Gawker: Bringing Brooklyn Writers and Cable Guys Together

Okay, so this is kinda fabulous...

The cable guy came over today to fix my cable. I have a small apartment, so while he was doing his thing, I went into the kitchen to stay out of the way. After a few minutes of washing dishes and whatnot, I peered back into the living room to see how he was doing and saw that he was using my laptop.

After having a slight heart attack (You don't mess with a person's computer when they're writing a 250-page book), I saw that he was logged onto a cable website checking out something with my modem so I didn't say anything (even though I did think it was a bit weird he didn't ask if he could use it.)

Realizing I needed to keep a closer eye on this guy, I went back into the living room and parked myself on the couch a few feet away from him, only to find that he was suddenly very chatty and overly friendly. Not only was he talking to me about this and that and cracking jokes, but after showing me everything was fixed, he sat down on the couch and proceeded to watch TV with me for a few minutes. (Note: A few minutes seems like a lifetime when it's just you and the cable guy.) The whole time I was sitting there thinking, "When's this dude gonna leave?"

Anyway, he eventually got up and left (slowly, though... He kept stalling like, "Can I use your bathroom?") so I went back to work. When I turned to my computer I quickly realized why the guy was so friendly.

Before he came over, I was reading Gawker, and when he went to go use my laptop, this was in the browser window (he would've had to click it to get a new tab to access the cable website):


Although the post has nothing to do with big black dildos, I'm pretty sure the cable guy (who, yes, was African-American) thought I was in the market for one, hence the reason he was so damn chatty.

Thanks for the graphics, Gawker. Really.

Mug Shots are the New Black?

Last week I watched a special on VH1 called the "40 Most Shocking Celebrity Mug Shots" and when it was over—call me crazy—I found myself wanting a mug shot of my very own. Everyone has one these days—they're kind of like the new black—and this Nicole Richie DUI arrest on Monday only fueled my desire.

Not only do I think mug shots are sexy, but the actual act of taking one seems kind of exciting, like a gamble. You only get one chance at making it good, so do you look up? Down? Do you smile? Cry? Do you appear remorseful? Innocent? Vulnerable? Menacing?

Decisions, decisions.

Personally I like mug shots that say, "Yeah, I got caught... but I had a damn good time." Like Kimora Lee Simmons', for example...

That bitch is happy.

I'm not so crazy about mug shots that say, "I shouldn't be in jail, I should be in a mental ward." Like Glen Campbell's...

That sh*t freaks me out.

I don't just want a mug shot—I think I deserve one. I've had two run-ins with the law in my lifetime* and pretty much got off both times—it's about time someone teaches me a lesson. Anyway, I'm hoping to have one by the end of the year. So to all the booking-hungry NYC cops out there, keep an eye out for me. I'm going to be living life on the edge in the coming weeks. In addition to plain ole jaywalking, I might jump lines at the subway, buy and use illegal drugs openly on the street, or peep into my neighbors' windows late at night. I'm also considering doing these other things, which have all resulted in a photo-op...

• Beating up an NBA star
• "Freeing incarcerated crustaceans"
• Disturbing the peace by playing bongos naked in my apartment
• Faking my own abduction
• Stapling my scrotum to my thigh in public (oh, wait - I don't have a scrotum. But I could staple someone else's scrotum to their thigh. Volunteers?)
• Running over some people

I'll keep you posted as to any progress I make. Peace out.

*The first run-in occurred when I was just 17 years old. My parents were out of town so I invited some friends over for beer and fun on a Slip 'N' Slide. The evening's festivities got a wee bit out of hand when a male friend began Slip 'N' Sliding naked. At the same time, the 10-year-old daughter of an uptight neighbor looked out the window, saw his penis flapping in the breeze, and began crying hysterically. Her mom called the police and I ended up getting a ticket for disorderly conduct because it was my party. Bitches. Both of them.

My court date was a big to-do in the neighborhood. The family attorney was called in, and other, more friendly neighbors came to defend me. After my sister swore to the judge that my male friend wasn't naked, but was wearing thin khaki shorts that, when wet, made him look like he was naked, the case was dismissed.

My mother was sure having a record for disorderly conduct would jeopardize my future, so she was relieved. Looking back now, sharing this story with others has helped me win friends through the years, not lose them. Anyway, my second run-in with the law occurred in college when I was caught for underage drinking. I got a ticket and had to pay a fine, the whole thing was pretty uneventful.

UPDATE: This post was linked to from A Socialite's Life and Gawker. Thanks guys!

If You Happened to Be in SoHo Yesterday...

I have a totally gross story.

A TOTALLY gross story.

Like if you get grossed out easily, STOP READING.

My dog Beverly was sitting on the couch yesterday, doing her thing. And by "doing her thing" I mean licking her thing. She was cleaning up down there... you know what I'm saying?

When she was done, she looked up at me, all scraggly-faced. Yes, she had done some serious spring cleaning down there and had the wet face to prove it. To show you what I mean, here's a photo of her that was taken on a different day, right after she drank a bunch of water:

And a close-up:

She looked pretty much the same way yesterday right after cleaning her thing.

So now flash forward thirty minutes or so. I had to run an errand so I was on Broadway in SoHo, heading south. Bev was with me, sitting in her bag. (There are too many people on the street for her to walk. She gets freaked out.) Here's a photo of her in her bag, taken on a different day. Her head kind of hangs out of it.


Okay, enter a woman. A woman who likes puppies. A LOT. A woman who likes puppies so much, in fact, that she allows them to kiss her on the face.

Everything happened so fast... One second this woman was like, "Oh, you're so cute!" and the next second she was bending down, putting her face up to Beverly's, letting Bev lick her. I didn't even have a chance to pull the bag away.

When the woman eventually stood back up, I just stared at her for a bit with my mouth slightly ajar. I didn't know what to say—I was speechless—but all I was thinking was, You poor thing... you have Yorkie vagina all over your face and you don't even know it.

I told you to stop reading if you get grossed out easily.

There's a reason I'm sharing this story with you. There's a lesson here. In fact, this post should be required reading in schools all across America. This post should be published on page one of The New York Times.

DON'T EVER LET A STRANGE DOG LICK YOU ON THE FACE.

I don't care how cute it is.

It may have recently licked its vagina.

To the woman in SoHo yesterday who became intimate with my Yorkie (you were walking on the east side of Broadway, heading north toward Houston around 6pm), if you're reading this, the next time you feel inclined to walk up to a strange dog and let it lick your face, you might want to ask the owner if it's okay first. I would've said no.

UPDATE: This post was linked on Gawker. Thanks!

To Catch a Mouse

Okay... in case some of you don't know, I might've had a mouse in my closet two nights ago. (Scroll down to the bottom of this post for links to the beginning of the mouse saga.) Before I tell you if there was a mouse or if I caught a mouse, I want to tell you how my day went yesterday.

After waking up at 2pm (see this post for more details on that), I called my landlord and told him that I have a mouse. He owns a butcher shop, so he sent one of his butcher shop cronies up to my apartment to check it out. When the guy arrived, I told him the whole story and pointed to my closet, which had been sealed off with a periwinkle Martha Stewart towel. "He's in there," I said. "I know it." Butcher Shop Crony (BSC) opened the door and looked around, but he didn't see the mouse or any trace of the mouse inside. Seriously, there weren't droppings lying around or anything.

After looking for an explanation, BSC--get this--started pointing (because he doesn't speak English) to my vacuum cleaner (which I keep in this closet), insinuating it was that that was making the noise I heard. This seemed to be the only logical explanation to him because, you know, all vacuums make noise when they're unplugged, sitting in a closet. Moron. I told BSC that the noises I heard weren't coming from my vacuum cleaner magically moving around in the closet, nor were they a figment of my imagination--they were coming from a mouse--but he wouldn't listen. I heard chewing. I heard gnawing. THERE'S A MOUSE IN MY CLOSET, WHY WON'T YOU BELIEVE ME?!!?

On his way out, I asked BSC if he'd bring me a mousetrap, but he just shook his head. "Non."

After this, I called my family and friends and told them the story of the mouse. At first they were like, "Oh I believe you," but when they heard the "no droppings" part they changed their mind. One by one, they all tried to convince me that I was crazy, that there probably wasn't a mouse in my closet, that I must've overreacted. I told them no, that Elvis and Bev saw/heard the little rodent too, but apparently they don't count.

Fuckers. Everyone.

Anyway, around 5pm the money that I was waiting for magically appeared in my checking account (yes!), so I marched down to the corner store and bought myself a mousetrap. They didn't have "real" mousetraps there, the kind that maim and KILL the little rodents, just glue traps. The guy behind the register laughed while ringing me up.

When I got home, I put a glue trap down in the closet and closed the door. A few hours went by and nothing. A few more hours went by and still nothing. After a few more hours, I decided to put a second glue trap down with a piece of Beverly's dog food right in the middle of it. And then... about an hour later... I heard it. "Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!" (sounds of the plastic being dragged around) "Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!"

This happened less than an hour ago.

First of all, I feel justified. I HAD A MOUSE IN MY CLOSET--I KNEW IT! Second of all, I'm scared shitless to open the door. The squeaking and plastic dragging has stopped so maybe I should--oh wait. There it goes again. I spoke too soon. I think the mouse is trying to move around.

I momentarily feel sad.

The moment is over.

Ahhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is so freakin' disgusting.

The butcher shop opens at 7:30am. I hope BSC is there again so I can say, "Ha! I was right. There was a mouse in my closet. And I caught it."

Before I go, can we talk about the box the glue traps came in? I mean, what's going on there? First, the two mice they drew on the cover look like Tom Jerry, a mouse that I--and I think I speak for a large majority of the population here--grew up with and consider to be my friend. Second, what exactly are the mice on the glue trap doing? The one at the bottom looks like he's taking a nap after a hearty meal, and the one on the left looks like he's about to join him. Are they supposed to be dead/dying? It says "Non-Poisonous" right at the bottom so I doubt it. I bet the one on the bottom is thinking, "Seeing as though I'm stuck here until someone comes to get me I might as well get some rest." And I think the one on the left went blind or something and is like, "My eyes! My eyes!" On the other hand, maybe he just has allergies.

And oh yes, and in case you're wondering... I have been up all night--I'm not an early riser. This mouse is wreaking havoc on my life. (Okay fine, the extra-long Xanax-induced sleep yesterday didn't help either, but that was the mouse's fault, too.)

PREVIOUSLY: Zzzz... This is Your Brain on Drugs, Another Mouse Update, Mouse Update, I HAVE A MOUSE!!!!!

UPDATE: This post was linked on Gawker. Thanks!