Hulk Hogan has left the building. File photo by Alissa Christine

Whenever I mention what I do for a living, I often find myself on the business end of an inevitable question — “Oh, so you’re like a male Carrie Bradshaw, huh?” Admittedly, I have yet to come up with an appropriate response to that little verbal quandary. For one thing, merely acknowledging that you know who’s Carrie Bradshaw is enough to get you thrown off the blue team for life. For another, the fact that I know who Mr. Big is too, well, that’s just a little disturbing. To compound the quagmire, there do exist some amazing similarities. Upon an outing with one of my more high-maintenance lovers, I once found myself transubstantiated into the form of high-fashion purse. My pockets bulged with all manner of her personal effects, from driver’s license to cell phone, and no, that was not my mascara. Aside from that coincidental analogy, I too enjoy pontificating on the male and female sexual dynamic. Take, for instance, a recent conversation between me and a female acquaintance who insisted on attributing my perpetual bouts of boredom and existentialism to a lack of a singular, serious and committed monogamous relationship. Her argument for this ridiculous position was simple: The right woman would do me a world of good. Not only does this theory completely contradict every life experience I have ever had, but am I really supposed to believe that by some miracle of nature, this supposed “right woman” would accomplish what years of Adderall and pot have failed to do? Ah, the naiveté.

Another Carrie Bradshaw Quandary

I have this lover who keeps leaving her underwear scattered in locations throughout my apartment. I think she does this deliberately in the hopes that some other woman, upon finding the lacy threads, would then assume I was less than monogamous, and perhaps some sort of player. If her dastardly plan prevailed (Operation Victoria’s Secret Hiding Places) she would then have me all to herself. The thing is, I can’t tell if I should be angry or grateful. I can, however, tell that that last sentence can be interpreted in any number of ways.

Hogan Doesn’t Know Best

It’s almost as naive as giving your teenage son a supercharged high-performance vehicle and expecting him to drive the speed limit. As most of us know by now, the Hulkster’s son, Nick Hogan, was involved in a serious car accident that resulted in him and his longtime friend, John Graziano, being airlifted to the hospital. Graziano remains in critical condition. What you might not know is that, while the Hogans packed up their belongings (except of course the $100,000 worth of jewelry that was jacked from their North Bay Road home) and headed toward the Redneck Riviera, another more famous celeb was getting ready to move in. That’s right, my favorite Autobot, Transformers director Michael Bay, has purchased the former Hogan abode for a reported $18.9 million. The Hogans paid about $12 million for the home. Hmmm, four B-list celebs for one A-list director — I don’t know about you, but I count that as a win-win situation by any definition.

Owen No!

The National Enquirer is reporting that the mysterious hospitalization of actor Owen Wilson is the result of a botched suicide attempt. According to reports, the 38-year-old actor slashed both his wrists in an effort to end his life. While recovering in an L.A. hospital, Wilson was visited by his brother Luke and actor Samuel L Jackson. Through a statement, the Wilson clan asked the media to respect Owen’s privacy so he could “receive care and heal in private.”

Owens Yes!

Well, if you’ve been wondering why Dallas Cowboys football player Terrell Owens has been hanging out with Tommy Pooch at the Delano lately, let me tell you why. It seems T.O. will be pissing off fans from the 305, seeing as he has just purchased a new home in the Magic City. Geez, why can’t Michael Vicious Inhumane Canine Killer be more like T.O.?

The (Soon-to-Be) Born Identity

Matt Damon, who was recently spotted buying one of those stand-up paddle boards at the Quicksilver shop on Lincoln Road, is about to be a daddy again. Damon’s wife, Luciana Barroso, an Argentine beauty whom he met in a South Beach nightclub, is reportedly three months pregnant with the couple’s second child.

Mynting Euros

It’s funny how fickle we can be. When Nicola Siervo and Rony Seikaly were still part of the Mynt family, the ultra lounge was the “it” place to be. Then the pair parted ways from their third Mynt partner and together formed Mokaï. After that, if you even mentioned Mynt as a possible destination, you were looked on as less than in the know and ostracized from the cool clique. These days, however, Mynt seems to be back on the “it” list. Despite the never-ending string of men kissing each other on both cheeks and the shittiest euro house you’ve ever heard, the club is once again thriving and on a recent Saturday was at capacity. That isn’t some bullshit bouncer line either; the fire marshal was in the house and making rounds ensuring the crowd outside was almost as big as the one inside. With Rokbar set to open any minute now, we can only assume the fire hazards are just going to get worse. Thank God for the discerning, pretentious eye of Oliver, huh? Who the hell is Oliver? Well, he’s the guy you should pretend to know if you want to get in. As in “Door by Oliver,” which is what all the promotional materials for the club read. Why they don’t just print “pretentious asshole in a suit at the door” is beyond me.

Spotted

*Andy Garcia wearing a guayabera and sandals as he and his family dined at DeVito South Beach on Sunday night

*DJ AM (I’m supposed to care) manning the decks on Friday night at Mansion

*Producer and Neptunes bad boy Pharrell Williams, who will be giving you something to bump to in the upcoming months, pulling up, in his Bentley, to the Marlin, where he is reportedly recording some new tracks.

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