars.) Lots of folks are there solely to drink and socialize; it's their neighborhood bar and the naked tits are just gravy.

The best part about this bar-with-benefits arrangement is that it doesn't feel awkward to ogle the girls or even request a casual private dance. The strippers are a pleasant diversion, like pinball.

The girls don't pay a house fee. You heard me. They get paid to work, rather than the inverse. As such, they don't have to hustle for lap dances and the environment is entirely depressurized. That alone is reason for me to go to the Station every weekend and get an eyeful of areola.

And the girls? Hot. They're mostly mature types, girls who have had enough of the hard hustle and just want to be treated fairly and paid for their trouble. I got molested by a couple of sleepy-eyed vixens who massaged my pussy through my jeans and sucked my nipples (under the shirt, no less!) for a mere $4 tip. (I can't promise such royal treatment to male customers, alas. Chicks always get the most mileage.)

I also got "recognized." That's the #1 sign of an ace stripper...she reads the fuckin' Pussy Ranch.

I'm such a busy bee. Literally, my ass has been oozing raw clover honey since Friday. I begged Leif not to get too overzealous with the suppository, but we had a lot of Kodiak bears to lure and not much time in which to do it.

I have a lot of exciting shit happening, but I can't really say anything about it until I believe it myself. One of those situations. (No, I'm not pregnant, though that hasn't stopped me from eating platters of microwave tamales at 1 AM and grousing about the increasing spread of my pelvis.)

On Monday we're having a new cherrywood laminate floor put in our home office. Then I'm going to paint the walls a soothing aquamarine. This is exciting to me, because the office is my happy place. I have grand plans to put all my useless tchotckes in a box and bring them to Goodwill, so at long last, I can live and work in the sort of stark environment that I thrive in. Also, I just heard that dogs and cats tend to skid haplessly on laminate flooring because it's too slick for them to find footing. Maybe that'll larn them critters to stay outta mah office!

Blue nailpolish: totally over, or so over that it's not really over anymore? Seriously, I need opinions. I varnished my claws last night, and while I like blue polish on an aesthetic level, I can't help but feel that it's very Hard Candy cosmetics counter circa 1995. Drop me an email w/advice.

I spotted a grunge girl the other day and I nearly wept with nostalgia. She had a black rock T-shirt (not a baby tee, an actual comfy, human-size Beefy Tee like we all used to wear in 1991) a flannel (yes!) and ripped jeans. Her hair was long, lank, and totally devoid of the graduated layers that are ubiquitous on long hair nowadays. Her shoes, of course, were combat-safe and flat soled. And she was wearing black lipstick.

Black! Lipstick!

The grunge revival cannot come soon enough. I miss being comfortable.

Before I get to the succulent, meaty center of the baffling Katie Holmes/Tom Cruise hookup, I thought I'd share some ramblings from the vault. Here's what I wrote about Katie Holmes on the old Pussy Ranch back in December of 2003:

So this morning (after my stomach leapt into my esophagus, unleashing a torrent of vomit that looked uncannily like the cloudy shots we consumed last night), I flopped down on the couch and watched an old Saturday Night Live. Katie Holmes was hosting. I've always been perplexed by Katie Holmes' continuing ability to land roles and remain in the public's collective embrace. I know at least two guys who, if asked which celebrity they had a jones for, would immediately name Katie Holmes. Weird.

I mean, I understand how she got the part on Dawson's Creek. They needed a stammering, attractive naif who could plausibly transition from no-nonsense tomboy to no-nonsense girlfriend over the course of a few seasons. But the show's over now. Why is she still visible? And why do so many people waste their celebrity crush energy on such a normal person? I mean, blah. She seems so nice, you know?

I could totally grok having a massive crush on Katie Holmes, if, say, she worked in the next cubicle or lived in your apartment building. But celebrity crushes are supposed to be reserved for enigmatic, fabulous, seemingly non-human stars.

Acceptable Celebrity Crushes

David Bowie (impossible to picture him pooping)
Tina Fey (brainy, mysterious scar)
Britney Spears (you can't have her, so you absolutely must)

Unacceptable Celebrity Crushes

Matt Damon (too nice, has put his penis inside his assistant's vagina)
Courteney Cox (pretty, but could never own you like Aniston does)
Natalie Portman (the Windows 95 to Keira Knightly's OS X)

All that said, I still feel the same way about Katie Holmes. And apparently 90% of American males still disagree with me--in Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, the titular goofballs drooled over Katie's topless scene in The Gift as if she were Phoebe Cates or something.

Anyway, Tom Cruise is kind of troll-like; I've never found him attractive. I don't need to see any more photos of him and Holmes grimacing at the camera in some far-flung locale. We get it. Tom Cruise can fuck moist-eyed starlets in Rome and we can't. Keep gloating, Shortbread.