I’ve developed an infatuation with Diablo Cody. I really have. Call it a celebrity crush, but I found myself searching for interviews with her on Google and reading anything even remotely related to her work. And I was once like you. All grimaced and pouty-faced whenever somebody mentioned her name. Trashing “Juno” and bringing up her dialogue in some vain attempt to seem smarter than everybody. I once let hate dictate my feelings toward Diablo Cody. But then I read this article wherein she described the reaction she received from one unnamed gentleman:
“There are some people out there who think that I’m repulsive, that I’m not even human. This guy said, if he had a choice between having sex with me and cutting his dick off, then he’d cut his own dick off. And I was like, first of all I think you’re lying.”
Repulsive, not even human, and castration-inducing. Geez, some writers have all the luck. As mentioned in my previous post, Diablo Derangement Syndrome is real. But to stir that level of contempt from such a large group of people? That’s WWE “heel” level heat right there. And I think it’s absolutely goddamn adorable.
Let’s face it. America is a country that relishes in other people’s shame. As part of our Judeo-Christian heritage, we’re the only people in the modern world capable of building stigmas so thick they keep rape victims and battered wives from testifying against their attackers. Think about that. We shame victims simply for being in the path of some deranged, dickless asshole. Shame is an interesting concept; it relies upon having a fear of being humiliated. So when I see so many angry neck-beards repeating “a fucking stripper” over and over and over I have to wonder whether they’re angry that she was a stripper and became a writer, or if what truly pisses them off is that she’s not humiliated by it.
What I’ve come to realize is that it’s July of 1991 again. Hair bands light up the top 40 with safe entertainment for mass consumption. Mr. Big? Now that’s a group that everyone can enjoy! And while the music industry suffers trying to find the next big thing, it resorts to spectacle, scale, and excess to produce expensive music videos and multi-million dollar arena rock shows. The artists are vision-less, overpaid dinosaurs revelling on a meal ticket they see as lasting forever. And meanwhile, hip-hop is doing no better. Vanilla Ice and MC Hammer provide the foolish illusion that what people want can be dictated based upon careful market research and clever advertising. They know what people will pay to see, so they’ve just invested a few million in the latest MC Hammer video and let Vanilla Ice go and star in his own film.
And then Nirvana catches airplay with “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and Dre releases “Nuthin’ But A G’ Thang” and everybody realizes how fucking terrible everything was that came before. And it happens overnight. Literally overnight. Before anybody even knew what happened. The hair bands suddenly looked silly. The arena shows crashed with small attendance. And everybody was caught in a fucking tailspin allowing new artists to barge in and run wreck shop on the asylum.
If people don’t know what to make of you they’ll talk about you. And if people are talking about you they’re pretty much under your thumb. And that’s why I’m infatuated with Diablo Cody. She brings gonzo to an industry that is full of planners and marketers and organizers while curmudgeons BAWWWWW because this isn’t the regiment they’re used to. Unplanned isn’t supposed to happen. It doesn’t work that way. Some stripper isn’t supposed to waltz in and snatch an Oscar on her first try. Who the fuck does she think she is? Some garage band isn’t supposed to just hop on the radio and sell millions of records. We spent a whole year primming Sebastian Bach for a solo tour with Warrant!
I, for one, dream of the day when I could be so lucky as to have breakfast with Diablo Cody. It’s kind of like my morning work daydream, just before my noon lunch daydream with that chick from Roxette and my two o’ clock stint where I stare at my computer screen trying to summon 1989 Stacey Q through a wormhole using my mind.
I imagine we could have breakfast at that place in San Diego that makes those unbelievable walnut pancakes… I would put too much syrup on mine. And then Diablo would have some snappy line about too much syrup… like “you danko your panco“… and I would laugh. Because I love it when she does that. And then we’d go to Sea World. Because I love the Sea Otters. And then that lesbian chick from Roxette and I would start a super group. I would rekindle her career, and when she’s standing at the Grammy’s holding up her award for Best Album she’d mouth “Thank you” to me while I gave her a big, heart-felt thumbs up… wait, where am I?