June 2006

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Sirius Subscribers

I'll be on The Bower Show on Maxim Radio 108 this afternoon-- and every Friday afternoon-- at 3:00 CST/4:00 EST. Basically I get to call in and babble about a different sexual fetish every week; whadda job! Listen for my manly growl, and revel in the Friday naughtiness.

I love Bower and the gang, so mischief will surely be made.

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 30, 2006 9:36 AM

 

A Lass Insane

I am now rockin' a Bowie-inspired mullet/shag 'do. Gasp, snicker, or envy, your choice:

I love it, if only because I'm the only girl in town crazy enough to request such a look. If a standard sho-lo says "business in the front, party in the back," I think my style says "political prisoner in the front, vintage Joan Jett in the back."

Side view. AW YEAH.

I just found out Downy is releasing a new fabric-softener scent. Something with apricots. My Downy Ball trembles with anticipation!

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 29, 2006 1:10 PM

 

Buy My House!

Two years ago, we bought this house with the lint from our pockets and a Bettie Page lunch box stuffed with Sweaty Page's strip club earnings. At the time, the house was a sturdy-but-unloved rambler, painted a flat Gulf green and situated on land that graded sharply toward the house, as if encouraging water to phase through the walls and hasten the rot that was already underway in the unfinished catacombs beneath. The yard had been neglected but for the most perfunctory mow-n'-clip. No one lived in the actual house; it was owned as an investment property by a distant realtor. Before that, it had been occupied by a lawless, unparented group of Hmong teens, who'd left telltale graffiti on some exposed foam insulation.

Sure, there was a new roof. And the kitchen had recently been rehabbed, complete with virgin appliances that wink-winked "We're new here! Why not bake some snickerdoodles?" The upstairs bathroom was as inoffensive as they come in '60s houses. The hardwood floor still shone like a syrup spill and--look! A laundry chute! Jonny and I quickly became infatuated with the house. We were deaf to our buyer's agent's sensible protests ("You're gonna have to gut that basement!"). We would love the house. And love it we did.

Jonny painted the siding white and replaced the peel-n'-stick house numbers with a swank embossed plaque. He regraded the land and adjusted the gutters so rainwater would travel away from the house. He manicured the bushes, resodded, then tore up half the yard, replacing it with a woodland-inspired fantasia of mulch and blossoms and hostas. He dug a friggin' fountain which has bubbled merrily in the the shade of our favorite tree ever since. The front yard looked so pimp that we decided we needed a patio in the back. We enlisted a posse of laughably stereotypical hunks to do the job. They brought a jam box and grooved, their oiled biceps pulsing as they poured the concrete.

Of course, our rusting, wheezing hulk of an air conditioner didn't really complement the patio. So we sucked it up and brought a brand new A/C unit. Are you paying attention, prospective buyer? To simplify things, I'll just add a "ding!" when I want to highlight Value We Added to the Home.

Inside, I painted each room a lush fashion hue. I insisted we rip out the cheap carpeting in my office and replace it with glossy wood laminate (ding!) Things were starting to look downright slick.

So then there was the basement. We'd already bought a new washer and dryer (ding!), but the lower level was still far from an optimum hangout spot. So we hired this dude to singlehandedly tear the place asunder and rebuild the entire basement. He added a fourth bedroom (ding!) and a really nice bathroom, complete with an extra-large showerhead that cost me like $90 (ding!) and a mosiac stone border in lieu of baseboards (DING! DING! I'M AN IDIOT SPENDTHRIFT! DING!) The laundry area was walled off into its own spacious room and floored with checkerboard linoleum (standard ding!)

The act of love was complete. And then we found another house. I don't know if we're going to get the new house for sure (banks don't really like freelance writers) but it's one crispy pube away from being a done deal.

So now, we have to sell this one. It goes on the market Thursday, so watch yr listings and try to find us. This is a one-story brick and siding house, small but sweet, four bedrooms (three up, one below) two bathrooms, modern kitchen. Plus you get to live in Robbinsdale, home of Whiz Bang Days, Thistles and Broadway-fuckin'-Pizza. Plus, two bars within walking distance, a gun range, and the Robbinsdale Pirates! All this, a mere twelve minutes from downtown Minneapolis.

"Well, if Robbinsdale is so great, why are you moving?"

We ain't! Our new house is in Robbinsdale too. We're not deserters. We just needed more room. As a family, we leave a considerable footprint.

So, anyway. Check it out-- this is a house that's been coddled within an inch of it's life, and I'd love to see it go to one or several cool homeowners who could appreciate it just as much.

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 26, 2006 3:40 PM

 

Rave!

Downy's Simple Pleasures Vanilla Lavender Fabric Softener is the shit!

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 23, 2006 11:20 AM

 

A Boast About My Man

Blog-braggarts tend to nauseate. Most of us like hearing about people's tics and foibles, but not necessarily about their good fortune. Unless they're friends, in which case we crack open a Foster's oil can and celebrate. I hope you consider me a friend, because I'm about to be brag my ass off.

My husband is awesome. I know I've said it before, ad nauseum, but he is just so fuggin' groovy. I think a lot of people assume I love him because he's ridiculously kind and completely devoid of the insecurities that make normal humans cruel. True, Jonny simply doesn't do cruel. Even on the occasions where he has to verbally vanquish a bully, his (inspired, wounding) barbs are still entirely staged. He knows how to sound mean-- he hears me do it every day, after all-- but it's not organic to him. He's just naturally sweet, like a gingerbread man. A well-hung gingerbread man with an icing cowboy hat piped onto his brow.

However, that's not why I love him. I'd love him even if he was a raging asshole, because he's cool and he has a dent in his chin and he says things like "What's the name of that emo song where the guy screams?" and he lingers at men's fragrance counters. He can wrangle me into obedience with ease; he makes the Dog Whisperer look a 'roid-rager. He cracks me up. He shames me with his intellect. He looks good every day, even if he has strep throat, is covered in potting soil and perspiration, or is sporting his modest "Dad's night" PJs in case the kid wakes him up.

And he actually listens. If I complain that we watch too many kid-friendly popcorn flicks (and you know I do) the next weekend he'll suggest a Robert Altman movie. If I mention that I'm hankering for scorched meat, he'll come home with a bag of Kingsford and a case of my beloved Diet Coke for good measure. He doesn't even wince when Barnabas--the puppy he begged me not to adopt-- excavates used tampons from the bathroom wastebasket and flings them willy-nilly like missiles of gore. (Okay, he winces a little, but most guys would file for legal separation.)

Most people think it's bad luck (or bad taste) to hail your beloved in writing or song. I have this man's name tattooed on my flaccid bicep, so obviously I beg to differ. It's better to love like this and fuck it up than to keep quiet your entire life for the sake of "taste." I love Jonny and I don't care who knows it. People always rhapsodize about their children, so can't I rhapsodize about my childlike husband, the enthusiastic ten-year-old to my sullen teen, the Jesus in my ravaged temple?

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 20, 2006 12:52 PM

 

Skinny Dipping

Picture this:

It's a balmy Friday night in darkest Wisconsin. Bullfrogs are bleating. The fireflies have gone disco. Loons are doing that crazy loon thing. You know, that Yma Sumac vibrato?

Suddenly the sky is like marbled with lightning. Silence. It starts to rain, but it's a soft, warm, kindergarten rain. I'm standing on the pier, palming a few drops. My ass is feeding mosquitos, despite the inch-thick mantle of DEET I've applied.

Someone suggests that we all tear our clothes off and risk electrocution by swimming. Since I used to be a stripper and all, you'd think I'd be game. You'd think I'd whip off my T-shirt and plunge into the water like a Naiad, whooping with glee and lofting my rigid, dripping nipples toward the waxing moon. Nope.

I am a prude, dudes. I am shy. In point of fact, I can't stand being seen naked unless I am:

a.) being photographed
b.) being tipped (preferably ones and fives, though I'll accept grander denominations)
c.) fucking, and even then I'll leave my cowboy boots on. And I won't look you in the eye.

But I love skinny dipping. I LOVE IT. I'd only done it once before, when I was 17. I was at a similar cabin in Wisconsin with my best friend Jenni and my other best friend-cum-whipping boy, Pete, who I wanted to fuck and punish, and fuck and punish, fuck, punish, fuckpunish, fuck-fuck-fuck punish.

Jenni and I had been slugging down strawberry wine, and we were feeling bold. We peeled off our itty bikinis and plunged into that achingly cold drink. We ordered Pete to stay on the pier. We didn't want him seeing us naked. I especially didn't want him to see my mutilated tits. I was angry a lot back then, and I'd gouge my girls with tweezers. Sometimes I'd rub them with my thumbs and give myself little friction burns. My bras were all speckled with blood.

I remember swimming under the moon and feeling the weird sensation of water between my legs. It was different than taking a bath. This water wasn't stagnant. It fluttered and teased. "This feels so good!" I yelled, paddling like a spaniel. (Yelling is what I always do. It's sort of my thing.)

Jenni swam up beside me. Down in the frigid murk, our legs bicycled. Our hair streamed over our shoulders like black kelp. We lunged at each other like we were going to touch, but we didn't. We were both distressingly hetero.

Jenni and I weren't in there for long. Afterwards, we made Pete promise he hadn't looked. He promised.

Anyway, back to last Friday. My companions all took off their clothes like it was no big deal. They jumped into the water or bellyflopped onto rafts, their cute asses all shameless and shiny. Meanwhile, I'm standing on the pier and SHRIEKING like a Victorian bather. I've jettisoned my shirt, but my left arm is braced across my tits. Seriously, I'm paralyzed. I cannot bring myself to be nude in front of these people. It's not like stripping, not at all.

I finally summon some courage and drop trou. I jump. The water is much warmer than I anticipated. I flail for a moment, then hoist my wet carcass onto my cheap purple raft. My eyes are squeezed shut, because I'm too shy to look at other people naked either. I start yelling. It's what I do.

"This feels so good!" I yell. A crosshatch of lightning overhead. "This feels so good!"

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 19, 2006 1:03 PM

 

Grazie!

The reading on Monday night was a blast. I answered some questions, I moved some product, I saw some familiar faces, I shouted dirty words at an inappropriate volume. Whoo!

Then last night Jonny threw me a birthday bash at the Breakaway, complete with face cake. Double whoo!

Tomorrow I leave for Camp Rikandmissi, a three-day cabin retreat in Wisconsin, during which I plan to read, write, float, n' booze. And possibly blog, if I can get a whit of reception in the woods. Here's hoping a curious bear doesn't mistake me for "hunny."

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 14, 2006 11:17 AM

 

Another reading for my fellow suburbanites

At 7:00 p.m. tonight, June 12, at Borders in Minnetonka, I will be reading from Candy Girl and, of course, conducting a ribald Q & A.

All ye who dwell on the margins...be there!

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 12, 2006 10:26 AM

 

A shared love of poly-satin

So those caftans I blogged about below? I "discovered" them this morning in an issue of the Enquirer that had been carelessly left open on the table.

I just called Jonny to alert him to the Magic of the Caftan (I tend to make hysterical phone calls when I discover such things) and he was all "Duh, I deliberately left the Enquirer open to that page so you'd see them!"

He knows me too well!

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 9, 2006 10:59 AM

 

OMGOMGOMG!

I need this so bad!

Look at it! Slovenly glamour epitomized! And for less than the cost of two Zubrowka martinis!

I may or may not be having a birthday next Wednesday, so listen up, Jonny: I NEED A GIANT SATIN CAFTAN SO I CAN LOOK LIKE A POST-COITAL RUE MCCLANAGHAN.

I can't decide if I want Leopard or Seashore. One says "old tramp with nicotine-stained nipples" and the other says "old hippie who buys bulk gorp and feeds it to gulls." I am both these women, only young.

You feel me, right?

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 9, 2006 10:43 AM

 

THAT DOES IT!

I'm sending this fucking Chihuahua to Oates Military Academy!

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 9, 2006 10:36 AM

 

Moratorium

Dear Recording Artists:

Stop titling albums using your given name, your middle name, your Christian name, your childhood camp nickname, etc. I realize this is your way of saying "Look! I'm keeping it real! My name might be Q-Dawg now, but I ain't changed since I was little Howard Quincy from Flatbush. That's why my new album--which drops presently--is called "Howard Quincy." Big ups to Queens, y'all!"

(See: "Todd Smith," "The Marshall Mathers LP", "The Emancipation of Mimi," "Damita Jo" and more.)

How much you wanna bet Alicia Keys titles her next record "Ms. Cook" or some such? And brace yourself for the inevitable "Britney Jean" album, brimming with soulful fiddly bayou tunes that remind the artist "of home." Blecch.

It's played, yo. It's tired. Stop. And LL? I expected better of you.

Much love, even though I only download your singles
Diablo

P.S. Watch for my new book, "Just Brookie."

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 9, 2006 9:57 AM

 

Sexual Chocolate!

I just removed my glued-in hair extensions with some evil, viscous oily stuff. Now, even after a couple of fervent washes, I still look like I styled it with Soul Glo.

My hair is all shiny and curly and slippery. Photos don't do it justice. I'm like a masochistic little duck that's been paddling in the wake of the Exxon Valdez. (Yes, my cultural references are old and busted.)

The moisture from my hair is clinging to my cheeks and forehead, rendering both surfaces reflective. My skin is gonna be so bad in a few days that I'm going to look like that dude who took Rizzo to the prom.

I'm gonna be HOT onstage tonight! Yes sir!

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 6, 2006 4:35 PM

 

Pluggin' it Up

Tomorrow night (that's 6/6/06) at the Dinkytowner, Mercurial Rage and La Soya Roja will compel you to shake your ass. I promise you it will be a pimp show.

Besides, I'll be there singing three original songs, accompanied by Jonny on guitar! Thrill to my quavering voice and mediocre songcraft!

Actually, I'm proud of my songs, but my voice...yeah. Don't bring any glassware or Basset hounds.

P.S. Two-for-ones, and it only costs $3! All this, and the opportunity to yell "STICK TO WRITING, CODY!" at the stage while I cower in shame.

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 5, 2006 3:38 PM

 

Mommy's Little Patient

Fresh off his starmarking appearance in the Pi Press, Barnabas has undergone a certain emasculating procedure. Farewell, pea-sized chihuahua testicles! Hello, life of sloth and celibacy! Seriously, I'm not planning to breed him, despite his stunning bone structure and easygoing disposition. So I figured I might as well heed Bob Barker's pleas and get the boy snipped.

This bitch parties so hard--check out the lampshade! Plus, he's trippin' on beef-flavored pain management nuggets. Get well soon, Barnabas!

Posted by Diablo Cody at June 2, 2006 8:52 AM

 

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