Blubox goes inside the story of…

A Cop Calls Pot Princess Charming

She's accused of being the dope-dealing darling of NYU's freshman class - but the New Jersey cop who first collared Julia Diaco over Christmas break said he never suspected she could be a drug peddler.

Question: who will be next year’s dope-dealing darling of NYU’s freshman class -- Mary-Kate or Ashley? Name of the twins’ delivery service: The Full Buddha House.

"She was a very nice young lady. I had no problems with her," said Middletown Police Officer Michael Kenney. "She seemed pretty relaxed. She wasn't excited. She wasn't upset."

And here’s the weirdest part, added Kenney, she was really hungry for junk food. She kept asking if I could stop and pick up some Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk on the way to the precinct.

Diaco, 18, was nabbed by NYPD cops on Tuesday after allegedly selling pot, cocaine and LSD to undercover cops for months outside her NYU dorm room.

Only NARCS still wear Pumas. Sadly, nobody told Diaco.

The arrest shocked people who knew Diaco as the sweet-faced child of a wealthy family in Rumson, N.J. But it wasn't her first run-in with the law.

They can’t possibly be talking about that little “moonshining operation”.

On Dec. 30, Kenney stopped the car of Diaco's then-boyfriend, Kyle DeVesty, 20, while patrolling a secluded dirt road. The young lovers said they had been smoking pot, and Kenney found a small quantity of the drug on Diaco's side of the car.

Give the kids a break. They're just workin' on those night moves. Trying to lose those awkward teenage blues

DeVesty's mother, Holly, said yesterday they were picked up on a "very minor charge."

If John Kerry has DeVesty’s mom working the spin, he’d be ten points ahead in the polls.

DeVesty had a few earlier scrapes with the law, police and his lawyer said.

Then a bleeding heart liberal lawyer married to a fabulously rich socialite took him in. Now he’s hanging out with their socially awkward, wise-ass son and dating the anorexic girl-next-door. Little does anyone know, however, he knocked up Diaco six months ago on that secluded dirt road.

"She's a very nice girl," Holly DeVesty said. "The whole situation is very upsetting."

She sounds like an absolute peach to us.

Diaco seemed personable and perky when she opened the door of her palatial estate yesterday, dressed in a white tank top and a fashion-fad Von Dutch baseball cap.

Accused of wearing a Von Dutch baseball cap. Believe me, that’s no “minor charge”.

"I'm sorry, no comment," she said before closing the door.

...and taking the world’s biggest bong hit.

NYU students and some of the small-time dope dealers in Washington Square Park said Diaco was out of place, showing her suburban roots when she tried to act street-smart.

Who does that remind us of? Hmm…

"You can't be a hustler and a princess," one dealer said. "You have to choose one or the other."

Unless, of course, you’re this person.

And now I can rest easy this weekend.

BluBlotter

Julia Diaco, a wealthy 18 year-old NYU student, was busted for selling weed in Washington Square Park, but only after video cameras captured her dealing to undercover detectives. During the many months spent as a dealer in the park, she did manage to sell 3 bags to people who weren’t undercover detectives.

Best Insult Since Shockey Called Parcells a Homo

His visit to reality television land was brief, nevertheless, he earned a spot in the pantheon of classic characters by virtue of a single epithet: Captain Douchebag.

For those who didn’t see last night’s episode of The Restaurant: Season 2 – and I pity you folks – you missed 20-year-old Drew The Intern punk-it-up like we’ve rarely seen it punked-up before. In fact, he took punking-it-up to The Next Level.

Drew The Intern is instructed by Rocco Dispirito’s pissed-off partner Jeffrey Chodorow to “just observe” what’s happening in the restaurant. Having taken too many of his Steinbrenner Jr. Asshole chewable tablets, he transforms into a pumped-up version of this dude by way of this dude.

In one day, he manages to step on the toes of the entire staff including Rocco’s 79-year-old meatball-making mother, serve drinks despite being underage, claim to have 15 years' experience in the industry, and question Rocco’s wisdom on almost every matter, including his decision to have a fresh squeezed orange juice machine.

But Drew The Intern’s piece de resistance comes right after he arrogantly takes over the hosting duties at the front door. That's when Rocco calls. Drew answers. Why are you answering the phone? asks Rocco.

He tells Drew he shouldn’t answer the phone because he has no training as a host. Don’t do it again. He then asks Drew to put on the real hostess.

As Drew The Intern hands her the phone he says: “It’s Captain Douchebag.”

Fabulously, he doesn’t even put his hand over the receiver before hurling the insult.

Cut to Rocco, sitting in his office, wearing a stunned expression. “Did he just call me a douchebag?”

Moments later, Rocco jumps in his silver sports car and goes to the restaurant to deal with the bratty interloper.

"You are not welcome here," Rocco tells Drew (right in the middle of the restaurant! Priceless!) "You are fired as an intern. Please leave." Rocco then tells his staff: "Make sure he leaves and does not come back. And if he comes back, shoot him."

And with that, the Drew The Intern era comes to a close. But not before another chapter in the book of classic reality television moments is written.

For those of you who are interested in meeting Drew The Intern, he will be signing cocktail napkins at 60 Thom while simultaneously hitting on girls at the bar.

(The kind of girls, as he will tell his posse of untucked-dress-shirt-and-wet-look goons, that he could “score in a second’)

Go Drew. Go Drew. Go Drew.

Billy Joel's 1967 Citroen Releases Debut Single

He's got a way of crashin'
I don't know what it is
But I know my airbags don't release without him

He's got a way of sweepin'
Off the shoulder of the road
There doesn't have to be booze in his bloodstream
Anyway

He's got a paramedic that heals him
I don't know why it is
But I have to smash when he oversteers me

He's got an ex-wife that hates him
I don't know what it is
But Alexa Ray avoids the front seat

He comes to me when he's feelin' down
Guilt and shame about Movin' Out
He touches me and I get spun around

He's got a way of drivin'
I don't know what it is
But it scares the shit out of people walkin'
Anywhere

He's got flashing police lights around him
And everywhere he drives
A million shards of glass are flying
Everywhere

He comes to me when he's feelin' down
A bad review about Movin' Out
He touches me and I get rolled around

He's got a mechanic in Montauk that heals me
I don't know why it is
But I have to crash when he oversteers me

He's got a way about him
I don't know what it is
But you’d think Piano Man would get a driver
One day

"Netflix also gives its cinephile subscribers the luxury of never setting foot in a Blockbuster again."

Waiting in an endlessly long line for the one-person-who's-working-behind-the-counter-on-a-busy-Friday-night to rent us our video as if we were peasants in 1980s Soviet Republic trying to buy toilet paper -- give that up? This comrade says nyet!

What happens when New York bloggers and Detroit bloggers hit the town together on a Saturday night? Things get a little hectic in the hizzhouse, if you know what we mean.

As we like to say here at Blubox, what happens in the blog world, stays in the blog world. But taking over a girl’s bathroom stall at a West Village club and turning it into a quasi-VIP lounge – that should give you an idea of the level of good form displayed by both representative camps.

Motor City people, you should be proud of your emissaries– indeed, they proved that it’s not bragging if you can back that shit up. Extra buzz to Jessica Blueprint (the sexiest blogger this side of Will Wheaton) and Uncle Grambo (who puts the good cheer in schmeer.)

Diva Diss, More Theories

Why did Jennifer Hudson receive the least votes last week?

According to Paula "the painkillers are for my leg, I mean, my arm" Abdul, power auto dialers, which allow voters to make multiple calls to one number at the push of a button are screwing things up. Straight up.

(Yo, LESHipster, voting for Degarmo 1,780 times with your power auto dialer. Not cool.)

Considering the stakes involved -- no less than the sanctity of our American Way of Life -- Fox knew they had to say something. So Ken Warwick, executive producer of AI (and may we add probably one hell of a nice guy), released something called a non-committal release. Non-committal? Is that necessary? Does a press release really need space to think things through?

"As proven with [Wednesday] night's results, you can never assume that any contestant is safe," Warwick said. "You can never assume that they have enough votes. It's imperative that viewers vote for their favorite Idol every week."

Do you effing see Mark Burnett telling people what is and isn't imperative? No, Ken. You don't. As a bouncer once told us in the back stairwell of a Florence nightclub, after we stagger-leaped onto the platform where a go-go dancer was shaking her ass, "show some respect for the people."

Our favorite theory of why Hudson got banished comes from a Chicago Sun-Times article today which asks:

"Were some of Hudson's local fans unable to watch or vote Tuesday night because of the storms that knocked out power in 15,000 Illinois homes?"

Hey, Ken, using your weather-making machine to rig the votes. Not cool, man. Straight up not cool, says Paula.

Did anyone check out yesterday's New York Times article, Top Screws Gain Worldwide Acceptance? We haven't had a chance yet to read it, but the article looks like a winner.

We do have a couple of questions though. 1. Is it surprising news to anyone that, internationally speaking, top screws don't face much rejection? 2. Why is this piece in the Times' Wine Talk section?

What's The Text-Message Here, America?

Blubox, 4/22: "Hudson: the American Idol equivalent of the Red Sox."

We cursed her. We know.

How did clear-cut favorites J.Hud and Fantasia Barrino end up the bottom two votegetters on last night's episode of American Idol? And how in the name of Sleepy Floyd did Hudson get the boot?

Was it a race issue (the bottom four in voting last night were black)? Was it a class issue (down-and-out teens have less access to wireless technology)?

Or was it because -- hang on -- voters liked her least?

We know that's crazy talk, but it's just possible. Was George W. Bush the smarter, more qualified, more talented presidential choice? (GW + JPL = Good Times)

But why is the Network That Gave Us Al Bundy guarding their voting results as if they will somehow show Bush knew about the 9/11 attacks before they occurred?

Blubox demands that complete and comprehensive voting statistics for American Idol be made part of the public record. Meanwhile, William Bastone and his gang at the Smoking Gun should begin snooping around the AT&T Wireless Division. Pronto.

The contestants on this year’s American Idol are the weakest of any season? Are you kidding me? Name another year when this many kick-ass singers, each likable and attractive, were still competing -- we counted six last night. And the seventh is the red-headed Rat Pack freak who you can't judge according to vocal strength.

This is how I ranked them last night:

1. Jennifer Hudson

It’s crazy: each week she gets hotter and sounds better. If she makes it to the Finals expect her to look like Janet Jackson and sound like Aretha Franklin.

2. Fantasia Barrino

The favorite. The powerhouse. There’s no doubt she’s the Yankees of American Idol. On paper, she's got the most talent. But we find ourselves rooting for the girl with a little less talent, maybe a little more underdog spirit to her. That would be Hudson: the American Idol equivalent of the Red Sox. Still, you can never underestimate the dominating power of the Bronx Bombers and we wouldn’t make that mistake with Fantasia.

3. Diana Degarmo

The girl proved last night she’s got top five lungs, but we can't forget Simon's comment last week that she's a woman-child. Every time we watch her perform it’s painfully obvious: Cowell was dead on. A girl that young shouldn't seem so old. The girlish haircut didn't help much; it was kind of like the star of Hairpsray wearing the blonde cheerleader wig.

4. Jasmine Trias

She looked great last night. The cutest contestant. Hands down. So we keep praying she'll find the voice to match her pop star looks. The voice doesn't have to be as good as Fantasia, but it does have to be as good as Diana.

5. LaToya Jackson

Fantasia-light. All the voice. None of the spark.

6. John Stevens

Mandy. Mandy. Mandy. Ohhhh, Mandy.

7. George Huff

We don't buy his big-smiled man-child act. It's faker than the blonde in Seacrest's gelled hair. Plus, he's older than Contreras. And we suspect also from Cuba.

Women's Wear Daily ranked the fashion savvy of the eight Ivy League campuses and put our humble little alma mater at the top of the list.

The Boston Globe reports: "At Brown, looks on campus range from 'downtown New York hipster' to 'stiletto-clad sophisticates' and 'patchworked bohemians.'"

They forgot two: Generic thirty-dollar-haircut whiteboy. Generic before-the-nose-job whitegirl.

Yesterday, a couple of girls scaled a wrought-iron fence and jumped into the Central Park reservoir for a little swim. What kind of wacky people would… oh, wait, they were Canadian. Nevermind.


Grab a copy of the New York Post and check out the photo of the cop leading one of the young aquanuts into custody. It's the Manchurian Candidate starring Barney Fife.

Sick days are for really nice days. And apparently, in our case, really nice days are for being sick. It's gorgeous outside -- and where are we? Sitting at our computer, sucking on Cold-eeze lonzenges, sniffling.

Between blowing our nose on coarse cafeteria napkins, we spent the morning following the Red Sox-Yankees battle on Gameday, the not-quite-live online broadcast of the game, complete with Vic 20 ghetto-graphics.

Jew-in-the-house Gabe Kapler got the game-winning hit to propel the Sox to a comeback victory over the Yankees. As a result of the win, the Sox took the first series of the year. Wee-hoo!

What were we doing when we were thirteen years-old? Playing JV soccer. Yes. Going to school dances. Yes. Making pornos. No. Then again we didn't grow up in New York City. We lived in Eastbumfuck. Thanks, mom and dad.

He's looking for a girl who can bang, she's looking for a guy with fame. Yes, these two are a match made in heaven. May the international sex symbol and his Nubian princess live happily ever.

Anytime Quentin Tarantino appears on a talk show he seems to be amped up on substances settled between the bathroom tiles at Show -- his appearance last night on Conan O' Brien was no exception.

The red-headed host, who vibrates with intense energy (the cause more nerdy than Columbian), looked in hibernation sitting beside the Tasmanian director. The weird-voiced oafish gaijin is so uncool and hyper -- is there a more awesome guy in Hollywood? He's the anti-Douglas. The guy smoking outside the party with the catering staff, who could easily be lugging out the garbage as he feverishly explains to Julio, the bartender, why Carl Weathers is underrated. A born blogger, to be sure.

One more day until Tarantino's Kill Bill: Volume 2 hits theaters. C'est ca que j'm. That's French for I'm lovin' it.

Listening to Red Sox skipper Terry Francona explain why he didn’t have Jason Varitek sacrifice bunt with two-on and no-outs in extra innings Sunday let us know he's perfectly in step with the front office’s Moneyballian philosophy. Unlike Gr…sorry, still can’t bear to utter the joker’s name.

One thought about Moneyball. The just-released paperback version includes a new afterword by author Michael Lewis. In it he vehemently answers his critics. In doing so he let his emotions get the best of him -- he lost his composure and grace; both of which had shone through in each proceeding chapter.

Indeed, Lewis went from looking cool and confident in the batter's box to swinging at everything, or rather swinging at everyone. Why go blow for blow with a moron like Joe Morgan?

The calm discipline that made Moneyball have the air of “revolution as a state of fact” was replaced with wasted aggression at those who still failed to understand that a revolution had taken place.

We know what Oakland A’s GM Billy Beane, the straight-shooting subject of Lewis’ book, would say of the author’s defense in the new afterword: "trying to do too much, trying too do much." (Of course, he'd also say thanks for making the whole effing book about me, a-hole.)

The lesson to be learned: don't keep selling after you've already made the deal. Still, the book was a big time home run. Just hate to see the game end on a strikeout.

We're so excited about NBC's replacement for Frasier -- the hilarious-looking new sitcom First Sisters? According to an NBC executive, Barbara and Jenna's characters are said to closely resemble these two female siblings.

Went to see my guru. Be back soon.

Our friends over at slower.net have some great photos from a marvelous party that we weren't invited to. From the bottom of our unworthy little blogspot heart, we hope the creme de la creme of the New York "niche media scene/new york blog kru" choke on their steak tartare at Megu or Hearth or wherever the fuck they're dining this weekend. Little trust-fund deuchebags, telling everyone what the hell is cool in the East Village. This is my city. This is my dance floor. You naked butt-ass jobettes. No, that's okay, we're firing ourselves.

To Do This Weekend: Drive Traffic to Gawker

• Go to Borders and pick up The Scandal of Ms. Hesser and Ms. Chai: A Wardrobe Malfunction On The Upper West Side.
• Clone pussy.
• Search the Kinja digests of hundreds of thousands of bloggers, scanning for Blubox.

Blubox Gets Loathsome

Step one. Read this entry from the list of 50 Most Loathsome New Yorkers by the editors of the New York Press:

32
James Frey
Author

IT STILL BOGGLES the brain that so many fell for this brawny brat's 2003 rehab memoir, A Million Little Pieces. Clearly there's a huge audience starved for dimestore, parodic Hemingway machismo. And Frey, the self-proclaimed "greatest writer of his generation," is the man to give it to them. He boasts about getting in real old-time fistfights with his fellow junkie patients and about beating a priest almost to death for daring to touch Frey's very masculine thigh—classic 1930s retro-prose, homoerotic and homophobic at once. His characters are as anachronistic as his writing.

Step Two. Read these excerpts taken from the same article by the editors of the New York Press:

If only Andrew Dice Clay could have jumped out of the front row with two sets of brass knuckles.

There's no other way to say this: The "fab five" are the most annoying faggots we've ever seen on television.

Lester Bangs would have vomited down this guy's shirt before shaking his hand.

Now say you don't want to see Angelina Jolie smash his nuts into five easy pieces.

It's that Lipton has become so obsessed with full-penetration starfucking…

Just because you've gone to Arkansas and fisted a cow…

She handed the reins to Choire Sicha—yes, folks, that's pronounced "Cory", and yes, it's a dude—who turned Gawker into an unreadable circle-jerk..

We knew Leonard Albert Kravitz was a lip-glossed prima donna who spent two hours a day touching himself in front of a full-length mirror…

Or maybe he was pounding his pud or taking a nap…

You win, dick.

It’s hard not to root against this smirking, center-left prick…

Hey, Gene: Suck our cancer sticks.

When not crooning school-girl poetry (see "We Are All Made of Stars") or desecrating classic punk songs between hissy fits on stage, the techno prophet cum vegan ethicist of the early 90s is schooling credulous fans on a wide range of contemporary issues.

It should shock us that the bitch still has a job.

Donald Trump's contribution to the war on HIV consists of having his supermodel prostitutes tested before going in bareback.

Flocker became the first person on Earth to formally codify the disgusting ethos of the self-hating, self-castrating consumerist vanity craze known as metrosexuality, in which men frantically unload their disposable incomes to become high-octane transvestites.

Is there a heart still beating beneath that tight, leathery exterior? Or was it replaced with a bionic annoying bitch machine?

Hemingwho? Hemingwhat? Yep, our brains are boggled.