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Few and far between are the times when someone of note actually returns my calls (remember, Gawker is evil, and not to be cooperated with!), so you can only imagine how my bowels froze when, upon answering my phone yesterday evening, I heard, Jessica, this is Vincent Gallo.

Allow me to explain.

Yesterday, I called Gallo (why I have his cell number still leaves me perplexed) and left a message asking for comment on rumors that he had left New York for good and whether or not the he used a stunt penis for that infamous scene in Brown Bunny. 5 hours later, homeboy actually calls me back — I just happen to be shopping (obviously stocking up on the new spring corals). No worries, though, because I've got a pen and paper. Vincent makes it very clear that he's recording the conversation himself, because he knows Gawker has been very mean to him in the past. Well, not me, Vincent, I m the third editor, I lie, but he responds, I know exactly who you are, Jessica. Oh, fuck. Ha.

I start to jot notes on a pile of Capri pants as he begins his ramble regarding Jacob Christner, the fellow who has come forth to claim that he acted as Gallo s stunt cock. It's odd having so many men obsessed with my penis. If I had a more normal-sized penis, none of this would have ever happened, he says. I have never met Jacob Christner... His lie and fantasy is strange, though, as there was a woman, Mrs. Christner, who I think had a son named Jacob. Her job was to blow me all day long while I set up the cameras and lights. Mrs. Christner was a great sport, she also helped me rehearse for my newest film, Mrs. Christner's First Anal. Strange Jacob would dream of being my body double, knowing what his mom did and all." Ah, okay. Thanks for clearing that up, Vincent.

We move on to reports that he s left New York, which are true. As of two weeks ago, he is a new resident of Los Angeles (Beverly Hills, to be exact). "People in LA are so self-absorbed, they leave you alone, he explains. In New York, Vincent felt he could never get anything done finding a metric bolt, for instance, was a challenge for him. He s gone for good, apparently: "I have to go to New York for something in a few weeks. After that, I don't plan on going East of Kansas City, ever again." Not even to visit Chloe, I assume.

I think we ve wrapped up business, but Gallo isn t done. He wants to know why I ve been so mean to him and so critical of Brown Bunny — which, admittedly, I haven t seen. I don t know, I say. I guess I just hate blow jobs. Vincent likes my answer and laughs, says something pervy, and I shiver. I try to then defend my analysis of why Brown Bunny was such a problem for people and, more importantly, why I m such an impudent trollop, but it s hard to get a word in edgewise. The man is a talker, no debate there.

Before long, I know the names and careers of everyone on the Bunny crew, the winners of Sundance that year, why the liberal media is anything but, and suddenly we re having a friendly discussion on the state of popular culture in America. I have no idea what the fuck is going on, but Gallo s become cheerful, if not a wee bit manic.

My head is spinning. I leave the store and head out onto Lexington Avenue, where a homeless man yells at me while I pace back and forth. Vincent is still talking with the alarming speed; I ve got one bar left on my cell phone and now we re having a casual discussion about his retirement, my career plans (um, hadn't ever thought about THOSE), what qualifies as art these days, and how he can spend more time with his dog. As our forty-five minute conversation draws to a close, we touch again upon the way he s been represented in the press (who are, he earlier noted, lowlifes ). I would love to have someone INTELLIGENTLY insult or criticize me, he laughs.

The gauntlet is thrown.