October 2005

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Happy Halloween, Cockgoblins!

I just got back from taking my stepdaughter around the neighborhood for tricks n' treats. We both dressed as witches--she was an ethereal woodland witch and I was a sassy, pearl-twirling Roaring Twenties witch. My steppy is an only child (I'm afraid to breed, lest I spawn a horned imp) and is rather socially isolated due to her semi-complicated living arrangements. So therefore, I feel obligated to act like a kid and do kid things with her. Like running down the street in costume pretending to be terrified of oncoming pirates and Hulks. Halloween is still spooky and fun, despite the continued breakdown of neighbor-to-neighbor relations in America. There's something refreshingly retro about ringing total strangers' doorbells and being greeted with a smile.

I find myself annoyed by marauding teenagers demanding candy even though they've barely bothered to dress up. And yet, I'm being a total crusty hypocrite because I did the same thing when I was a teenager. I remember when I was 14, I went out trick or treating with my friends Mike, Pete and Ron. We kept shouting in obnoxious Cockney accents--Wot is this candy? Bu'uh-fingah?"--and irritating adults, who were probably hoping to greet cute little tots dressed as bumblebees, not some slutty adolescent girl with a backup band of geeks. So I try to be understanding when some beefy pillowcase-wielding teen bangs on my door.

Best item the kid got: an evangelical Christian tract. "I already believe in Jesus," she said witheringly.

Jonny went as Napoleon Dynamite. Here's a priceless photo of this time-sensitive (or possibly timeless?) costume. That thing hanging from the ceiling is a genu-ine cow skull I got off the Internet because, well, I always wanted a cow skull. This is the Pussy Ranch, after all.

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 31, 2005 7:47 PM

 

Bride of Mr. Hotness

Tomorrow is the first anniversary of the happiest day of my life thus far. No, not the day I discovered vodka and tonic comingle nicely in a glass (though that was a profound moment). I'm talking about the day I married Jonny. Duh! Since I don't have any wedding photos scanned (criminal, right?) here's a picture of our first real-life, non-cyber date at the Rainbow in West Hollywood. I included helpful Photoshop labels to elaborate on the logical genius of our coupling. Sexual chemistry aside, we had suddenly realized we were the SAME PERSON. And if you've ever met someone who completely gets you and digs your game, then you know that coruscating livewire sensation. It's like your heart has tired of blood and has spontaneously decided to start pumping pink champagne. Whee!

Of course, I flatter myself too much if I say that Jonny and I are exactly alike. I can only hope to be like him. There is so much hero worship in this house it's like a pornographic rerun of Superfriends. I just adore the man. Love him. You'd think a mercurial flake like me would get sick of someone after nearly four years of inseperable couplehood, but I'm sick when I'm not with him. I never met anyone so receptive to being loved, or so unselfishly loving. I don't want to embarrass him with all this effusive goo, so I'll add that he's a total badass. Happy anniversary, darling!

Speaking of mercurial things, the Mercurial Rage show at the Dinkytowner last night was awesome. Them boys are stars! If you like Depeche Mode and contagious ass-shaking, I highly recommend checking them out. The first opener was this dude with a killer pompadour who played piano like Jerry Lee Lewis. I wish I could remember his name because he was so good he actually shut me up. And I'm a chatty drunk.

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 28, 2005 11:56 AM

 

Living in 2000 rules!

Hey guys! Guess what crazy gadgets I purchased today? Well, first I went to Target and bought a new cell phone that TAKES PICTURES. I'm not making this up! It actually houses a mini-digital camera and you can take a photograph simply by aiming the phone's color display--yes, COLOR--at the subject! It is SO cyber-cool!

Then I bought a device called Tivo. You're really not going to believe this one...it RECORDS TELEVISION PROGRAMS so you can watch them whenever. You can even do instant replays of boobies when you're watching HBO--which is, incidentally, A PREMIUM CHANNEL TO WHICH I NOW SUBSCRIBE. Thanks, Comcast!

I love living in the 21st century! I think I might even start one of those blogs. Have you heard of those?

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 26, 2005 2:55 PM

 

If any of you whores are trying to call me

my cell phone has mysteriously vanished somewhere in the swirling maw of this house.

I'm searching for it like a madwoman right now. If you can't reach me, please call my home phone or shoot me an email. Or Blackberry me. Just kidding. In my neck of the woods, buying a Blackberry means drivin', oh, pert'near 25 miles out to U-Pick Farms with a wicker basket. HAW HAW!

A few months ago this crazy-eyed homeless religious freak who called himself "Immanuel" was doing some work on my house. I saw him staring at my phone kind of funny the entire time. I suspect he may have taken my phone, but I'm not sure. I sure hope my phone isn't spotted shuffling around town wearing a makeshift burqa and denying that it's my phone, even though it clearly says "Diablo Cody" on the display. I just want my phone to make it home safe and resume playing the harp and being a virginal Mormon teenager. Except my phone probably isn't a virgin anymore, since it's probably been "wed" to Immanuel for days at this point. Gosh.

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 25, 2005 9:31 AM

 

Dear Hugh Hefner's Girlfriend (The Needy One):

I enjoy that VH1 show featuring you and your fellow blonde big-titted sorors prancing around the Mansion in kinderwhore costumes. But please, stop referring to your boss, I mean boyfriend, as "Baby Puffin." It's annoying. The man is neither a baby nor an arctic bird. He's a visibly weary Pepsi-soaked geriatric who hasn't actually loved a woman since the '70s. (Being a swingin' third wife myself, I wouldn't tell you something that face-slappingly harsh unless I truly meant it.) Please stop wasting your thirties--and yes, we can all tell you're over 30--in that sad charade of a harem and seek approval elsewhere.

P.S. I think you're cute, I can operate without Viagra, and I don't wear satin pajamas to the dinner table. Why don't you come live with me? The Pussy Ranch may not be a mansion and it may not have an erotic hidden grotto, but we can always light some Glade Scents candles in the bathroom and bump donuts to Sade.

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 24, 2005 11:02 PM

 

You Came to See Art, Right Fuckers?

Taking artsy photos is a time-tested stress reliever in these parts. Behold, Larry, George and me, basking in our collective unemployed sloth. Prints are unavailable to the public at this time, though I'm willing to consult with individual gallery reps.

Inquisitive Douchepacker (or, To Marie-Therese), Private Collection

Zoom Georgie, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. Harold Michelondaise

Retired Suicide Girl or Body For Business, Head For Sin, Collection of the Artist

Oh come on. You know I'm your little butch and you love me.

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 24, 2005 5:20 PM

 

Hey Youngstown--You Suck!

How's this for eerie synchronicity? In the last two days, I've read posts by three completely unrelated bloggers about how bad Youngstown, Ohio sucks. If a lefty comedian, a former stripper and a conservative Kenny Chesney-lovin' babymomma can all agree on the relative suckitude of Youngstown, it must totally and unrepentantly blow.

I've never been to Youngstown, but a few years ago, when I lived sans car in Chicago, I was fervently plotting a way to get there. Why would an agoraphobic city mouse like me want to go to Youngstown? Well, at the time there was an abandoned amusement park there. Intensely loyal readers know how I feel about abandoned amusement parks, particularly the guts and bolts therein. If I could grow a giant phallic robo-tentacle and use it to fuck a decaying brakehouse, I would. So I really wanted to go to Youngstown, and also this place. Now, Idora Park has allegedly been razed to make way for a superchurch, so I no longer have any reason to sniff around Youngstown's haunches. It's a fucking shame. Roller coasters are classic architecture and ought to be protected, preferably by snarling, frothing ACE members.

I have a phone meeting with *The Network* today and am quaking in my Chuck Taylors. I'm a little scared of *The Network.* However, I like to imagine they're a direct conduit to my favorite television characters. I always want to say "Thanks for the suggestions about the pilot. Now can you put Veronica Mars on the phone? No? How about Moesha?"

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 24, 2005 9:35 AM

 

It's the Great Pumpkin, Diablo Cody!

And now, for something that isn't wholly antisocial: Pictures from Rik and Missi's annual Hallo'een bash, which went down last night. Everyone was ordered, er, urged, to come dressed as a dead famous person.

Why don a tasteful costume when you can be Slightly Decomposed Judy Garland? Yes, I'm wearing prescription drug bottles around my neck. And yes, I know she didn't die whilst kitted out in her Wizard of Oz wardrobe; that was poetic license on my part.

Here's a closer look at the pills I scored from "Dr. Sinatra." Yeah, I'm such a thorough Halloweenie that I printed out special labels. God is in the details. Or in this case, Kenneth Anger is in the details.

Here, our intrepid hostess is dressed as '30s starlet Lupe Velez. Legend has it that Velez died when she tripped and fell headlong into her toilet while puking up a suicide-sized dose of secobarbitol. Hence, the personalized gold "Lupe" toilet seat. Missi rules! Here, Lupe tries to score some of Judy's pills.

Here's Rik, outfitted in a politically correct Sid Vicious costume. (Weirdly enough, a Nancy showed up later on.) Rik's quote of the night: "It's getting really hard to find decent bondage pants these days."

And what would a celebrity funeral be without mourners? A somberly clad Marne and Jennifer pout semi-convincingly.

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 23, 2005 5:07 PM

 

Exer-psycho

I have a complicated and oddly distant relationship with my body. I'm not referring to the fun parts of my body--the parts that get sucked, fucked, gummed and plumbed regularly, the ones that I used to display in exchange for paper money, and occasionally, loose change. No, I'm talking about the utility players: my arms, my legs, my low-capacity lungs, these knobby, sinewy size-9 feet that prefer being cuddled in Frye boots to suffering the whims of Jimmy Choo.

I used to be skinny. Very skinny. So skinny that when my mother bought me a much-coveted pair of size-XS aqua bike shorts in middle school, they didn't fit, prompting a witty peer to shout "Nice shorts that don't fit!" in my direction. You don't even want to know what I looked like in a bra. (Picture a Live Aid poster kid draped in a loose cotton harness.) When I turned 18 and went off to college, with all its attendant carbohydrate-rich troughs of Iowa farm food, I gained 25 pounds so fast I'm surprised my organs didn't fail. I actually remember feeling sick every day. My body was accustomed to small portions of exquisite food--thanks to my gourmand mother--not huge, lipidous platefuls of gravy-soaked mush. Nine years later, I'm still carrying around those 25, plus change. I also have a case of desk-butt brought on by years of sedentary geekiness.

My entire life, I've been staggeringly unathletic. In gym class, I got picked after the kid who got picked last. I was the prototypical "absentminded professor," the second grader who could tell you the goddess Athena's origin story but could never remember the rules to a game called "Spud." I suck at sports and organized games to this day. Ask me to serve a volleyball, and it'll inevitably fly backwards over my head. Having a bowling party? I'll meet you in the restaurant area with a pitcher of Bud and a basket of cheese curds, because there's no way in hell I'm going to waste another 45 minutes of my life throwing gutter balls. And bowling, admittedly, is a fat guy sport--don't get me started on activities that require me to exert myself. I honestly hate to work out at the gym. People who say it feels good are lying to you. Observe:

Things That Feel Good

1. Eating a giant omelette stuffed with gyro meat
2. Falling asleep while masturbating
3. Psylocibin mushrooms

Things That Don't Feel Good

1. Vomiting clear bile
2. Not knowing what to do with your dog's ashes
3. Sweating and panting on a treadmill while watching close-captioned CNN

Alas, I have no choice. I now have a gym membership, a hypothetical trainer named Miranda who seems to enjoy not showing up, and one of those sports bras that flattens my titties into awesome big bulldyke pecs. I have to lose weight and I love Chipotle too much to go on a diet. I'll keep y'all posted on my progress, or any amusing backslides.

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 18, 2005 10:16 AM

 

Open Your Mouth and Close Your Eyes

"2 Busy 2 Blog" ain't no valid excuse, but I am.

I've started writing another book, which brings my grand total of writing projects up to 600. Also, my bountiful dimpled ass is going to the gym today. Rain, shine or Dave Levine. I think I inadvertently grossed out some sheltered folks in Cali. They're not used to seeing an actual female ass, the kind Gustave Courbet used to lovingly paint in sunset hues.

I wish I didn't have stupid sex dreams all the time. I wake up exhausted.

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 17, 2005 9:35 AM

 

Why Do Guys Do This? Part II: The Disemboweling

You may recall my somewhat-infamous rant about accomplished older men dating hysterical teenage dopes. Lately, I've been ruminating on a different--and equally fascinating--facet of male behavior. I've nicknamed it "The Old Hate n' Switch," (or, for efficiency's sake, TOHNS.) Read on for an explanation.

My fateful encounter with TOHNS occurred when I was 20. I was dating a painter named Jake who was, in retrospect, a pretentious douchepacker. Nevertheless, I thought he was flawless and cleared my schedule to accomodate his every whim. Jake worked at a coffee shop with a girl named Hannah. She was an attractive and personable young women with ample tits. And yet (pay attention here kids), Jake saw fit to constantly slam Hannah behind her back. He frequently talked about how ugly he thought she was, how fat, how slutty, how dumb, utterly repulsive. These insults were spontaneous, entirely unprovoked and rather baffling. I'd usually respond by saying something like "Gee, she doesn't look like a bloated sow to me," or "Actually, I think Hannah seems pretty cool."

Anyway, Jake seemed obsessed with making it excruciatingly clear to myself and others that he thought Hannah was a vile whore who'd emerged from Satan's colon. So you can imagine my shock when one day, out of the clear blue, he dumped me for her. He didn't just fuck her, folks--he actually fell for her.

I'd been TOHNS-ed.

This bizarre experience is more common than you may think. I know other women who've suffered this behavior. The story is always the same: "He hated her! He called her Krusty McSyph and told me he wouldn't fuck her with someone else's dick! How can he be engaged to her now?" Why indeed? Why on earth would a guy suddenly pursue a relationship with someone he'd vociferously dissed for months?

As I was typing the sad, self-pitying tale you see above, my celly rang. It was Jonny calling long-distance from Minnecrapolis. Perfect timing! Now I could get a male perspective. I read the entry to him, and he chuckled with jaded recognition. "Oh yeah. All guys do that. Even me. Want to know why?"

"Of course!" said I. "Explain it to me, dude."

"Well," Jonny said. "I can tell you right now that your little college boyfriend was always hot for Hannah. But he felt defensive and guilty about it because he was in a relationship with you. He wanted to spill his guts, but he obviously couldn't just say 'I want to fuck Hannah.' So he invented a cover story. 'I hate her' was code for 'I want her.' It was his double-blind method of confessing his crush to you. He was trying to tell you that he liked her."

"Fascinating," I said. "Tell me more."

"This phenomenon occurs on a smaller scale when guys are watching TV in a group," Jonny continued. "A really hot chick with big tits--Pamela Anderson, for instance--will come on the screen, and inevitably, one of the guys will say something like 'Yuck, what a whore' or 'Her tits are way too big.' When what he means is 'I want to fuck her.' They're embarassed by being turned on, so they couch their desire in disgust. Or like when a JoJo video comes on and I say 'God, it's so gross to see a young girl being sexualized like that' when what I mean is 'I think she's hot, and I'm ashamed of myself for it.'"

"You think JoJo is hot?" I said snickering.

"No, I...don't put that in the blog," Jonny protested.

"Don't be ashamed," I said. "I hear she acts as well as she sings."

"My point is, Jake's feelings for Hannah never changed," Jon said. "He was hot for her from the beginning. It's not like he actually thought she was a hideous hosebeast and then suddenly did a 180."

"And to think all this time I thought he dumped me because she had huge tits," I mused.

"Wait, you didn't mention that Hannah had huge tits. That changes everything," Jonny said.

"How come?" I asked, confused. "We've already established that Jake was attracted to Hannah in general. Her huge tits were a mere technicality."

"Titties are powerful," Jonny said. "With this new evidence, it's possible that Jake really did think Hannah was disgusting, but he was able to overlook her other flaws in order to gain access to the titties."

"You mean a guy will date a woman he finds revolting simply because she has big sweater muffins?" I said, aghast. "That's all it takes?"

"Yes."

"That's why I'm getting implants. It's time to to put the D in Diablo," I said.

Jonny, who is 21 years older than JoJo, bade me goodnight.

My curiousity is now satisfied, but I still marvel at the weirdness of the TOHNS maneuver. Guys, if you're attracted to a girl and you feel squicky about it, just keep it to yourself, OK? There's no need for this demented masquerade. Also? I'm on to you now. The next time I hear a guy dismiss a woman as a sloppy butterfaced halfwit, I'll know he's secretly warm for her form. And knowing is half the battle.

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 10, 2005 7:10 PM

 

California Schemin'

I'm in Los Diablos, CA right now, reaping the benefits of free in-room DSL. I know I should be outside basking in the balmy temps and/or exploring the Farmers Market with all the other pallid flyover-state refugees, but the Internet is comfort food in an strange land. Also, I can't allow myself to be tempted by the delicious hand-churned ice cream at the Market. Out here, I'm on the Nomi Malone diet: brown rice, veggies, and effusive unearned praise.

Recent occasions in which I've had to suppress immature laughter

Yesterday, when the child applied some perfume in Ulta, then held her hand aloft and innocently said "Smell my finger."

Thursday, when Jonny and I went to Arby's and the elderly cashier asked me if I would like regular fries or "curlies" with my French dip. "I'll have curlies," I said casually, trying to keep a straight face. But Jon was already snickering, so I lost my composure. (For the flummoxed: "curlies" = schoolyard parlance for "pubes.")

Last night, when my father-in-law informed that he's already preordered my book from Barnes & Noble. I'm gonna have a lot of 'splaining to do come December. I mean, it's got to be traumatic to find out that your son's seemingly benign wife used to masturbate for cum-guzzling bisexual whores in a $20 booth. And lied to you the entire time, insisting she made her living waitressing at a shitty bar called Tropix. I hope he still loves me after reading that lurid spankbook.

An hour ago, when a well-meaning fellow told me my dreads were "fresh." Thanks, Jazzy Jeff! Yo home, to Bel Air!

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 9, 2005 5:25 PM

 

X-Treme Childhood-Missing: Husband Edition

My husband Jonny weighs in on stuff he misses and doesn't miss from back in the day. Jonny's blog entries are typically about weird bands like Yes and the Cowsills, so this is a delightful diversion indeed.

The conversation has traveled over to the Smile Shop message board as well. I'm pleased and shocked that a blog entry of mine was able to distract from these psychedelic superfans from their usual geeky debates. (You guys know I love you!)

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 6, 2005 5:54 PM

 

Things I don't miss from my childhood

1. Nothing on TV: It's 7:00 A.M. in 1984. What's on TV in Chicago? Why, it's Bozo's Circus, an unfunny clusterfuck of greasepainted buffoons doing vaudeville schtick that's older than Grandpa's ballsack. But you'll watch Bozo and like it. What's this you say about Nickelodeon, Noggin, Cartoon Network, the Disney Channel, Bravo, et. al? Not for you, my precocious pet! Most of those channels don't yet exist, and even if they did, your Luddite parents won't become cable subscribers until 1996--after you've moved out of the house. And tonight, you'll watch Miami Vice or PBS (referred to as "Channel 11" in our home). Those are your two choices. Sadly, Miami Vice is sounding pretty awesome right now. (By the way, I agree with the popular consensus that Bozo jumped the shark when they replaced the Big Top Band with the guy with the mellotron.)

2. No access to porn: Want to see a naked lady or a real, live boner? You'd better be prepared to sift through the dank, ottery-smelling recesses of your friend's ex-stepdad's closet! That's the only way you're going to see anything. There are no ISPs. No Google. In fact, the only googly thing you're gonna see is Ex-Stepdad's eyes as he reminisces about 'Nam after downing a fifth of Wild Turkey. When I was a kid, the only "porn" I saw with any regularity was my aunt's copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves. I remember being obsessed with the page detailing different sexual positions. From then on, I cultivated a really nerdy early-'70s sexual vocabulary. My friends and I would make our Barbies fuck, and I'd inevitably quote Our Bodies, Ourselves: "Now my Barbie is getting into the female superior position. And she's fondling her vulva. Look how empowered she is, Donna."

3. The absence of Chipotle: Sure, a Taco Bell hardshell only cost, like, 47 cents. However, they didn't have fresh guacamole or that yummy corn salsa or big schhthwaps of sour cream at the Bell. We were living in a land of confusion, as Peter Gabriel sagely pointed out.

4. Being molested: Just kidding. Nobody wants to molest the ugly kid with the overbite and the oversized Working Girl frames from Pearle Vision. A lot of people assume I was molested because of the whole stripping thing, but no adult ever looked askance at me. I became a stripper become I'm completely fucked in the head, not because of any negative formative experiences. And if it had happened, I highly doubt I'd miss it, you know?

5. My brother acting like a dick: As you might have guessed from yesterday's playground anecdote, my brother was one of those monstrous siblings who lived--lived--to punish me for being born and thus disrupting his status as a pampered only. You wouldn't believe the shit this kid got away with; the worst part is that he was actually entrusted with caring for me after school. Once, I skinned my knee and he held me down and rubbed hair mousse into the bloody wound while I screamed in pain. I also got pushed, smothered, slapped full-force across the face, sustained numerous friction burns, and was reminded repeatedly and vociferously that I was a stupid, unfunny retard. This wasn't an occasional thing; this was a daily ordeal. Nowadays, my bro's been humbled by adulthood and is actually a nice person. We're close friends. Frankly, I blame my parents for not putting him on antipsychotics or shipping him off to Captain Abrasive's Academie for Sadistic Young Men.

5. School: I'm not remotely nostalgic about grade school. I hated it, and was the sneakiest sick-faking truant you ever saw. I would rather work a shitty minimum-wage job as an adult than be a first grader again. I LOVE being a grownup. All the alcohol and porn I can consume, plus they pay me to write movies. It's better than I ever dreamed of. And I have tits! I always wanted these!

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 6, 2005 10:14 AM

 

Things from my childhood that I miss

1. Those sleeve-things that delivery pizzas used to arrive in. Remember those? They were made of white butcher paper and usually bore a crude red or green drawing of a stout Italian stereotype twirling a pizza. Sometimes it was an outline of Italy. You'd tear the paper open to reveal the bubbling pie concealed within. If I recall correctly, no matter where you ordered from, the sleeve usually said "DELICIOUS ITALIAN PIZZA", which seemed rather redundant. As opposed to what? "INEDIBLE TURKISH PIZZA"? Anyway, I know the cardboard boxes they use nowadays are probably more heat efficient, but they're not nearly as charming.

2. Family-owned amusement parks. Oh, they used to exist. Anyone from the Chicago area remember Dispensa's Kiddie Kingdom? No? Well, it's a fucking phallic office building now. I could puke. If you want to experience the pure joy of an unbranded, family-owned park, I recommend Knoebel's Amusement Park in Bumblefuck, PA. The white trash people-watching is second to none, and they have the best out-and-back woodie in North America.

3. Kids hanging out without parents. Remember when life wasn't just a series of panic attacks and you'd see--gasp!--KIDS RIDING THEIR BICYCLES WITHOUT ADULT SUPERVISION? "But the world isn't a safe place anymore." people whine. Guess what? It was never a safe place. In the 1950's, my mom, a toddler, was routinely menaced by a "peeping tom" until her parents realized what was going on. Her sister was chased through the woods by an adult pervert with an exposed dong--and this was in a peaceful, prosperous suburb. Freaks have been preying on children since time immemorial. Nothing has changed, just the level of hysteria. I understand the instinct to protect (heck, I've been diagnosed with severe OCD and will probably house my offspring in a Travolta bubble) but I miss seeing children interact without Mom hovering nearby, trying to engage them in gay-ass activities. How are preteen boys going to discover Dad's issues of Club and Swank with all this needless supervision?

4. McDonald's French fries prepared in the old-skool fashion. They were fried in beef tallow and arrived damp and scalding, glistening with fat. Sometimes they were soft and limp (my favorite) other times they were crisp and mealy. They were so salty they begged for an original-formula Coke (the real stuff, not the "Classic Coke" swill being foisted on the American public these days.) I suppose it's a good thing that the fries are prepared in veggie oil these days, since they're marginally healthier and are approved for vegetarian consumption (I'm down with the veg kids). However, they just don't taste as awesome. I also miss the fried pies. (I think that site is definitive proof that the Internet is the most terrifying and brilliant invention of our time.)

5. Real playgrounds. You know what I'm saying. Swings hung on thick rusty junkyard chains. Story-high metal slides--you always knew some kid who'd sustained a massive injury on the slide. In our neighborhood, there was a kid who'd fallen off the biggest slide at Virginia Reed Park and was never able to close his mouth properly again. There were treacherous monkey bars. Merry-go-rounds that could be made to whirl at sickening speeds, especially when two sturdy fifth grade boys were manning the operation. Seesaws, aka "kid trebuchets." My brother used to make me sit on one end, then would get a running start and throw his weight onto the other side, sproing-ing me into the air. I'd hit the pavement, bawling, swearing I'd tell Mom. It was dangerous stuff. It was play. I had stitches three times before I was 10, and I think my brother had broken both arms and a leg by then. I knew at least three kids--all girls--who'd knocked out their front teeth, usually by plummeting head-first down a slide or going ass-over-teakettle on a Huffy bike. I don't miss the bodily injury, but I do miss the sweat and the soil and the chaos.

6. Two-dimensional video games. Remember when you could "beat" a game in one night, provided you drank enough Jolt and had a reliable Player 2 at your side? There weren't any 3-D environments or companion soundtracks, just blips and bleeps and characters who could only move in one direction, leaping feebly for mushrooms. I realize I sound like a crusty old grump, but I really hate modern gaming. It's too hard. There, I said it. The last system I was able to truly appreciate (ie; master) was the Super Nintendo. I don't like shit I can't wrap my mind around. (See: knitting.) I commend those of you who are Xbox Jedi masters, because I totally can't hang.

7. The CBS "Special Presentation" graphic they used to show before Charlie Brown specials.: You can download it here, fourth clip down. Yeah. (If you don't have Real Media, you can watch it here.) Who's in the mood for Dolly Madison?

Next: Things about my childhood I don't miss.

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 5, 2005 2:53 PM

 

The naked dream (not the one with Anderson Cooper)

(I know stories about other people's dreams are typically obnoxious and boring, but bear with me on this one.)

Last night, I had one of those archetypal "naked dreams," wherein I found myself wandering the streets, nude and ashamed and desperately trying to shield my naked ass from the eyes of amused onlookers. I tried picking detritus up off the street and eventually fashioned a crude skirt of plastic and tinfoil. Still, people stared as I issued stammering apologies. (I have this dream a lot--I'm sure it's a staple of many bloggers' dream rosters.)

Waking, I was reminded of the funniest naked dream I ever had--it was funny because it was the inverse of the typical naked dream...it was a clothed dream masquerading as a naked dream. See, I stripping at the time I had this dream, so the exhibition of nudity had become normalized in my subconscious. In this dream, I was working at a strip club, soliciting lap dances as per usual. I noticed people snickering at me, and I looked down: I was wearing jeans. Jeans!

I tried to pull off the jeans, but it didn't work. They were fused to my skin. Everyone was staring. Who's the crappy stripper wearing pants? All the other girls were wearing sexy g-strings and here I was, encased in dungarees, showing nary an inch of booty. Humiliating.

What a mindfuck, eh? It makes me wonder if, say skydiving instructors have the "not falling" dream.

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 4, 2005 1:48 PM

 

Things to do when your husband is out of town

Today, I woke up with a mild hangover and went to a surreal-yet-fun "Sensual Pole Dancing" class with some pals. I'm pleased to report that I can still rock the pole. I was afraid that the novices would kick my sorry ass, but apparently I'm a more accomplished pole dancer than I thought I was.

Then I went home and wrote. Then I masturbated with my new Pocket Rocket from the Hustler store. It's small, but it packs some hardcore wattage. I came in about ten seconds, aided by some graphic ads in the back of an old issue of Celebrity Skin. Mary Carey is my new masturbation buddy. (All that bountiful tittage, and she ran for governor, too!)

Next, I took a nap, then wrote some more, for about four or five hours.

Now, I'm eating a healthy dinner of fried chicken, jalapeno poppers and a donut, washed down with Diet Coke. Mommy, why is my left arm tingling?

I'm headed downstairs to watch some Sex and the City and maybe SNL. Or maybe I'll watch some DVD commentaries I've been meaning to get to. I'm a commentary junkie.

Later? More writing, possibly more masturbation.

The life of a bachelorette ain't so bad!

Posted by Diablo Cody at October 1, 2005 7:40 PM

 

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