September 2005

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Country girl, you got your feet in LA...

...but your mind's on Shakopee...

I apologize for the sobering silence on the blog the last few days. Don't worry, I wasn't engaged in some pale Gentile version of sitting shiva; actually, I was holed up in West Hollywood drinking Fiji water and banging feverishly away at a TV pitch.

And you know what? It worked! I sold my pitch to UPN yesterday!

I didn't think it was going to happen. There was an electric feeling in the air during my last night in LA--so electric, in fact, that I found myself screaming in my rental as I sped down Sunset--but I chalked that up to disorientation and altitude.

I'm starting to feel guilty about all the TV shows I've critically eviscerated in City Pages. It never occured to me that real people are involved in these things. Tuesday night, I went to a premiere party in the Valley for Sex, Love and Secrets and the cast was there. They huddled near the television set (which had been hauled out to the pooldeck in breezy Angeleno style) and whooped with joy when they saw themselves onscreen. This was real to them. They weren't plastic toys for my amusement, they were real people, albeit with spectacular lips and breasts and delts. They looked even better in person, which seemed impossible.

Anyway. Thank you all again for all the lovely and thoughtful emails. I'm sorry I couldn't get back to y'all; I can't get back to my own mother lately, so please don't get it twisted.

P.S. I went to the Hustler store and bought some fun toys. I'll be sure to blog about my upcoming adventures with Jonny and the newly purchased Chair Bondage System. Ooh, please tie me up gaijin!

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 30, 2005 9:54 AM

 

One more thing

I promise I'm not going to turn this into the Sad Dog Blog, but I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who's extended/ing their condolonces, especially the veterinary specialists and pet owners who've had experience with chylothorax. Your messages have confirmed that we made the right choice for Agnes, and I needed that confirmation more than you know. Thanks.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 25, 2005 7:18 PM

 

Agnes Sue

Agnes was too sweet for this world. She passed away yesterday, though I'm not sure exactly when. I couldn't watch them put her down. I did come to the hospital to say goodbye, covering her soft head with kisses, inhaling lungfuls of her wonderful stinky Aggie-breath. I always secretly loved her breath. She was thin and trembling and breathing hard, even at rest, even though they'd just drained her chest again.

We'd brought her home on Monday, but by Monday night, she was gasping on our bed. We rushed her back to the hospital she'd only just been discharged from that morning.

They stuck the drainage needle in her lymph-filled chest, put her in the now-familiar oxygen tent and told us she could, possibly, live with chylothorax. As long as we brought her in for frequent chest drainings, say, every other day. And immediately scheduled an extremely invasive open-chest surgery with only a 40% chance of lessening her discomfort. And daily, forced feedings of prescription mush, since she still refused to eat and didn't show any sign of improvement. Did I mention the frequent drainings? For a rehabilitated stray who's terrified of riding in the car, let alone constant hospitalizations?

That didn't sound fair to me. That didn't sound fair at all. Even after a drain, her respiration sounded forced and painful. She was miserable. God, I hope (I pray) we didn't give up on her too soon, but there isn't a cure for this. There are only treatment options, aggressive, painful treatment options that would have rattled my shy girl to her core.

We only had six months with her, but there was a brief window of time in which things were perfect. We adopted her in April, and by June her coarse fur had grown luxurious and soft, so plush that even non-dog-people saw fit to comment on how yummy she felt and how un-doglike she smelled. She became bolder, ate ravenously, greeted us at the door by nearly knocking us over, delirious with love. The vet noted in awe that she'd almost doubled her weight in the two months since her adoption. She was doing great, it seemed. She was going to be a member of our family for a long time.

When I walk around the place looking at her things, I have to smile sadly, because her possessions are mainly defined by what she didn't do with them: There's the Booda hotdog squeak toy that terrified her. The rawhide chews she could never figure out what to do with. The sturdy plastic-sheathed chain in the backyard--whenever I'd tether her to it, she'd stare at me, bewildered, then flop down on the grass in surrender. If you tossed a twig, she'd ignore it.

I remember when were signing her adoption paperwork, we made excited plans to go to Petsmart to stock up on food and toys. One of the shelter employees overheard us and shook her head emphatically. "Not with Agnes," she told us. "Not a good idea." She was right. Petsmart is for normal dogs, affable slobbering mutts who've been raised with encouragement and affection and play. Aggie was different.

But that was what made her Agnes, a dog so sweet and soulful and smiling that she charmed everyone instantly. Who cared if she didn't fetch or do any of those other typical dog things? She was my princess. I called her Nana Dog, because she reminded me of the dog in Peter Pan who looked after all the children. I always thought Agnes would have looked very appropriate suckling a litter of puppies. Maybe she did once upon a time. There's so much I'll never know about her.

I will never forget her deep chocolate-brown eyes that could look ecstatic (as they did when she raced along on her leash) or wise (as they did yesterday when she placed her trembling paws on my lap one last time.) I know now that she's crossed the Rainbow Bridge, her eyes are bright and her fears have vanished. Someday, I hope she greets me again with a big Aggie smile, ears bouncing. I hope she thinks I made the right choice for her, even though I'm still not sure myself.

This is the last picture I took of her, weeks before she got sick. She's wearing one of my T-shirts. Jonny told me not to put it on her because he thought the unfamiliar sensation might freak her out, but she loved the attention, as you can see. More than ever, she was our dog. I always said we'd be her forever home, and now she's home forever. We couldn't have gotten luckier.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 25, 2005 1:46 PM

 

My fabulous week

The power at our house has been out since Wednesday, when gale-force winds knocked out a portion of the Twin Cities grid. (Said wind also blew my skirt over my head in plain view of some smirking punk rockers in front of Pizza Luce.)

So there's no electricity. At all. That's one thing.

Also? Agnes has been diagnosed with chylothorax, a rare and essentially incurable condition. She's breathing well right now, but the doctors predict that her chest will continue to slowly fill with fluid, necessitating periodic draining. Some dogs live through this. Some don't. Please pray (or meditate or vibe or whatever) that our girl will live comfortably.)

Third, Jonny's car is broken. Again. I knew I couldn't trust Nazi technology. O Beetle, so deceptively easygoing!

So, shitty week. Today is my last day at City Pages, which is a massive relief schedule-wise, but a downer in terms of how much I've enjoyed this job.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 23, 2005 11:10 AM

 

Remind me NOT to look at this picture

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 21, 2005 3:10 PM

 

Doggie Mama Drama

Today, Jonny frantically tapped me awake at daybreak and informed me that our dog Agnes couldn't breathe. Jon tends to be slightly alarmist about pet health, but this time, he had reason to be freaked. Bleary-eyed, I drove wheezing Aggie to the emergency vet (the same emergency vet employed during the considerably-less-harrowing "Douchepacker Eats a Lily" incident) and prayed she was OK. She wasn't.

They hooked my girl up to oxygen and did a chest x-ray. You know how x-rays generally reveal talc-white bones suspended in inky darkness? There was no comforting darkness. No bones. Just an insidious gray fog obscuring her ribs entirely. It was fluid, buckets of it. Her entire chest was flooded with lymph. The vet drained as much as she could, then informed me that Agnes needed to be transferred to a more advanced facility and hospitalized immediately.

Off we went to St. Paul (at this point, Agnes was shockingly chipper--the vet's drainage efforts had improved her breathing, and she semed to intuit that more help was on its way). Aggie was spirited away to an exam room the instant they greeted us, which depressed me, because only very sick pups get the VIP treatment.

At this point, I was pretty hysterical. I also looked like hot ass, since I hadn't showered, and unwashed people with Predator dreadlocks look doubly skanky. (That said, I would like to apologize to the keen-eyed Pussy Ranch reader who recognized me in the waiting room. I wish you had encountered a more glamorous, less tear-streaked Diablo Cody.) Anyway, after a few moments, I was summoned to an exam room where a cheerful vet student informed me that Agnes could be suffering from any number of enigmatic maladies, and that she might be in the hospital for a week. I know my darling hound is worth any expense, but do y'all have any idea how much that shit costs? (Those of you who think I'm already rich are clearly not acquainted with the Hollywood Payment Plan, in which they parcel out your earnings one dime at a time over the course of thirty years.)

So now, we're pledging Broke Phi Broke and oh yeah, the dog is really sick. I realize it's gauche to complain given the situation on the Gulf Coast, but I'm a trifle bummed. Until a few months ago, Agnes was a neglected stray. Her life just recently took an upturn, and she doesn't deserve to be choking on pus in some sterile room. She deserves snuggling and peanut butter Milkbones and the "cha-cha-cha" thing Jon does, holding onto her paws. She deserves to be healthy.

If you see me presenting at the MMAs tonight and I look emotionally exhausted, buy me a something-tini, will you?

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 21, 2005 2:19 PM

 

Jonny spontaneously snapped this

Jonny spontaneously snapped this picture Saturday and suggested I post it as evidence that I don't always look like a sleep-deprived Gorgon. You be the judge. Or don't.

I have two Serenity action figures already. I am so geeked about this movie!

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 20, 2005 10:50 PM

 

Stolen quiz redux

Five songs that instantly elicit an emotional reaction from me:

1. "Fight Test" The Flaming Lips: An astonishing song about cowardice. And robots, I think. Jonny tries to convince me that Yoshimi is a cheerful album, but it always makes me cry.

2. "Heavy Metal Drummer" Wilco: I hear this song and I'm on rollerskates in Chicago, tearing up Lincoln Square with my polyurethane wheels, lapping a coconut ice from a Mexican vendor's cart. Summer of 2002 was a beautiful self-imposed cloister. I never took off my headphones except to answer the phone.

3. "America" Simon and Garfunkel: Darn you, Cameron Crowe! I can't hear this song with imagining a wistful Frances McDormand watching Zooey Deschanel leave for San Francisco with rollers in her hair.

4. "Me and my Arrow" Harry Nilsson: This slow, dreamy song reminds me of Juno, my favorite heroine of hypothetical cinema. She's living in infamy, following her massive belly wherever it points her. For me, this is Juno's song.

5. "Animal Farm" The Kinks: Is it pathetic that when I listen to this, I imagine my cats and dog romping about in a bucolic field, their faces paralyzed in expressions of drooling bliss?

I swear, I didn't intend for my selections to be so college-radio. I tried really hard to think of a Paula Abdul song to put on there, but unfortunately, I'm left c-c-c-coldhearted by much of her catalog.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 20, 2005 1:29 PM

 

And we're back.

Do I look thinner on this blog?

I've finally joined the Moveable Type trendoids. Man, I remember the days of my first blog "Girls, Cars and Surfing," when I coded all the HTML by hand (That's probably the only entry left in existence--thanks, Wayback Machine! Warning: blog contains a saucy glossy of Bettie Page's naked chi-chis.)

While all that coding geekery was admittedly a pain in the rump, every entry felt like an accomplishment. Blogging is too easy for kids these days. Feh. They're too busy with their Good Charlotte and their Segway scooters to bother learning a simple blink tag. I'll bet they've never even heard of the Hamster Dance.

I just realized that I posted the most freakish photos of me in existence below. I swear, my dreads are not as creepy and Predator-esque as they appear. Right now they're in pigtails and I look very insouciant. I am not a threat to your child's safety.

I'm once again headed to L.A. on TV bid'ness next week. I fear Okie Dog beckons. There's nothing more deliciously grotesque (or more gastrointestinally insidious) than a pair of chili dogs covered in fatty pastrami and swaddled in a single tortilla. Add a few flies as garnish, and you're waist-deep in the Okie Dog experience. Also, the cook doesn't wear a shirt.

Going to L.A. in the fall is kind of a trip. It's like taking the Wayback Machine to summer.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 20, 2005 10:59 AM

 

Diablo Clinton and the P-Ranch All Stars

Filed under: Imported

You knew when I dyed my hair dark that I had to be transitioning to an "outrageous" new hair project, right? I may be unpredictable, but predictably so. Most girls buy twenty pairs of shoes a year and change their hair once or twice. I prefer to do the inverse. Making and installing extensions soothes the mind as well. Much, like, oh, I don't know, knitting?

Please ignore my pallid complexion and the plummy, poetic circles beneath my eyes. It's all about the mermaid tentacles (black swirled with platinum and a few pink stragglers for Punque Roq appeal.)

This is a more formal look, for white-tie benefits, spring cleaning, etc.

Here's a blast from the past! Best dread extensions I ever had, courtesy of Hair Police. Look at my flushed, healthy visage! That's what happens when you grind dick all day, kids. But my poor right nipple looks so smushed--my fucking manager made me buy a corset because he wasn't ready for that jelly.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 16, 2005 2:53 PM

 

One of those ubiquitous blog Q & As

Filed under: Imported

(Cribbed from the strippalicious ex-millennial girl. )

Ten Years Ago: I was a newly minted high school senior and utterly secure. I drove a silver '89 Taurus, sang in a shambolic funnypunk band called Yak Spackle, and dyed my hair jet black. I was completely infatuated with my boyfriend, a college sophomore named Matt who was away at the University of Wisconsin. I didn't miss him as much as I thought I did. The best part of being a senior was having access to the "senior lounge," a humid, stinky little room lined with reject couches. I recall the stench more than the company, though I remember everybody intermingled regardless of their caste. Seniors tend to gel like that.

 

Five Years Ago: In September of 2000, I was three months into my first job out of college, as the "creative assistant" (read: aimless secretary) at a midsized advertising agency in downtown Chicago. I had just moved into a brownstone at Lincoln and Montrose, and every day was like a hit of windowpane acid: thrilling, but with an edge. I remember feeling very proud of myself every morning as I rode the Brown Line to Belmont, then the Red Line to the Grand stop and sauntered up Michigan Avenue to My Real Job. It was overwhelming for a sheltered suburban kid who associated "downtown" with supervised field trips. It felt like life was finally happening.

 

One Year Ago: I had recently been hired as a claims adjuster (really) in the Minneapolis 'burbs, and was writing freelance for City Pages. My wedding was weeks away, and I was having a hair crisis, as usual. Jonny and I only had one car between us, so I frequently endured a two-hour bus trip to work, starting at 5:30 a.m. My book had just sold to Gotham, which seemed (and still seems) incredibly surreal.

 

Yesterday: I made Shake n' Bake pork chops for dinner, watched "So You Think You Can Dance?" with my stepdaughter while she waited for the lice shampoo to take effect (shudder!)  and then watched Beyond the Valley of the Dolls with Jonny.

 

Five Songs I Know All the Words To: The entire Beach Boys catalog and the theme songs to an exhaustive listing of '80s sitcoms. Wait, that's more like 5,000. "Streaks on the china never mattered before�"

 

Five Snacks: Dill pickles, spring rolls, Sour Patch Kids, jalapeno Cheez-Its, Hostess Donettes (chocolate or powdered, it don't matter)

 

Five Things I'd Do With $100 Million: Donate mad cash to schools and families, buy Johnny Weissmuller's abandoned mansion in Hollywood, travel to far-flung and luxurious places, finance really cool movies, build a recording studio for Jonny.

 

Five Places I'd Run Away To: Monte Rio, CA, Cody, WY, West Hollywood, New York City (never been there, but I have a feeling I'd dig it), home.

 

Five Things I'd Never Wear: I'd wear anything if my survival depended on it. That said: nude pantyhose, Bush/Cheney T-shirt, jeans with pleats, clown costume, a white bra.

 

Five Favorite TV Shows: Firefly, Mr. Show, Sex and the City, Saturday Night Live, American Idol

 

Five Greatest Joys: Talking to Jonny, eating sushi, spooning with my purrbaby George, hardcore karaoke, writing, writing, writing.

 

Five Favorite Toys: Celebrity dolls, Pez dispensers, G-spot vibrators, my frequently abused tongue barbell, the original 8-bit NES loaded with Super Mario Brothers 3.

 

 

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 15, 2005 4:24 PM

 

Brangelina

Filed under: Imported

Today I was buying some pork chops (they're trichinos-ensational!) at Cub and I happened to toss the latest issue of Us Weekly onto the conveyor. The headline was something about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's impending nuptials.

The clerk, a young woman, glanced at the magazine, then looked at me. "I want them to get married," she said solemnly, almost challenging me to disagree.

"So do I," I replied confidently. "So do I."

She grinned. "I thought I was the only person on Angelina's side!" she exclaimed, relieved.

I wouldn't say I'm on Angelina's side, per se, since such complicated matters of the heart rarely involve a purely innocent or purely guilty party. But I do think Brangelina is a more compatible couple than Braniston. I never understood why everyone thought Brad and Jen seemed like a good match in the first place. Superficially, they were both sunkissed and conventionally attractive, but Brad always struck me as a confident and eccentric (much like Angelina) while Jennifer, in her interviews, comes off as humble, down-to-earth, and slightly damaged. There's no way she enjoyed living in Brad's chilly architecture-geek mansion...you know Aniston needs a good La-Z-Boy to watch Beaches on. She's the kind of girl you can take to T.G.I. Friday's, while Brad and Angelina probably subsist solely on Marlboros, Ketel One and thinly-sliced Kobe beef served on hot stones. Brad doesn't strike me as a real brain trust, but he thinks he's smart and he thinks he's found his equal in that stunning weirdo. Shockingly, she seems to agree with him.

I guess I feel sort of sorry for Jennifer. She's handled this whole thing gracefully and hasn't gone all psycho-ex on anyone in the press. That said, I'm still on Team Jolie. We alleged "homewreckers" need to stick together, and she hasn't done jack to earn that distinction. (Few women do--I love the misconception that any woman who gets involved with a separated guy must be singlehandedly responsible for the dissolution of his marriage.) Either way, I can't believe anyone is actually scandalized by this. Can you imagine how they would have reacted if Brad and Jen had had children? Get a rope! Hang the whore high!

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 14, 2005 4:30 PM

 

It is imminent!

Filed under: Imported

According to the gossip blogs, Britney's little Caeser was wrenched from her womb at Cedars-Sinai earlier today. Oh, I hope its's true!

You know, Britters got a lot of flack for being "too posh to push" and choosing a C-section over a pussy delivery. Whatever, girls should be able to birth as they please. Britney can have a C-section and an illegal Honduran wet nurse and a postpartum martini, for all I care. I admire her complete disregard of the clucking hippies. (And this is coming from someone who wants a home waterbirth when she hypothetically spawns--I'm all about choice, see?)

Come, Emmanuel! Come and be born in our hearts!

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 14, 2005 1:28 PM

 

I could fucking cry

Filed under: Imported

I just wrote a long-ass entry, possibly one of the funniest things I've written in ages, and my browser crashed as I was about to post it. Fucking A-rod!

I can't be the only person this particular misfortune has befallen. Right?

It was about vibrating-ring condoms, otherwise known as "Downeaster Elexas." And Cheez-Its! And Shake n' Bake! And my plan to mash Brussles cookies and vodka into an easily digestible paste! It even revealed a very special, exclusive Pussy Secret about my plans for the future!

I'm gonna go cut myself. Not really. But I am gonna listen to My Chemical Romance.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 14, 2005 12:51 PM

 

Since I've already stooped to the Federlevel

Filed under: Imported

When is Britney going to have that baby, already? I can't be the only one hoping it looks like Big Rob.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 13, 2005 4:47 PM

 

Bad Libs, or, Fill in the blanks, homies.

Filed under: Imported

I sincerely apologize for (choose one) not answering your email/not reading your script/not blogging/not returning your calls/not answering you even when spoken to directly this weekend. I am extremely busy. Not "hard week at work" busy, not "last-minute Christmas prep" busy, not even "chasing a hypoglycemic toddler" busy. I'm busier than that. BUSIER. Believe it. I am busier than Bea Arthur at Carpet World/Kirk Cameron in a roomful of Wiccans/Britney Spears at a prenatal wine tasting.

Ever heard the phrase "Don't write a check your ass can't cash"? That's me right now. And said posterior is mega-overdrawn.

I'm reduced to making Britney Spears jokes in 2005. That must mean the well is dry.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 12, 2005 11:06 AM

 

Now, with pudding in the mix!

Filed under: Imported

Okay, so like four days ago, Jonny and I both went on the South Beach Diet, which seems to have nothing to do with South Beach and everything to do with turkey jerky. After a couple of trips to L.A., we've decided we're bloated manatees and need to whittle ourselves down to Nicole Richie/DJ AM proportions. Anyway, I am craving sugar so fucking bad that last night, I dreamed I was crouched in front of the refrigerator, eating frosting from a can.

No, really. That's actually what I dreamed about.

Call Dr. Duncan Hines, stat. I need about 400 cc's of EZ-Spread Deluxe Fudge Tunnel.

P.S. Yes, I know dieting is boring and gay. Don't worry, I'll probably wind up making lasagna this weekend and binging like Meredith Baxter Birney in that one TV movie. 

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 8, 2005 10:43 AM

 

Readers weigh in on nymphet-maniacs

Filed under: Imported

I've heard from a varied spectrum of guys about my "Pussy Rant" of several days ago. Most of them--heck, all of them--opted to defend the darker sex's fondness for Hot! Teen! companionship. Here are some of the reasons I was given for why a guy would date (not just fuck) a naive teenager.

-Youngsters provide endless stimulation of the mindfuck variety. They tend to be noncommittal heartbreakers, and therefore are maddeningly desirable compared to some boring broad who's panting to settle down.

Cody counterpoint: When I was a teenager, I wanted to marry every guy who sent my Bartholin's glands into overdrive, thus soaking my size-2 Gap jeans in the sweet nectar of youth. Noncommittal? Not so much. Maybe that's why I always got dumped.

-A young girl will put up with more shit. In other words, you can act like a total dawg and she'll still make herself available.

Cody counterpoint: The same argument could be made for some ugly chicks, but I don't know any guys who subscribe to "Barely Attractive."

-Men are just getting revenge on women for preferring sexy jerks to chivalrous nice-guys.

Cody counterpoint: There's admittedly an ignorant subclass of women who blow off guys who treat them well in favor of Joe Charisma, the distant sex addict. But that has nothing to do with my question.

"You can't beat eighteen-year-old pussy."

Cody counterpoint: Yes, but...eh, you're right.

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 6, 2005 5:08 PM

 

Forsooth! My comely new tunic.

Filed under: Imported

Thanks, Taco!

In other news, I attended my first Renaissance Festival yesterday. Jon and I were laughing our asses off--not at the hordes of Ye Olde Nerdes in attendance, but at the rampant anachronisms. For instance, ATM machines labeled "Coin of the Realm" and exhibits sponsored by Time Warner Cable. Would ye like a glass of honeyed mead or a 20 oz. Pepsi, m'lady? The whole thing ruled. Plus, I bought a pair of ceramic "Pan Horns." (Hippies refer to the devil as "Pan," so he sounds like a nonthreatening self-rising pizza crust instead of a dark overlord and eater of worlds. They even named a particularly gay-sounding flute after the motherfucker.) I got red Pan Horns, which give me a class-A license to be ribald.

Notice I'm a brunette again. That means I'm smart and clA$$y. The price of pussy just went up forty-nine cents, y'all. Blonde says "whore" but brunette says "business escort." Plus now I can go on Jeopardy.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 4, 2005 1:07 PM

 

Settle in for a good old fashioned Pussy Rant!

Filed under: Imported

For the past day or so, I've been ruminating on a provocative and age-old topic: Why do talented and charismatic men--I speak chiefly of rock stars here--seem to prefer the company of giggling, inarticulate teen girls to that of talented, charismatic women their own age?

OK, stop snickering at my incredulity and allow me to expound: I know there's a biological imperative for men chasing underaged pussy, and I can't blame them for desiring the physical company of slack-jawed, pert-breasted adolescents. Makes perfect sense, really. (Recently, someone told this kneeslapper in a staff meeting: "Q: What do you call a man who's attracted to 14-year-old girls? A: Heterosexual.") I know all about the obvious pleasures of firm young flesh. But I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about companionship. I'm talking about long-term relationships and in some cases, marriage. That goes beyond sex. And this is precisely where I get confused.

At the height of Led Zeppelin's fame, Jimmy Page was heavily involved with a 14-year-old groupie named Lori Maddox. (Who, incidentally, bears an uncanny resemblance to '70s-era Kitty Pryde in that shot. Yeah, I'm a geek.) Anyway, when I was 14, I was semi-alluring in that long-haired nymphet way, but you definitely wouldn't want to have engaged me in conversation. I was giggly, nervous, immature, shrill and largely uninformed about most topics. In other words, I was 14. Therefore, I can't fucking grok that Jimmy Page spent a year and a half courting this girl. Can you imagine being this mysterious, charismatic rock god and having to deal with a sullen, clingy teen on a day to day basis? "Jimmy, where's my hair dryer? Jimmy, I've got my period. I love you, Jimmeeeee!"

Why, then, did he do it? Lori Maddox was obviously a succulent young thing, and I'm sure she was clever for her age, seeing as she managed to bag both Bowies while she was still in a training bra. But there's no way she was articulate enough, or mature enough, to be an appropriate companion for a guy of Page's age and experience level. Something in her interactions with Page must have been lacking. And don't argue that the sex kept them together--rock stars are notoriously fickle about pussy, and there's no way that million-dollar squeezebox kept the God of Fuck entertained for 18 months straight. He must have been fulfilled by the actual relationship in some way to keep it going for that long, at the peak of his success.

Mick Jagger is another guy I don't get. He's like 60, and yet he routinely pursues relationships--relationships, not just sex--with young model types. This doesn't make sense. Ideally, an old goat like Mick should be married to Marianne Faithfull. Think about it: They're both witty, caustic, aging sex symbols. They're both talented. They fucked circa "As Tears Go By," which means at some point, Mick thought a women like Marianne was worthy of his spunk. What changed? I know some of you are like "But Marianne Faithfull is a decrepit old junkie now!" Yeah, well, so is Mick. And yet, I don't hear anything about Marianne Faithfull banging 20-year-old Brazilian dudes. Chances are, a youngster like that couldn't hold her interest. Mick, Rod, seriously: wouldn't it be eminently more satisfying to grow old with an interesting and well-traveled companion than with a barely-legal golddigger who's never heard of Hullabaloo? (I'm not dissing all age-disparate relationships; I know plenty of great couples with ten or twenty years between them. This is different.)

I guess if I was a rock star, I would want to be with a really cool chick. A chick who could go head-to-head with my roadies on rock trivia. A chick who would encourage me to invest my money wisely, rather than blowing it on ostentatious luxuries for herself and her friends. A chick who was mature enough to be my equal. The idea of enduring a transcontinental flight next to a 14-year-old is less than appealing, isn't it? How many adolescent mindgames can you play before you long for the relative intellect of that 30-year-old publicist you met back in Baltimore?

But that's just me. Guys who are young, dumb and full 'o cum bore me senseless. I'd rather be with a guy who's graying at the temples and gives great head than bother with some monosyllabic twink.

My theory, at last, is this: Rockers fuck these women because they're lithe and tasty and forbidden. That part is simple. But they date and marry these women because they (the women) are attractively powerless. When your entire persona hinges on the air-pressure in your ego, you can't be with a women who poses a threat to your primacy. It's much smarter to find a mute ornament--she'll impress your hoary friends without challenging you intellectually or creatively. Younger women are more deferential by nature. No 14-year-old is going to tell Jimmy Page he's not a genius. No swimsuit model is going to tell Rod Stewart that his Great American Songbook album is unlistenable. Eric Clapton doesn't have to worry that his beaming, fertile young bride will head into the studio one day and cut an album that surpasses anything he's done in years. These women are safe, because they're not equals. Also, they're capable of bearing the rocker more progeny. Don't forget that. Every wrinkled Hall of Fame coot needs a "status toddler" to prove he can still get it up.

I guess you could get all philosophical and argue that jaded rock stars are enchanted by the relative innocence and exuberance of teenage girls. The Penny Lane thing. But still, that's got to get old. Doesn't it?

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 2, 2005 9:34 AM

 

Perspective

Filed under: Imported

I would ordinarily bitch about how some ding-dong tried (semi-successfully) to steal the fountain out of our front yard last night. But man, that trifling shit pales in comparison to what's going down in the Big Easy and other areas hit by Hurricaine Katrina. My Presby-prayers (and a few Catholic ones) go out to everyone down south who's suffering right now. You know things are grim when I actually turn on CNN. The last time I watched CNN was late 2001.

I'll blog more later, but I gots to work.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 1, 2005 10:35 AM

 

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