Trixi and I had a totally delightful (yes -- I said "delightful," you heard right!) weekend this last weekend, doing absolutely fuck-all for four days (well -- except for get totally bent on Friday, and seeing Patton Oswalt at Largo on Monday) except eat and laugh our asses off. One of the finest times of my life was spent in a Baskin-Robbins over a cake-flavored ice cream cone that's saying something. We laughed so hard we had Daquiri Ice coming out our noses. Plans are underway to relocate her out here, and if you've tried to unload a house anytime in the last -- oh, year or so? I've still got TWO of the things floating around! -- you know how much that sucks. Also, if you've tried to get a job in Los Angeles anytime in the last -- I dunno, hundred years? -- knows that sucks almost as much. So send a prayer skyward to whatever Ultimate Being you worship (purple, multi-eyed, winged or otherwise) that it all goes smoothly.
I get, as you know, so tired that the best the fucking Cody haters can muster is going after her appearance, her name (for the record, again: "Diablo" comes from the song "El Diablo" by Duran Duran spinoff band Arcadia, and Cody is from Cody, Wyoming. And if you're gonna call out "Diablo Cody" why not "Tom Cruise" or hundreds of other pseudonymed writers and actors in the world?) or the "stripper background" which, as you know because you've read the book and/or the website and/or have been following this story for a while, is a) true, b) was basically a "social experiment" for the sake of gonzo journalism, and c) not the fucking point. Again, I am forced to cry "sexism" loudly and with great force -- nobody'd ever go after a male writer for his fucking bangs. You know? The fact is: there's no way Juno would be getting the accolades and massive popular success just 'cause everybody on the planet is suddenly miraculously fascinated by stripping. Final word.