"Soul Patrol! Whoooo!"

The British Elle shoot was alternately thrilling, surreal and surprisingly arduous. I mugged on a bed in Soho, did the naughty secretary thing at a desk, and posed with a rhinestone-encrusted riding crop from Agent Provocateur. My ass is actually sore this morning from all the hip-thrusting and pose-holding-- it's like doing squats and lunges in couture. The threads were dynamite (turns out queeny old Michael Kors can really cut a skirt) but the stilettos did a number on me. My dogs are barkin', kids. This is why I stick to Cons, Vans, Fryes, and all other one-syllable footwear.

So you know how Tyra Banks is always telling girls to "hunch their shoulders" and "make it a little ugly" in high-fashion shots? Yesterday, while they were photographing me at the desk, I decided to test the effectiveness of this tactic. I did a Quasimoto and pouted at the (excellent) photographer. "GREAT!" he yelped. "Hold that. Right there!" Enthusiastic rapid-fire flashes.

And get this: Dude proceeded to voice his approval every time I did the "Tyra Hunch" over the next five hours. So TyTy actually knows what she's doing, modeling-wise. Huh.

I actually had a dialogue loop from ANTM running in my brain the entire time, which is just sad. I remembered to keep my hands pretty, relax my mouth, and keep my eyes looking lively, rather than pained. I figured this valuable TV-gleaned knowledge could be adequate recompense for my jelly belly and DIY haircut. Did I mention I couldn't fit in two out of the three skirts they brought? I tried to play it off all cute, like "Guess I need to lay off the Krispy Kremes." Nobody laughed. In the Elle universe, if you're not emaciated, you're fatally obese. They might as well airlift you out of your house on Dr. Phil and whisk you to a special in-patient facility, lest you consume another atom of toxic nourishment.

'Course, a wiffle-bat-sizedmedia noche and fries was probably not the most prudent pre-shoot meal.

So, yeah. That was cool.

I'm working on my second book now, and every time I blog, I feel like I'm leaking precious petrol. Must funnel energy into actual paying venture! But blogging is...I don't know, special. You know what I mean? No editors, and I can post naked pictures whenever. That's a gift, y'all. Thank you, Internet.

I just received the call sheet with details for my Elle photoshoot in New York tomorrow morning. Am v. thrilled, naturally.

However, this sentence jumped out at me like a feral, frothing raccoon: "We need to make sure she looks fashion, not real person."

I hope they have a talented team of stylists, because I have a tendency to look "real person" even if you drape me in Christian Dior and paint my lips Schiaparelli pink. I'm Fat Elvis, after all! I need Visine and a seaweed wrap! I need blotting papers! I need life support!

I just ate a spotty banana and am about to do an hour of yoga, which is hilarious. This is me trying to "look fashion" in twelve hours or less. I am a human Jager bomb.

I am totally going through a "Fat Elvis" phase. Not so much physically as idelogically. It's kind of unfortunate. I'm watching Graceland decay through cheeseburger-colored lenses.

You know how sometimes you feel very crisp and alert and disciplined? It's like the opposite of that. I'm just fuckin' bloodshot.

I was digging in memorabilia at my parents' house this weekend and I found a handwritten letter I wrote to my "unborn children" when I was 17. (Lest you think Teen Diablo was an utter cheeseball, I'm pretty certain this letter was a mandatory high school writing assignment, probably for some ghastly religion course.) I devoured the missive eagerly, expecting it to be really immature and overwrought and clueless in that awesome teenage way. To my shock, it was chillingly prescient. I mean, I obviously haven't borne any children yet, but I do fuck someone's dad, so I dabble in parenting by default. And my parenting style is exactly what I predicted it would be back when I was a tender sapling myself.

Here's just one of the heartwarming sentiments I expressed to my hypothetical progeny: "I hope you like frozen pizza because you're going to be eating a lot of it." Oh snap! Take that, unborn hellions! The only thing colder than your supper is Mommy's frigid bosom!

I wish I had brought the whole letter home, because it was classic. Actually, I should have brought all my teenage journals. Flipping through them, I can't believe how snarky and kinky I was. There's a really disturbing account of some guy making me wear his belt around my neck during sex. And I was writing about it in this totally fake-nonchalant way way, like "We did the choking thing again. Afterward I had some nasty red welts, but whatever. The Real World: Boston was so good tonight! Jason + Timber 4-evah!"

The funny thing is, I've never been genuinely nonchalant about anything in my life. I'm sure that when I journaled the belt incident, my heart was just slamming against my ribs.

My signing/discussion at Borders yesterday was HOT. I've become accustomed to low-key, sparsely attended signings in cities where people think "Diablo Cody" is a upscale brand of chili sauce. So this was a first-- a big, robust, murmuring crowd spilling out past the seating area. O joy! You CAME!

All my homies came, too. My friends are the best. They brought questions and even laughed at my lame attempts at humor. This social cue prompted laughter from other audience members, creating a David Blaine-worthy illusion of hilarity.

My friend Scott took purty pitchers with his camera-device. Behold!

Here's me reading words with my dirty mouth.

I am the poster child for government-subsidized rhinoplasty. At least my hair looks good. Note the Reese's Cups scattered willy-nilly on the table. Nothing says "I want you to like me!" like bringing a stash of chocolate to your own reading.

I closed the event by singing "My Country 'Tis of Thee" and then vomiting blood onto the crowd.

Anyway, I would like to extend huge thanks to every single person who attended. It was ricockulously fun. I had an amazing time. I loved meeting every one of you. I want to taste the salt on your skin and take you dancing and eat you.

Love!

Jonny's account of meeting his birthmom and brother last night.

The whole thing was just fascinating to behold, and very lovely indeed. I sat back and watched them gawk at each other in awe, laugh with eerily-similar cadences, and talk animatedly about the thirty-odd years they'd been missing each other.

It was kind of like DMC: My Adoption Journey only with 100% less Sarah McLachlan.

Seriously, what a friggin' day for Jon! When he'd woken up earlier that morning, he didn't even know his birthmom's name. By nightfall, he was acquainted with a whole host of new relatives and had finally hugged the woman who'd made his passage onto this planet possible. Neither of us could sleep after we came home. ("I'm too excited to schweep!" Jonny wailed in a spot-on impression of that annoying Disney World commercial.)

So rad!

Amidst all the excitement, I forgot to mention that I have a book signing/discussion tomorrow at 12:30 p.m. at Borders downtown. (600 Hennepin Avenue, Minneapolis.)

Take an extra-long lunch break and come hang with me!

Jonny finally found his birthmom and they've made first contact! I can't believe this. What a radical, beautiful development. I can't imagine how the boy is feeling right now. Can't even begin to palpate his emotions. Me, I feel pure bubbly-Sunkist happiness for him. I get a pristine happy vibe from the whole thing.

I've spent a year (ignorantly) waxing philosophical on the topic of adoption during the Juno journey, but I didn't expect a real-life adoption story to unfold in perfect sychronicity. And probably show me how little I know, right?

Go Jonny, go! I'm proud of you for many things.

[Extrasensory Photo-Op (K)nowledge.]

I just found out Elle Magazine is doing a piece on me. Apparently bottom-heavy Midwestern skanks are all the rage in Paris. They're sending a photographer and a journalist to Minneapolis, so I don't even have to hop a plane. Groovy; I love interviews. I mean that sincerely! I can gab at a captive stranger for hours.

Can I request Gilles Bensimon, I wonder?

(Links sadly NSFW)

Coach has usurped Boatin Rob as my favorite Southern Gent. I have a serious weakness for hairy chests.

I just want to see a fella get his due-- his "Mountain Due," that is.