Imported

Diablo Clinton and the P-Ranch All Stars

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You knew when I dyed my hair dark that I had to be transitioning to an "outrageous" new hair project, right? I may be unpredictable, but predictably so. Most girls buy twenty pairs of shoes a year and change their hair once or twice. I prefer to do the inverse. Making and installing extensions soothes the mind as well. Much, like, oh, I don't know, knitting?

Please ignore my pallid complexion and the plummy, poetic circles beneath my eyes. It's all about the mermaid tentacles (black swirled with platinum and a few pink stragglers for Punque Roq appeal.)

This is a more formal look, for white-tie benefits, spring cleaning, etc.

Here's a blast from the past! Best dread extensions I ever had, courtesy of Hair Police. Look at my flushed, healthy visage! That's what happens when you grind dick all day, kids. But my poor right nipple looks so smushed--my fucking manager made me buy a corset because he wasn't ready for that jelly.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 16, 2005 2:53 PM

 

One of those ubiquitous blog Q & As

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(Cribbed from the strippalicious ex-millennial girl. )

Ten Years Ago: I was a newly minted high school senior and utterly secure. I drove a silver '89 Taurus, sang in a shambolic funnypunk band called Yak Spackle, and dyed my hair jet black. I was completely infatuated with my boyfriend, a college sophomore named Matt who was away at the University of Wisconsin. I didn't miss him as much as I thought I did. The best part of being a senior was having access to the "senior lounge," a humid, stinky little room lined with reject couches. I recall the stench more than the company, though I remember everybody intermingled regardless of their caste. Seniors tend to gel like that.

 

Five Years Ago: In September of 2000, I was three months into my first job out of college, as the "creative assistant" (read: aimless secretary) at a midsized advertising agency in downtown Chicago. I had just moved into a brownstone at Lincoln and Montrose, and every day was like a hit of windowpane acid: thrilling, but with an edge. I remember feeling very proud of myself every morning as I rode the Brown Line to Belmont, then the Red Line to the Grand stop and sauntered up Michigan Avenue to My Real Job. It was overwhelming for a sheltered suburban kid who associated "downtown" with supervised field trips. It felt like life was finally happening.

 

One Year Ago: I had recently been hired as a claims adjuster (really) in the Minneapolis 'burbs, and was writing freelance for City Pages. My wedding was weeks away, and I was having a hair crisis, as usual. Jonny and I only had one car between us, so I frequently endured a two-hour bus trip to work, starting at 5:30 a.m. My book had just sold to Gotham, which seemed (and still seems) incredibly surreal.

 

Yesterday: I made Shake n' Bake pork chops for dinner, watched "So You Think You Can Dance?" with my stepdaughter while she waited for the lice shampoo to take effect (shudder!)  and then watched Beyond the Valley of the Dolls with Jonny.

 

Five Songs I Know All the Words To: The entire Beach Boys catalog and the theme songs to an exhaustive listing of '80s sitcoms. Wait, that's more like 5,000. "Streaks on the china never mattered before�"

 

Five Snacks: Dill pickles, spring rolls, Sour Patch Kids, jalapeno Cheez-Its, Hostess Donettes (chocolate or powdered, it don't matter)

 

Five Things I'd Do With $100 Million: Donate mad cash to schools and families, buy Johnny Weissmuller's abandoned mansion in Hollywood, travel to far-flung and luxurious places, finance really cool movies, build a recording studio for Jonny.

 

Five Places I'd Run Away To: Monte Rio, CA, Cody, WY, West Hollywood, New York City (never been there, but I have a feeling I'd dig it), home.

 

Five Things I'd Never Wear: I'd wear anything if my survival depended on it. That said: nude pantyhose, Bush/Cheney T-shirt, jeans with pleats, clown costume, a white bra.

 

Five Favorite TV Shows: Firefly, Mr. Show, Sex and the City, Saturday Night Live, American Idol

 

Five Greatest Joys: Talking to Jonny, eating sushi, spooning with my purrbaby George, hardcore karaoke, writing, writing, writing.

 

Five Favorite Toys: Celebrity dolls, Pez dispensers, G-spot vibrators, my frequently abused tongue barbell, the original 8-bit NES loaded with Super Mario Brothers 3.

 

 

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 15, 2005 4:24 PM

 

Brangelina

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Today I was buying some pork chops (they're trichinos-ensational!) at Cub and I happened to toss the latest issue of Us Weekly onto the conveyor. The headline was something about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's impending nuptials.

The clerk, a young woman, glanced at the magazine, then looked at me. "I want them to get married," she said solemnly, almost challenging me to disagree.

"So do I," I replied confidently. "So do I."

She grinned. "I thought I was the only person on Angelina's side!" she exclaimed, relieved.

I wouldn't say I'm on Angelina's side, per se, since such complicated matters of the heart rarely involve a purely innocent or purely guilty party. But I do think Brangelina is a more compatible couple than Braniston. I never understood why everyone thought Brad and Jen seemed like a good match in the first place. Superficially, they were both sunkissed and conventionally attractive, but Brad always struck me as a confident and eccentric (much like Angelina) while Jennifer, in her interviews, comes off as humble, down-to-earth, and slightly damaged. There's no way she enjoyed living in Brad's chilly architecture-geek mansion...you know Aniston needs a good La-Z-Boy to watch Beaches on. She's the kind of girl you can take to T.G.I. Friday's, while Brad and Angelina probably subsist solely on Marlboros, Ketel One and thinly-sliced Kobe beef served on hot stones. Brad doesn't strike me as a real brain trust, but he thinks he's smart and he thinks he's found his equal in that stunning weirdo. Shockingly, she seems to agree with him.

I guess I feel sort of sorry for Jennifer. She's handled this whole thing gracefully and hasn't gone all psycho-ex on anyone in the press. That said, I'm still on Team Jolie. We alleged "homewreckers" need to stick together, and she hasn't done jack to earn that distinction. (Few women do--I love the misconception that any woman who gets involved with a separated guy must be singlehandedly responsible for the dissolution of his marriage.) Either way, I can't believe anyone is actually scandalized by this. Can you imagine how they would have reacted if Brad and Jen had had children? Get a rope! Hang the whore high!

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 14, 2005 4:30 PM

 

It is imminent!

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According to the gossip blogs, Britney's little Caeser was wrenched from her womb at Cedars-Sinai earlier today. Oh, I hope its's true!

You know, Britters got a lot of flack for being "too posh to push" and choosing a C-section over a pussy delivery. Whatever, girls should be able to birth as they please. Britney can have a C-section and an illegal Honduran wet nurse and a postpartum martini, for all I care. I admire her complete disregard of the clucking hippies. (And this is coming from someone who wants a home waterbirth when she hypothetically spawns--I'm all about choice, see?)

Come, Emmanuel! Come and be born in our hearts!

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 14, 2005 1:28 PM

 

I could fucking cry

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I just wrote a long-ass entry, possibly one of the funniest things I've written in ages, and my browser crashed as I was about to post it. Fucking A-rod!

I can't be the only person this particular misfortune has befallen. Right?

It was about vibrating-ring condoms, otherwise known as "Downeaster Elexas." And Cheez-Its! And Shake n' Bake! And my plan to mash Brussles cookies and vodka into an easily digestible paste! It even revealed a very special, exclusive Pussy Secret about my plans for the future!

I'm gonna go cut myself. Not really. But I am gonna listen to My Chemical Romance.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 14, 2005 12:51 PM

 

Since I've already stooped to the Federlevel

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When is Britney going to have that baby, already? I can't be the only one hoping it looks like Big Rob.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 13, 2005 4:47 PM

 

Bad Libs, or, Fill in the blanks, homies.

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I sincerely apologize for (choose one) not answering your email/not reading your script/not blogging/not returning your calls/not answering you even when spoken to directly this weekend. I am extremely busy. Not "hard week at work" busy, not "last-minute Christmas prep" busy, not even "chasing a hypoglycemic toddler" busy. I'm busier than that. BUSIER. Believe it. I am busier than Bea Arthur at Carpet World/Kirk Cameron in a roomful of Wiccans/Britney Spears at a prenatal wine tasting.

Ever heard the phrase "Don't write a check your ass can't cash"? That's me right now. And said posterior is mega-overdrawn.

I'm reduced to making Britney Spears jokes in 2005. That must mean the well is dry.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 12, 2005 11:06 AM

 

Now, with pudding in the mix!

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Okay, so like four days ago, Jonny and I both went on the South Beach Diet, which seems to have nothing to do with South Beach and everything to do with turkey jerky. After a couple of trips to L.A., we've decided we're bloated manatees and need to whittle ourselves down to Nicole Richie/DJ AM proportions. Anyway, I am craving sugar so fucking bad that last night, I dreamed I was crouched in front of the refrigerator, eating frosting from a can.

No, really. That's actually what I dreamed about.

Call Dr. Duncan Hines, stat. I need about 400 cc's of EZ-Spread Deluxe Fudge Tunnel.

P.S. Yes, I know dieting is boring and gay. Don't worry, I'll probably wind up making lasagna this weekend and binging like Meredith Baxter Birney in that one TV movie. 

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 8, 2005 10:43 AM

 

Readers weigh in on nymphet-maniacs

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I've heard from a varied spectrum of guys about my "Pussy Rant" of several days ago. Most of them--heck, all of them--opted to defend the darker sex's fondness for Hot! Teen! companionship. Here are some of the reasons I was given for why a guy would date (not just fuck) a naive teenager.

-Youngsters provide endless stimulation of the mindfuck variety. They tend to be noncommittal heartbreakers, and therefore are maddeningly desirable compared to some boring broad who's panting to settle down.

Cody counterpoint: When I was a teenager, I wanted to marry every guy who sent my Bartholin's glands into overdrive, thus soaking my size-2 Gap jeans in the sweet nectar of youth. Noncommittal? Not so much. Maybe that's why I always got dumped.

-A young girl will put up with more shit. In other words, you can act like a total dawg and she'll still make herself available.

Cody counterpoint: The same argument could be made for some ugly chicks, but I don't know any guys who subscribe to "Barely Attractive."

-Men are just getting revenge on women for preferring sexy jerks to chivalrous nice-guys.

Cody counterpoint: There's admittedly an ignorant subclass of women who blow off guys who treat them well in favor of Joe Charisma, the distant sex addict. But that has nothing to do with my question.

"You can't beat eighteen-year-old pussy."

Cody counterpoint: Yes, but...eh, you're right.

 

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 6, 2005 5:08 PM

 

Forsooth! My comely new tunic.

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Thanks, Taco!

In other news, I attended my first Renaissance Festival yesterday. Jon and I were laughing our asses off--not at the hordes of Ye Olde Nerdes in attendance, but at the rampant anachronisms. For instance, ATM machines labeled "Coin of the Realm" and exhibits sponsored by Time Warner Cable. Would ye like a glass of honeyed mead or a 20 oz. Pepsi, m'lady? The whole thing ruled. Plus, I bought a pair of ceramic "Pan Horns." (Hippies refer to the devil as "Pan," so he sounds like a nonthreatening self-rising pizza crust instead of a dark overlord and eater of worlds. They even named a particularly gay-sounding flute after the motherfucker.) I got red Pan Horns, which give me a class-A license to be ribald.

Notice I'm a brunette again. That means I'm smart and clA$$y. The price of pussy just went up forty-nine cents, y'all. Blonde says "whore" but brunette says "business escort." Plus now I can go on Jeopardy.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 4, 2005 1:07 PM

 

Settle in for a good old fashioned Pussy Rant!

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For the past day or so, I've been ruminating on a provocative and age-old topic: Why do talented and charismatic men--I speak chiefly of rock stars here--seem to prefer the company of giggling, inarticulate teen girls to that of talented, charismatic women their own age?

OK, stop snickering at my incredulity and allow me to expound: I know there's a biological imperative for men chasing underaged pussy, and I can't blame them for desiring the physical company of slack-jawed, pert-breasted adolescents. Makes perfect sense, really. (Recently, someone told this kneeslapper in a staff meeting: "Q: What do you call a man who's attracted to 14-year-old girls? A: Heterosexual.") I know all about the obvious pleasures of firm young flesh. But I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about companionship. I'm talking about long-term relationships and in some cases, marriage. That goes beyond sex. And this is precisely where I get confused.

At the height of Led Zeppelin's fame, Jimmy Page was heavily involved with a 14-year-old groupie named Lori Maddox. (Who, incidentally, bears an uncanny resemblance to '70s-era Kitty Pryde in that shot. Yeah, I'm a geek.) Anyway, when I was 14, I was semi-alluring in that long-haired nymphet way, but you definitely wouldn't want to have engaged me in conversation. I was giggly, nervous, immature, shrill and largely uninformed about most topics. In other words, I was 14. Therefore, I can't fucking grok that Jimmy Page spent a year and a half courting this girl. Can you imagine being this mysterious, charismatic rock god and having to deal with a sullen, clingy teen on a day to day basis? "Jimmy, where's my hair dryer? Jimmy, I've got my period. I love you, Jimmeeeee!"

Why, then, did he do it? Lori Maddox was obviously a succulent young thing, and I'm sure she was clever for her age, seeing as she managed to bag both Bowies while she was still in a training bra. But there's no way she was articulate enough, or mature enough, to be an appropriate companion for a guy of Page's age and experience level. Something in her interactions with Page must have been lacking. And don't argue that the sex kept them together--rock stars are notoriously fickle about pussy, and there's no way that million-dollar squeezebox kept the God of Fuck entertained for 18 months straight. He must have been fulfilled by the actual relationship in some way to keep it going for that long, at the peak of his success.

Mick Jagger is another guy I don't get. He's like 60, and yet he routinely pursues relationships--relationships, not just sex--with young model types. This doesn't make sense. Ideally, an old goat like Mick should be married to Marianne Faithfull. Think about it: They're both witty, caustic, aging sex symbols. They're both talented. They fucked circa "As Tears Go By," which means at some point, Mick thought a women like Marianne was worthy of his spunk. What changed? I know some of you are like "But Marianne Faithfull is a decrepit old junkie now!" Yeah, well, so is Mick. And yet, I don't hear anything about Marianne Faithfull banging 20-year-old Brazilian dudes. Chances are, a youngster like that couldn't hold her interest. Mick, Rod, seriously: wouldn't it be eminently more satisfying to grow old with an interesting and well-traveled companion than with a barely-legal golddigger who's never heard of Hullabaloo? (I'm not dissing all age-disparate relationships; I know plenty of great couples with ten or twenty years between them. This is different.)

I guess if I was a rock star, I would want to be with a really cool chick. A chick who could go head-to-head with my roadies on rock trivia. A chick who would encourage me to invest my money wisely, rather than blowing it on ostentatious luxuries for herself and her friends. A chick who was mature enough to be my equal. The idea of enduring a transcontinental flight next to a 14-year-old is less than appealing, isn't it? How many adolescent mindgames can you play before you long for the relative intellect of that 30-year-old publicist you met back in Baltimore?

But that's just me. Guys who are young, dumb and full 'o cum bore me senseless. I'd rather be with a guy who's graying at the temples and gives great head than bother with some monosyllabic twink.

My theory, at last, is this: Rockers fuck these women because they're lithe and tasty and forbidden. That part is simple. But they date and marry these women because they (the women) are attractively powerless. When your entire persona hinges on the air-pressure in your ego, you can't be with a women who poses a threat to your primacy. It's much smarter to find a mute ornament--she'll impress your hoary friends without challenging you intellectually or creatively. Younger women are more deferential by nature. No 14-year-old is going to tell Jimmy Page he's not a genius. No swimsuit model is going to tell Rod Stewart that his Great American Songbook album is unlistenable. Eric Clapton doesn't have to worry that his beaming, fertile young bride will head into the studio one day and cut an album that surpasses anything he's done in years. These women are safe, because they're not equals. Also, they're capable of bearing the rocker more progeny. Don't forget that. Every wrinkled Hall of Fame coot needs a "status toddler" to prove he can still get it up.

I guess you could get all philosophical and argue that jaded rock stars are enchanted by the relative innocence and exuberance of teenage girls. The Penny Lane thing. But still, that's got to get old. Doesn't it?

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 2, 2005 9:34 AM

 

Perspective

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I would ordinarily bitch about how some ding-dong tried (semi-successfully) to steal the fountain out of our front yard last night. But man, that trifling shit pales in comparison to what's going down in the Big Easy and other areas hit by Hurricaine Katrina. My Presby-prayers (and a few Catholic ones) go out to everyone down south who's suffering right now. You know things are grim when I actually turn on CNN. The last time I watched CNN was late 2001.

I'll blog more later, but I gots to work.

Posted by Diablo Cody at September 1, 2005 10:35 AM

 

I love the blogiverse.

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And may I recommend Frankie Can't Relax for those seeking a sidesplitting chronicle of single life (and justifiable hatred of TheKnot.com)? Those are her real lips, y'all. Check it out.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 30, 2005 1:19 PM

 

Overheard in the Pussy Wagon:

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Jonny: "Look at how wide that Buick is."

Me: "It's like the car version of my ass."

Jonny: "You would never have a Bush/Cheney sticker on your ass."

******************

Did anyone else sit through the VMA telecast on Sunday night? God, that was more grotesque than  Comedy Central's Roast of Pamela Anderson, and Courtney Love's heart-shaped box wasn't even on display. Explain to me how R. Kelly pacing back and forth onstage, lip-syncing haphazardly to that ridiculous "I flip back the cover...oh my God, a rubber!" song constitutes actual entertainment. Video!

Also? I am old. When I was part of the VMA's target demographic, I looked forward to that broadcast with the zeal of a wee Gentile on Christmas Eve. Remember the '97 awards, when Marilyn Manson grimaced in a latex thong, Fiona Apple railed against the music industry's "bullshit" at the podium, and Puff Daddy publicly mourned his fat homie alongside Sting? That was actually kind of cool. But Sunday's "50 Cent, feat. Four Shouting Guys" crap didn't electrify me. Eva Longoria in her weird little Valentino-esque swimsuit and Claire's Boutique phony-tail didn't even raise my dewpoint. Huh.

Bonus "Song That Sucks Dong": "Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton: Attention, high school dance committees. You might want to reconsider using this ballad as the theme for your next Sadie Hawkins soiree. Know why? Because it's not actually a romantic song. It's about a marblemouthed drunk who has to be carted home by his trophy wife/nursemaid after boozing himself to the point of impotency. Seriously. Listen to it and be enlightened. Love, Diablo "I Quickly Put it on Vibrate" Cody

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 30, 2005 10:43 AM

 

Three More Songs That Lick Dong

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1. "Morning Has Broken" Cat Stevens

If Jonny wants to infuriate me, he knows all he has to do is sit down at the upright piano in our living room and bang out that oodly-noodly Bach-wannabe intro to "Morning Has Broken." Oh, how I despise this song. I don't mind the rest of Cat Stevens' oeuvre, but this one makes me want to Cut my Boddy into Peeces. The organist at the Catholic church I attended as a kid used to play a molasses-slow, (allegedly) drunken version of this at daily Mass (yes, you heard right, daily.) The woman sounded like she had fallen asleep at the pedals. Also, if pussies could sing, they would sound like Cat Stevens.

2. "Epic" Faith No More

First of all, these assholes killed an actual fish for that flopping-ichthyoid sequence at the end of the video. Secondly, I once (and by "once" I mean a very long time ago) dated this guy who really liked Faith no More. He also liked: his mullet haircut, Kentucky Fried Movie, abusing women, and giving really shitty gifts. Therefore, Faith No More sucks. Confession: Last night as I was compiling this list, Jonny tried to convince me to add "Cult of Personality" by Living Colour. Unfortunately, I sort of like that song. Same goes for "Fast Car" by Tracy Chapman. Sorry Jonny. "AIIIEEEE-hi had a feeling that I belonged..." That's dope!

3. "Cat's Cradle" Harry Chapin

Wow, a song designed to make people feel like shit! Whether you're a parent or a child (and chances are, you fall into one or both of those categories) there's something in this song that's sure to inspire self-loathing. I do this really annoying thing where I make up new and absurd verses to "Cat's Cradle" to see if I can upset people. The lyrics can be about anything, and people will get equally maudlin. For instance: Someone makes a peanut butter sandwich and puts the jar of Skippy back in the frigo. I'll start singing "You put the peanut butter away...maybe you'll have some another day. But the peanut butter feels so alone as it languishes in its chilly home." Inevitably, the person will be like "I LOVE YOU PEANUT BUTTER! I'm sorry!" It works in any situation. Try it!

I'll add more once I find myself inspired/irritated anew.

Posted by Diablo Cody at August 25, 2005 11:15 AM