oh, boys

*Trust fund kids are truly a special breed:

"Stupidity, stupidity and more stupidity," Ms. Lillis said, between puffs of a Merit Ultra Lights cigarette as she rolled through East Hampton in her silver 1984 Volvo wagon on Wednesday afternoon, on the way to post fliers for a lost cat. "Those are three reasons pets go missing in the world."

On the seat beside her, next to a container of cat food, Ms. Lillis had evidence to back up her point: a flier, posted throughout Bridgehampton last week, for a missing terrier-Chihuahua mix named Little Joe. The dog, it turned out, belonged to the teenage children of the artist Julian Schnabel. Ms. Lillis didn't know who he was — or much care. She only knew that on the flier, which she now shook contemptuously her hand, 19-year-old Vito Schnabel had spelled Chihuahua "jiwawa," and that when she'd shown up at his house to volunteer to help him look for the dog, the young man had an open bottle of beer in his hand.

"Born and reared in New York City and can't spell Chihuahua," she said, shaking her head forlornly. "And drinking! Don't get me wrong — I love drinking. Everyone should drink. But there's a time and a place for it. When your four-pound dog goes missing, it's not the time to be slurping beer." Ms. Lillis was so unimpressed with the Schnabels' effort that she took control of the search-and-rescue operation herself.

You go, Ms. Lillis!


*And here's one of the very few reasons I miss living on the Upper West Side:

My walk home from those Midtown office buildings sure was lovely.


*Did I say I didn't feel like writing about my "personal life"? Oops. So last night/this morning, at 1:50 a.m., the Bartender, whom I haven't seen in weeks save for a few hours at his bar a couple days ago, called. He informed me that he was heading to [Popular Williamsburg Bar] and wondered if I wanted to come, and, hey, maybe we should just scrap the bar and go to his house, and also he was really drunk. Like, really drunk? Yes, really drunk. I had just gotten home from work and was pleased that I was about to conclude a whopping two days without nicotine and alcohol. Clearly, the appropriate response to this inquiry was a simple, "No thanks, I'm staying in tonight." Of course, my response was, "Yeah, ok. Where do you live, again?" And then I went downstairs for a pack of cigs, a Bud Light tallboy, and a cab. I wasn't so much mad at myself as confused. Why am I doing this? Upon seeing him wobbling down his street holding out a brown bagged 22-ouncer for me, my icy heart melted and my head cleared. Bartender is absurdly adorable, in that fucked up lost boy here-please-let-me-feed-you kind of way. And for whatever mysterious reason (ok, our extreme slutiness and resultant skill level,) the sex is kind of great. Best, and most exciting of all, I do not want to date him! Not at all! So I just may have found what I've been looking for all these years: a real, honest to goodness fuck buddy. In my dreams I'd always imagined that such a creature would live in my closet and emerge only when summoned, but I suppose I can settle for middle of the night phone calls and a hop, skip, and a gypsy cab over the East River.