Cody Diablo's Convergence

So I’ll just stuff a couple more twenties into the G-string and keep the snarky comments to myself. No more raised eyebrows and muffled sneers at the Tropical Lei when Felony or Destiny tells me her real goal is to write a screenplay or study veterinary medicine. Nope. I’m a believer now, for them, and for me. There’s real light at the end of this here tunnel. In the year when Miss South Carolina or wherever that was couldn’t even complete a sentence and got a ticket to the talk show circuit to tell us all about how the intelligence implants weren't working, now we have a real life tattooed stripper/phone sex operator on the red carpet, now she’s walking on stage, holding by God the golden statuette and shit, she won the Oscar for best screenplay and wore a leopard print dress with a tattoo on her arm.

Keep on grinding, baby, right here, a little bit to the left, that’s it. Here, keep these bills, some contributions to the literary legacy of leggy babes everywhere who blog and keep hope alive out here in scribe-land.

And hope rings out for the Wilma Flintstone-Jane of the Jungle dress designers who’re probably having their own celebration this morning in coffee houses all over the garment district. Look for animal rights activists to check the bloodlines on that skimpy piece of fabric.

All seriousness aside (as Steve Allen used to say and let’s not plagiarize anymore then necessary, given the political and creative climate convergence going on) even though the Academy Awards show was a big blah with a blah host and a blah songwriting category with a bunch of boring Disney tunes virtually handing the award to a fairly deserving couple of unlikely musicians, Diablo Cody was a knockout. I missed most of the red-carpet segment so I can’t say whether she was on an even playing field with the glamour babes strutting on the pile; Renee Zellweger was hot and is she really available? Man, is she working out ‘cause she looks shaped and is Jessica Alba married? I must have missed that and she’s about ready to pop and still looks great. . . Shout out to Pomona. . .So while the Cohen brothers and producer Ivan Reitman laude Cormac McCarthy and his novel ‘No Country For Old Men’ -and the story goes that Reitman grabbed screen rights to the novel early on before the book even appeared on book shelves- from the other end of literary consciousness comes a winner perhaps born out of strip clubs and phone sex dialogue honed in the vernacular of one-way conversations with greasy lonely men too isolated for sustained social discourse and banished to 1-900 romantic fantasy. Don’t knock it. Diablo says it was good training. Peel back layers of phony posturing and fake elegance, they say, to get at the heart of the human condition. Sounds like she’s got it going and maybe the shakeup of the writers strike combined with her come-hither leopard look ignites a storm of gritty neo-realism to splatter onto the screen. Let’s hope.

If Elmore Leonard has really been lurking around in Venice Beach as reported in the local rag there and Quentin Tarentino has an open couple of months to review screen plays I could see the three of them connecting in some wild new tale of 21st century pulp. I hear that Charles Bukowski is still selling well and what better inspiration do we need? Diablo, you go, girl... Don’t forget to tip those dancers out there working real hard tonight…that’s right…take care of those beautiful ladies…Coming up it's a three-for-one lap dance special for all you aspiring screen writers and novelists out there…grab your favorite lady and get that three-for-one deal here at the Tropical Lei…eight dollars for a Sprite? Thanks hon, keep the change. And talk dirty to me.

No comments: