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While what I’m drinking as I type may look like Pepto Bismo, in fact the beverage I’ve concocted is apple and orange juices, frozen strawberries and blueberries, a dash of Gatorade powder, frozen yogurt, and two Advil whipped up in the blender. It’s the perfect preemptive hangover remedy.

So it’s Saturday morning.

True: late Friday night was spent trolling the West Village for Her (Ed. note: trolling [trol]: to patrol an area in search for someone or something; stalking [stôk-ing]: to follow or observe a person persistently, especially out of obsession or derangement — these are not the same things). Still, let me explain…

Ok, first, I work until 8. I can’t tell you on what, except to say that if you tune in to MTV at 7pm Sunday night and think interactive, and think L.A., and think, ‘What would Ben have been doing on Friday night?’ And wonder ‘How could pop culture possiubly extend the red carpet experience?’ Well, you’ll figure it out.

Then I take the S to Grand Central, hop the 4/5 express to 14th Street, then the local 6 to Spring Street and walk east to Arlene Grocery… and there I am, listening to a band called The Itch. Good enough for two songs. Made me think, ‘Wow, Arlene is small!’ Which it is. Though I released ‘The Jackie Chan EP’ there on 1/9/99.

John and I go for sushi at Yoshi. We talk television — he’s a producer pitching shows to syndication bigwigs. The conversation touches on all that’s right and wrong with capitalism, culture, and our place in the mix. We know what we’re doing; we know we’re complicit. So it’s fun fun fun, yeah yeah yeah, yada yada yada (and I’ve now had three pints of Brooklyn Lager and a 20 oz. Saporo).

I say, “One more drink!”

And we end up at Bowery Poetry Club — my call — where there’s a guy with a band and some puppets doing a straight jacket ‘n chains routine. The really tall high school drama club-looking guy at the door keeps saying, “Shhhhhhh!” So we leave.

I hail John a cab, say my goodbyes, and walk to the Corner Bistro. Solo. I have two pints of McSorly’s, and say to myself, ‘Self? It’s 12:06. She’s not calling. Go home.’

So I hop the 1/9 to Columbus Circle, and walk home. Which is where you find me…

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