What ho! A pole hast been erected in my ghastly parlor! Ernie looks on, bored, as I gleefully seize my new iron toy. Check out my manly bicep-- Nigerian Man would be pleased.

A grimace of pain is easily disguised as an inviting smile. Just call me Rupert Grunt, boyish star of Harry Potter and the Atrophied Abdominal Muscles.

Whee! I'm flying, Jack, I'm flying! And not just because of the Percodan.

This was going to be a really sweet trick, but unfortunately my camera's timer is entirely too sluggish. Ideal audio track for this shot: KERRR-RASH. *sweet mother of fuck!* (mutter, mutter)

At least I remembered to point my toes while falling. I'm a graceful idiot.

I finally installed my stripper pole today. I'm proud to report that I only enlisted the tattooed subcontractors in my basement for one minor step (stud-finding...write your own joke.) I then took pictures of myself monkeying around joyously on said pole, but my DSL is on the fritz. I'm blogging from the Sidekick for now, and later I shall post the photos. My delts are already throbbing-- take that, Dan Brown! Soon I will be buffer than thou, even if I will never be as industrious!

Last night Jonny finished his album. It is like a shaft of light in Laurel Canyon, one of those feel-good pop joints. It's Laurie Partridge staggering naked through a field of wildflowers with a breathless David Crosby in hot pursuit. That's this album.

In other news, Barnabas ate the mail yesterday and is currently shitting credit card offers.

I just read that Dan Brown, the loaded and prolific author of The DaVinci Code, gets up at four a.m. to write, seven days a week. Oh, and get this: he keeps an hourglass on his desk and uses it to carefully time periodic breaks...during which he does crunches and push-ups.

Basically, Dan Brown is the anti-Diablo. I don't know if I should be jealous, resentful, or totally reverent.

Think of it this way: When I start my typical writing day, Dan Brown has already been plugging away for eight hours. His triceps are probably spasming from all those "breaks." I bet Dan Brown's breakfast doesn't consist of Diet Dr. Pepper. I bet he doesn't take a 2:00 masturbation break every day, followed by an unplanned and yet utterly predictable disco nap. I bet he doesn't have a pole in his living room (though I bet he could bust out some killer Vitruvian Man-inspired moves. His burlesque name could be Templar Storm.)

I want to be mentored by Dan Brown. Think what he could do for my career if he came here for just a week and whipped my ass into shape! He could teach me how to be a disciplined writer, and I could share my controversial theory about how the Holy Grail appears briefly in a Lil' John video, brimming with Crunk Juice. We would learn, laugh and love. He could give me some money.

I joke, and yet self-loathing gnaws at my core. I'd better get to work.

I recently learned this term-- I'm so not up on my blogspeak. Apparently a "cheese-sandwich blog" is a straightforward, diary-style blog in which the writer simply described things they've done/said/consumed that day without any real creative commentary.

In other words: "I had a cheese sandwich." Yeah.

I apologize for the pervasive cheese-sandwichy-ness of this blog lately. And by "lately," I mean, "since I quit stripping, which accounts for, oh, the past 22 months." Yeah, it sucks out loud. I know.

When I worked at the pussy auctions, every day was psychedelic, bracing. There was so much to observe, so many things that turned me on. I blogged even when I wasn't at a computer. I napkin-blogged, skin-blogged, scrawled entries on the virgin perimeters of my Converse. I was also using blogging as a vehicle-- a propellant, really-- so there was an escape-artist urgency to the whole venture. I was digging myself out. I checked my stats every five heartbeats.

Now I've transferred that mania to my professional writing, so the blog gets the Fat Veinous Shaft.

I'm totally aware. And I hate talking about my life. Hate it. I'd love to observe another person for a year and blog them. It's not exhibitionism that fuels me-- it's voyeurism. I miss watching people. And I can't really write about the people I interact with these days or I might get dooced. And someone has to pay the rapist-drywaller in my basement. See?

And I'm writing this as if anyone gives a shit! In apologizing for my cheese-sandwichousity, I have built the ultimate cheese sandwich. It's a nine-tier Dagwood oozing with provolone. Fuck.

I just received a message from a friend informing me that someone was selling high-school era photos of me on eBay. Apparently the bidding got up to $25.03, a fair price for ancient snaps of A TOTAL NOBODY. Sadly, the cherished item must have been sold, as I was unable to find it during a search. Why didn't I think of this? I could have bundled the photos with a "personal effect" and dramatically increased the value of the lot.

L@@K! HS TEEN PIX OF LETTERMAN'S DIABLO CODY! W **USED**/TAMPAX PEARL. MINT!!!

(Seller accepts PayPal, check, cash, Teddy Grahams, loving touches, reassurances of sanity.)

People: I am not Corey Haim, OK? An image of me is essentially without value. If you want to see old photos, come on over and I'll dust off the albums. I was a skinny little whore, usually tented in flannel. Nothing to see here, really. Resume searching for "matt dillon spunk sock".

In other news, I am totally obsessed with Big Love. The guy carrying drywall into my house looks like a rapist.

My screenplay got some props in this week's Entertainment Weekly. I agree with the writer's assertion that we'll need a top-shelf cast-- are you reading, Brigitte Nielsen? Blackberry me!

Barnabas has recently begun ardently humping his doggie bed. He's totally going Eric Nies on it. I guess this means my boy is an adolescent now. Maybe I should sell some HS PIX!!! of him on eBay.

MY HOME POLE HAS ARRIVED!

Oh God, I'm going to make such an ass of myself. I mean, more than I already have. Which is to say, considerably.

I have encountered many Rock Stars of Kindness in the past few days. I'm sopping up your love with a toast point-- please know that I vibe on every sweet gesture, every well-intentioned message, every whimsical "review." To quote H.H., my little cup overflows with tiddles! To paraphrase C.J., that's a spicy meatball!

(See how I inexpertly muddled highbrow and lowbrow references in a single vomit-inducing paragraph? That's why they pay me in Skittles.)

So: I was in New York. Here's the Tidy Cat Scoop on all that. (Warning: Long and possibly tedious.)

Jonny and I jetted in on Sunday night. (We always fly NWA, mothafuckas!) We checked in at the Warwick Hotel, which sadly is not owned by Warwick Davis or any other wizards of small stature. (However, Paul McCartney once stayed there, and he wrote a song called "Little Willow." Ten points to whomever can follow that train of thought; the conductor is clearly high on cocaine.)

Once we arrived at the hotel, we split a surprise bottle of champagne that had been thoughtfully provided for us by my parents. I cherish such totally rad gestures; you have to understand that this whole thing has been a bit of an ordeal for Mom and Pop Cody. On one hand, they're thrilled to see their daughter in the media. On the other hand, their daughter is a shrill and cheerful slut who a.) relies on mock-heroism and shock tactics to amuse her captives and b.) wears pink fishnet tights on national television. My mother probably doesn't know whether to laugh or hork. I'm humbled by her strength and good humor. Same goes for my dad, who has every right to be appalled and yet repeatedly denies himself that luxury. Dad, get mad already!

Anyway, we finished the Brut and promptly passed out.

The next day was Dave-day. After I woke up, I phoned in a quick pre-interview with a charming Late Show staffer named Matt. Then Jonny and I had breakfast in the Warwick's restaurant, which features stately old murals that have obscenities (deeply) hidden in them. Seriously! Like, they'll be a portrait of explorers bartering with natives, and in the background, there's a guy subtly jerking off. Apparently the artist had a vendetta against the guy who commissioned the murals, so he painted in a bunch of transgressive goofs. This is exactly the type of art I want to enjoy when I'm eating a $20 omelette stuffed with cave-aged Gruyere!

At 3:15, my book's publicist (fiery young Sarah) and my two agents (luscious brunette Sarah and creamy sophisticate Paula) showed up at the hotel. We all squealed and fretted, though I was slowly entering the dead-calm stage of anxiety. A car from Letterman arrived and took us a WHOLE THREE BLOCKS to the Ed Sullivan Theater; apparently I can't walk to such things lest my delicate geisha feet be soiled by the dung of commoners. When we arrived at the back entrance, the paparazzi were lined up for Denzel. I am not Denzel, but I thought maybe Fiery Sarah could be Denzel, so I tossed my coat over her head and marched her in as if she were a reclusive A-lister. A handful of flashbulbs exploded. This seemed hilarious at the time.

We passed the backstage area and were ushered upstairs to a cozy (read: tight) dressing room that was thoughtfully stocked with cookies, fruit and pop. Of course, we immediately needed Grownup Soda to buff our ragged edges, so we dialed downstairs for a bottle of Ketel One. Matt entered with some contracts, which I signed, and he and I briefly reviewed Mr. Letterman's notes. I asked where Denzel was, and they told me he was being penned up in a different room. (I'm sure Denzel's digs featured a three-tier Hypnotiq fountain and dancing girls, but whatever. He's Denzel-fucking-Washington! He deserves a better room than Unknownia McStrippypants.)

The show started. We watched the taping from a TV in the dressing room, which was weird. I've watched the Late Show zillions of times, but never a single floor up from where it was actually happening, you know? The makeup woman popped in and asked me if I wanted an obligatory buff, but I declined. (These fools with their professional training cannot possibly improve on my flawless potato-shaped visage!)

At this point we heard "Denzel to stage door" over the intercom, meaning his interview segment was about to begin. Paula and I decided this was our best chance to catch a verboten glimpse of the D-man. We peered into the stairwell just as Denzel slipped into the elevator, looking impossibly Denzelicious in his sleek dark suit.

I can't explain what happened next. Something came over us.

We shrieked. We screamed like tweens gathered 'round a sexually-charged prank phone call. We ran down the hallway, arms flailing, as the elevator doors slid shut. We had the Denzel feeve and our temperatures were rising fast! Pant, pant.

Okay. So Denzel filmed his segment. They cut to a musical break and then Denzel filmed the second, clip-reliant half of his segment. They cut to another break and it was TMTTSY. (Totally My Time to Shine, Y'all!) The intercom summoned some Diablo Cody person. I hugged Jonny goodbye as he nervously gulped his sixth vodka Sprite. I marched down the hallway to the elevator, but nobody shrieked or ran, because as I noted five paragraphs ago, I am not Denzel.

Downstairs, I was directed backstage, behind a pillar where a mirror had conveniently been placed. I peeked around the pillar and saw Dave at his desk. I was admonished for peeking. I turned to the stage director and said "This is probably the coolest thing I've ever done." He smiled. Then he said, "Go." And I went.

Onstage I felt eerily comfortable. I can offer no explanation for this incongruity. Honestly, I wasn't terror-stricken in the least. Maybe I felt better than I ever have. Looking at the host was lovely, but looking at the cameras and the audience amplified the sensation past buttery bliss to a full-blown attention-whoregasm. More, please! Dave looked exactly the way he looks on TV. They trowel a lot of foundation on the guy, but I'm sure that's necessary under those kliegs. He was very kind to me and thanked me after our interview was over. I gripped his hand like the lifelong fangirl I am-- I have always loved Dave above all hosts. Then I scurried back to the dressing room amid backstage applause. Hugs all around. I finally processed that my task had been completed. Onward!

(If you'd like to see the shameless mugging that is the actual interview, I hear it's on YouTube.)

We went to a nice bar where we drank and smoked and bragged and laughed and pestered the waiter. I just wanted to lean into Jonny and disappear under his skin. But in a good way. It was an exhausted sort of clinginess I remember from my childhood, met now as it was then with gentle reassurance.

A haze follows: McSorley'sCheesburgerTVBedBreakfastMetNobu. Plane ride home. Here now, dirty, my broke-ass weave utterly bedraggled but full of new secrets.

Apres Dave, le deluge: Emails, phone calls, praise from random well-wishers on the street, pick yr ego-inflating poison. It was and is pretty fucking rad.

And that's that!

I am on the schedule for Monday's Late Show. I am practicing my most winsome grin:

Toss head back.
Bare teeth.
Guffaw (but winsomely, like Julia Roberts)

See if you can catch me doing it!

I've returned to Minneapolis, but this weekend I have to fly back to New York. No reason, really. A niggling press commitment, you might say. (dry cough.)

Oh, to blazes with composure! I'M GOING TO BE ON DAVID LETTERMAN!

Fire up yr Tivos, cowpokes: My interview tapes Monday afternoon and will air either Monday night or Wednesday night. The other guest is some unknown fellow by the name of Denzel Washington.

Cross your labes that I don't wind up being bumped-- I've seen it happen to the "third guest." And I am the thirdiest third guest ever; I think "author" ranks even below "chef" and "Regis" in the late-night guest hierarchy.

Yeah, I'm shocked too.

Breathless East Coast recap: I enjoyed various dessert liqueurs with the charismatic and hilarious Frankie (Can't Relax), met Lily Burana (fangirl squeal!), did The Bower Show again (love that filthy Sirius gang), read at Coliseum Books and scorched my esophagus with FUCKING HOT-ASS SHRIMP at a Cubano fusion joint. God bless everyone who showed up, hung out, and/or enabled this mobile booze fiend in some way. I no longer think of New York as a lonely city. I rather like it.

I'd better like it, because I'm going to be back there before you can say "panicked shopping expedition because apparently I can't wear scuffed workboots and a Santino Rice do-rag on Letterman."

WE NEED ASSISTANCE IN WARDROBE, STAT! CODE BUTCH! CODE BUTCH!

I've never blogged from my Sidekick before, but there's a first time for every obnoxious affectation, no? Forgive me if I lapse into teenspeak or express enthusiasm for the Pussycat Dolls.

I'm on the train to the airport right now, listening to Richard Hell, Billy Joel and Judee Sill, who I thought was mine alone until I watched Elizabethtown the other night and realized that-- naturally-- Cameron Crow had already found her.

(Luckily, Billy Joel remains undiscovered. You should hear this guy!)

I hope this trip is totally tits!