Smells Like Trash Pickup

A tree does grow in Brooklyn, but unfortunately it's far outnumbered by garbage bags on the sidewalk waiting for pickup. So, dogs are left with no choice but to leave their scent on these transient landmarks instead, and with the cycle of trash pickup continuously supplanting one canine ruler after another, it's inevitable that the territory will ultimately be rendered international and therefore subject to all sorts of harmonious, peace-seeking laws.
Who knew the implications of dogs peeing on garbage bags...
The PT internship is picking up. Today I wrote two blurbs for the Contributors section, which features bios about contributing authors, photographers, and illustrators. Interviewing this one photographer, calling him up, gave me major butterflies, in a 12-year-old-meeting-Lance-Bass-from-N-Sync kind of way. Chris Buck is my Lance Bass. Look at his website (www.chrisbuck.com) and you'll see what I mean (my favorite photograph is the Mr. Show one). He was in the middle of a photo shoot but insisted that no other time would be better to talk, so between witty sound bites he shouted to his assistants and subjects, things like, "I want you over there," and "No, the light's not right, that won't do." It seemed the archetypal new intern-quasi celeb interview.
Now for the cherry-on-top TPWHAEITUS moment:
Last weekend I went to the Brooklyn Book Fair and saw a panel discussion with a couple of critics- Rob Sheffield from Rolling Stone, Ed Park from The Believer, and Chuck Klosterman. Towards the end, a (presumably homeless) woman sauntered onstage and started to casually caress Ed Park and stroke his hair. The panelists continued to field questions, only slightly fazed. She then took Rob Sheffield's water bottle and placed it on a table next to her Dunkin Donuts cup, and then set up two chairs, as if she planned to sit down with Rob after the discussion and gab about his latest book. Her last trick was sitting at the edge of the stage and pulling wadded $1 bills from her athletic socks.