August 2006

Ain't Hardly Busy t'All

Not so, I'm afraid. I'm Busy Phillips. I'm Gary Busy. I'm friggin' Brook Busy-Hunt.

Los Angeles was blinding paved splendour, as always. Pitched some TV, talked to the Supreme Man of the Microcosm, canoodled with the appropriate parties, drank/ogled a Mastro's Cosmo full of ghostly dry ice (what will those Beverly Hills barkeeps think of next?) attended about 20 meetings, hit every studio in Burbank and ate at In-and-Out Burger on Sunset, which is always full of black supermodels. Bootyful storks in Dior sunglasses.

Also hung out at the offices of Jason Reitman, who I trust is gonna make us a really dope movie. He gets it. Now let's take this party to Vancouver!

Okay, so then last week, Jonny and I went to Vegas, where I was to be the keynote speaker at a big gentlemen's club convention. I gave a 20-minute address on Wednesday, wearing a revealing schoolgirl costume for levity. Public speaking ain't my forte, but I got through it somehow. Put it this way: I generated 20 minutes of material. I don't think I come off so hot in person (hell, I probaby don't come off so hot in print) but I did try! And I was rewarded with three 106-degree days in the Labyrinthine Republic of Ding-Ding-Ding. Jonny and I stayed at Mandalay Bay, which is one of those big marbled monstrosities that has the frigid, menacing opulence of a Super Mario Brothers castle. (I didn't encounter Bowser, though it wouldn't surprise me if Sha Na Na played the Rio.)

106 degrees, for real. Normally, swimming in a pool feels refreshing. In Vegas in August, it feels more like a survival measure, like you're regulating your body temperature in a mandatory cooling tank. If you live there, you should be able to put a pool in your yard and have it covered by your health insurance. That's how hot it is.

The best part of my trip was seeing my friend Patrick perform in Mamma Mia! and grabbing drinks afterward. Pat was always scary-talented when we were teens, and now he's totally superhuman. I so rarely get to reconnect with my angels from the Yak Spackle era, and when I do it is so friggin' lovely.

Now, it's Monday. And I have to move on WEDNESDAY. MORNING.

Oh, cruel Odin's day! I'm only 1/4 packed!

I have two days to get all my shit boxed up! Did I mention we haven't sold our old house yet?

I feel like we've already moved twice this year. Dig this: Six months ago, when we had work done on the basement, we had to move everything out of the lower level. Couches, boxes, TV, books, DVDs, the works. It was a major pain--like, I had to hire guys to help-- and we never bothered to move any of it back in from the garage. Then two months ago, when we put the house on the market, we had to get it in "showing condition," which meant moving an additional shitload of stuff out of the house, painting the walls, disinfecting our habitat and de-cluttering every day. Now, we're down to the final stage of moving, but I have more shit than I anticipated. Moving sucks, big or small, and I'd have much rather finished this whole arduous job in one blast, rather than three petty steps.

Also, we still haven't sold this house. Know anyone who wants to rent-to-own a charming Rambler?

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 28, 2006 9:44 AM

TIGHT! (Slightly NSFW)

I have a new favorite Southern Gent.

Ross 'da Boss Man!

I love the SGs!

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 11, 2006 2:51 PM

Family Reunion in Michigan v. A Screening for Cancer of the Butthole

Of those two experiences, both of which I endured this week, Michigan was probably less painful. Probably.

From Saturday through Wednesday, I was imprisoned, er, ensconced in a quaint shabby-chic cottage in Saugatuck, Michigan alongside my mom, dad, brother, stepdaughter, and spouse. One of those five people was a pleasant travel companion. (Hint: I'm legally bound to him.) The other four should probably refrain from contacting me for several days, as the mere timbre of their voices could send me spiraling out of control. Like, I might get crazy on their asses.

Seriously though, the trip wasn't entirely unbearable. My aunts, uncle, assorted cousins and cousin-spawn were there (housed in seperate-but-similar gingerbread prisons), and I don't get to see them nearly enough. We ate heaps of ice cream, fished for salmon, went on a riotous dune buggy ride, and got buffeted by unlikely whitecaps in Lake Michigan. So it didn't exactly suck all the time.

I'm grateful for my family's generosity, and it was kind of cool seeing my stepdaughter frolic with my cousins, but I'm just not a Family Vacation-type person at all. At all. I can only handle the alleged "wisdom" of children in small doses (You say that cloud looks like a hippo? FASCINATING!) and I'd much rather vomit in Vegas than supervise in Saugatuck. You know how some folks need to detox after a week of debauch? I need to re-tox. Bad.

The demands of the vacation taxed me so thoroughly that I woke up yesterday with a familiar pinched sensation in my abdomen. I have long assumed this pain to be a bleeding ulcer, because 1.) it only occurs when I'm aggravated and b.) it usually results in major blood. Ass-blood. I think I might have even mentioned my magical bleeding ass in Candy Girl albeit in a more oblique, editor-friendly way.

I decided I'd get my "ulcer" mended once and for all, so I made a hasty doctor's appointment and trucked over to North Memorial Clinic, which is like a block from my house. But when I got there, Doc was alarmed. She listened to my symptoms, stuck her thumb up my ass like Little Jack Horner, massaged my organs with her free hand and declared "This isn't good." Then she murmured something about the Big C. TITTYFUUUUUUCK!

She sent me down the hallway for a few stomach x-rays and a blood draw. I'm wearing this blue robe and trembling because, jeez, I might have CANCER OF THE BUTTHOLE. The x-ray tech is alarmed by my nipple rings. They do look creepy-cool when viewed through misty ghostflesh.

Then I go back to the regular doctor. She's studied my blood and informs me with relief that I'm not anemic, which is apparently an early symptom of You-Know-What in people with bleeding asses. There's also no evidence of anything funky on my x-rays. She refers me to a gastroentrologist and I schedule a CT scan and a tentative colonoscopy. I didn't think colonoscopies were a big deal since Katie Couric had one on TV, but apparently they have to sedate you and put a huge camera up your butthole. It's like wacky gonzo porn!

Jonny, a known cyberchondriac, spent the rest of the day Googling my symptoms, and he came to the logical conclusion that I probably have Crohn's disease. That would actually be a totally manageable diagnosis. Especially compared to cancer of the butthole.

Other than that, I got nothing. Oh, this morning I was "interviewed" by a screaming Mancow Muller, who actually is cancer of the butthole. What a cockstain. And to think I used to enjoy his Eagle Insurance commercial when I lived in Chicago. Blame the chick clutching the giant prop eggs to her boobs. ("You can't beat these!")

For some reason I have yet to suss out, Libertarians seem to hate me. Mancow isn't the first Libertarian to randomly dis me without provocation, although in the latter case, I suspect someone was a little jealous of someone else's awesomeness. If any Libertarian Diablo Cody fans are reading this right now, know that I greatly appreciate your support, because I get no love from your more strident buddies.

I'm going to wash my teeth now, because it's late morning and I feel like a derelict. Tonight, Jonny and I head out to Camp Rikandmissi, Saturday we swat mosquitos, and Sunday I jet off to L.A. for a week of glamourous rental sedans, pitch meetings, and Farmer's Market burritos consumed at bulimic speed. I'm having lunch with Anna Faris on Monday and I'm psyched because I loved her in Lost in Translation and Jonny and I are not-so-secretly enamored with the Scary Movie franchise. I'm bringing my laptop to L.A. so I might get in a blog entry or three.

Much love from the butthole trenches,
Diablo

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 11, 2006 9:11 AM

Sludge Report

That new Strawberries and Cream Diet Pepsi?

Proppa!

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 4, 2006 12:26 PM

The Deal with MySpace

Okay, here's why I'm never on MySpace and I miss all the glad tidings y'all sling my way: We have mollasses-slow DSL at the house and it takes like 8 minutes to load a single MySpace page. I'm not sure why MySpace in particular is so turtle-y, but it is.

On August 30 we move to our new pad (the Chateau Far Out) and get cable internet, just like normal people. And I PROMISE I will start logging in more regularly, approving new friends, and wishing people a *HAPPY B-DAY!!!!!111!!!!* in their comments, complete with garish sparkly graphics. The possibilities are endless.

If Lindsay can find time to do it, than I certainly can.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 1, 2006 2:41 PM

Try

Lily Burana was one of my all-time heroines before I even met her. Strip City, as a lot of you are aware, is one of the most engaging, whip-smart memoirs ever written, and not merely because it's about you-know-what. Lily spits color and light as effortlessly as a Roman candle. Her writing is simply pyrotechnic. She could write about dental adhesive and I'd still sweat every paragraph.

(And obviously, without the original Miss Nude Wyoming, this hapless Candy Girl wouldn't have a red leather coattail to cling to.)

Which is why I'm so psyched about Lily's new novel, Try. When you become incredibly attached to an author's first book ( my copy of Strip City has been literally loved to death), you wonder if the follow-up is going to deliver. Especially when said author is boldly switching to fiction, leaving behind all us bang-n'-dent memoirists for the ranks of the Real! Writers! I can't even imagine being shelved under Literature at B&N. My ego would go supernova.

You're all like, "Get to it. Is the book any good?"

Folks, it's more than good. Lily delivered like Domino's. Try is an incredibly tight, well-crafted, evocative, dead-sexy romance about rodeo cowboys, bad girls, good girls, injured families, the moonlight-and-sagebrush mystique that still endures out West, and the way New West ranch kids both deride and take pride in that heritage. You'd think Lily was a lifelong cowgirl based on her exhaustive knowledge of the rodeo scene. And as always, her descriptive language plunks you squarely in the midst of whatever tale she's telling. Bring your boots, kids-- we're hittin' the trail!

And the SEX...sweet Lord, the sex scenes will put you temporarily out of commission, girls. This shit is hot. You are so going to want to fuck the main guy (or the protaganist, for that matter).

Congratulations, Lily! You have somehow, impossibly, exceeded my expectations, darling.

Now, everyone go buy it. When was the last time you read a juicy-sweet novel that was also masterfully written?

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 1, 2006 11:02 AM

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