Los Angeles - 1, Jason Castro - 0

He is SO high.

I have basically boycotted Idol this season, but for some reason, Erica and I ended up watching it tonight.

Jason Castro, lover of reggae, has just discovered pot.

Or something.

I have never seen a more virginal, completely fucked-up high person in my life. And, I worked in a gay bar in New York's East Village. Hell. I was the virginal, completely fucked-up high person when I worked there. Jason Castro was so fucking high.

Maybe it was ecstasy.

Back Off Dan Cooney.

Guess who just called.Less than a half hour after my last post, I get a call from the stalker.

He called to give me a hard time about the post about him stalking me.

You see where I'm going with this.

After I made fun of him for proving my point for me, he tells me a story about a woman he met who was outrageous and "Absolutely Fabulous" who was married to a plastic surgeon and offered herself up for practice on a regular basis.

He thought, "Well, she sure looks good for her age," guessing that she was in her mid-fifties, based on the amount of surgery she had gone through.

She was in her thirties.

And I thought that was amazing. The irony of it astounded me and I just wanted to share.

They Put a Bitch in JAIL.

What do you get when you cross



with



?














Yep. Like Uma Thurman, I have a stalker. And like Vito Fossella, I have a record.

First up for discussion ... the stalker.I'm not planning to prosecute. I figure I should retrieve the bail money my boss put up and find a way to serve house arrest on my own case before pursuing any personal prosecutorial cases. Plus, I really like him.

Dan is smart. Handsome. And a filthy rich gallery owner who sells photographs for hundreds of thousands of dollars every day. You could do a lot worse for a stalker.

Dan is obsessed with me. And I get it. You deal with these kinds of things when you're a brilliant blogger who puts their whole insane life into words for the world to read. But, what bothers me is how he stalks me.

8:45 AM
Tits. (He calls me Tits. Has something to do with some Will Farrell movie. I just go along with it.) I don't know why you never call me. I'm officially putting you on probation. This is a warning. There won't be another one. Good bye.

9:08 AM
Susan. What is your issue? Why do you not call me back? It is offensive and rude. Maybe you're in prison again. I don't know. Bye.

9:27 AM
Hey Tits McGee. I'm thinking that you should start writing country songs. It's just a thought that came to me. You could make millions just writing your life story to music.

See what I mean? I don't even get a chance to call back and when I don't, he makes snide comments about my white trash background and digs at my recent incarceration.

10:23 AM
I've called you four times now and you never call me back.

Jack Jordan could take lessons from Dan.

So. Yes. The arrest. Here's how it happened:

As I told you, I drove to Kentucky for an event recently. I take two days to travel and finally arrive at the Brown Hotel looking forward to rest and a world famous Hot Brown. I park the truck behind the theatre and head in to meet with the rest of my crew and have a well-deserved glass of wine.

Of course, being an event planning (aka party planning) company, we're into having a good time. And my well-deserved glass of wine turned into a couple of vodka tonics and several glasses of wine. Who knows? I wasn't counting.

Then, it's time for bed and with our PowerPoint Guru in tow, I head back to the truck to retrieve my luggage before piling my drunk ass into bed. As Amy (PP G) and I are leaving the truck, the IATSE theatre guys come out of the backstage door and tell me I have to move the truck. (IATSE is the official Theatre Stage Hand union and they mean business.

Me: Dude. I'm drunk. I'm not moving the truck anywhere. Here are the keys.

IATSE Theater Guy: Can't. Union rules. You have to move it. What about her? (Pointing to PP Guru)

Me: She's as drunk as I am. Not happening.

IATSE TG: Seriously. It's gotta move. It's only 20 feet.

Obviously, what happens next is that I am peer-pressured into drunk driving in the back alley of a Louisville, Kentucky theater and of course, I hit the front fender of a car.

The IATSE lighting guy's mother's car.

As I'm going through my litany of, "I told you I was in no shape to move a 20' long truck," and "I'll pay for everything. Don't worry," guess who shows up?

Five - oh.

Yep. Someone somewhere called the fuzz. Or they just happened to be driving by and saw the crowd and the collision damage. Whatever the case, I ended up desperately trying to muster every bit of balance I have to walk a straight line and to follow his pen with my eyes. I fail miserably and next thing you know ...

Click.

People. For those of you who have never been arrested while drunk in Kentucky, let me tell you. There is no feeling more despairing than that first click of handcuffs around your wrist. I don't remember the second click. Perhaps that is because I was sobbing uncontrollably and begging this guy to please, please, please not take me to jail.

After all, I had to work at eight the next morning.