The Sweet Snark of Michael Musto

Sent the following email to Michael Musto:

Many years ago, when I first moved to New York, I had never heard of the Village Voice or Michael Musto, and I had no knowledge of the concept of "blind items". I sent you an email begging you to reveal the super-secret-secretude behind some random item I had read in your column.

And you wrote me back.

You didn't reveal anything, of course, but you wrote me back! I didn't think much of it at the time, but later on, as I discovered how huge you are on the gossip circuit and New York scene, it always struck me as kind of marvelous that you took the time to respond to a random weirdo asking for more juice.

So I just wanted to say thanks. In an age where assholic pink-haired insult comics are making huge chunks of change exploiting "celebutards", you seem to be an actual down-to-earth normal(ish) human being. That's pretty cool.

And then in just a few hours, I got this:

Trish:

I will prove once again that I am normal(ish) by responding to you again. Thank you for your kind words. I am always delighted to answer nice comments from people who actually read my stuff or are aware of me in any form!

Thanks for staying in touch after all these years.

Best
Michael Musto

I know I'm kinda odd, but I just thought that was neat.

Claptrap and Poop

God what a learning experience the past week or so has been. I've been so busy living it and processing it I haven't had time (or desire) to write about it. For some reason, though, I feel obligated to share some highlights.

Just for a sec, though, I'd like to note how strange that is. Share with whom? The few (very few) people who read this bloody thing already know what's going on, for the most part. Or if they don't...well, of course there are some things I'd love to write about but I can't. I kind of miss being more anonymous on this thingamajig. I feel now that if I write about or to people that know me, without talking to them first, well...that's a little bit passive-aggressive, ya know?

Okay. So my article got killed. We already talked about this, so I can write about it. I'm pissed. I'm disappointed. I somewhat understand the reasoning, but not entirely. I had time and ego invested, so it sorta sucks. I'm not in your shoes, so I can't really know the feelings behind the action. I'm not judging, though. I'm staying on my side of the fence without blame. So those bits of sadness and anger? They're not directed at you, they're just there.

I feel like a dating retard. But then I realize I'm much better at it than I thought I was. Case in point: met a guy, had a connection, went out. Made out. But for some reason didn't let him come home with me. Parts of me wanted to. Very. Specific. Parts. But I didn't. Went out again. Talked on the phone. I quickly realized that the more I got to know him, the less I liked him. I decided that he and I could never date...but we could have some really good sex. So then I had a choice. Did I want to see this guy again solely for the good times and the good times? Considering the only time I thought about him in the last few days was right now, I guess the answer to that is "no".

Found an apartment. Love it love it love it. BUT. I put a bid on it and I still have yet to hear back. They're having an open house tomorrow. I decided not to go because I don't want to witness a bunch of people traipsing through "my" apartment. I really hope it doesn't escalate to a bidding war, because I'm sure I'll LOSE.

Bidding on the apartment brought up a fun little host of issues. I want to move. I don't want to move. I hate my neighborhood. I'm comfy there. My apartment doesn't fit me. I love my space. My street is noisy. I'm going to miss the ruckus. It's just a building. I'm going to miss my super. And my elevator men. I want to move. Do I deserve to move? Am I throwing money away? Should I wait until I'm going to live with somebody so as not to have to go through this all over again? I have to find office space! I can't afford office space. I need more clients. I feel tapped out in pursuing.

Even I find that thought process annoying. I can't imagine how boring it must be to any poor schmuck reading this claptrap.

Alright. I'm off to (finally) write my April newsletter. It's all about poop. Yay for poop!

The Mysterious Book Club Lady

I work at Starbucks. What I mean is, I schlep my computer, power cord, books, phone, and other detritus around to various Starbucks locales in the city and get most of my "business" done while numbing my ass on one of their oh-so-comfy chairs.

I particularly like the one on Park Avenue and 29th street.

This one is my recent favorite for many reasons. Although it's within walking distance, it's far enough out of my immediate neighborhood to be relatively free of the "Murray Hill" vibe. Lisa works in the building upstairs, so sometimes she'll pop down to say hi and hang out for a little while. There are a ton of tables (several big ones) and a plethora of outlets. But best of all are the characters.

There are these two older women who frequent this location. They dress all in black and they lug giant rolling suitcases behind them. They sit at a table and apply blush. Always. That's all they do is put on makeup. Like a POUND of it. Their cheeks are so pink it's like they got hit in the face with a clown.

There's the 2by2.net or yorvoice people. They're a scam operation pyramid MLM scheme. I like to mess with them. I interrupt their sales pitches and tell all their marks exactly what's up. Oh boy do they hate me to pieces. On the other hand, the manager hates them and loooooooves me. I haven't seen them in here since the last time I made a scene at them. Hee. I think I scared them away.

Then there's the book club lady. I've only seen her twice. I'm guessing she comes once a month (typical book club thing). She arrives with satchels and spends at least twenty minutes arranging the space. She pulls together tables and chairs and lays out a veritable FEAST of food. She brings fruits and candies and cakes and crackers and chips and a whole host of goodies. She props up the books, and last time she even put out a sign. And then she takes pictures. She marks the occasion by photographing her spread. I imagine she's got a scrapbook or even a website somewhere. "Our Group" - April 2007.

The first time I saw her, the club yielded a good turnout. There were probably around eight people who showed up for the evening. I eavesdropped a little bit, because it was such a curious conglomeration. I surmised they had all responded to a post on craigslist, and hadn't known each other before that meeting. They were a weird crew, but it was kind of sweet how they all came together that night.

Tonight wasn't such a good showing. In fact, nobody showed. She set out the buffet, took her photos, and positioned herself squarely within eyesight of the entrance. She sat there for at least an hour with glasses perched on a nose buried in her book. She had one small slice of her giant lemon-iced cake. She ate a couple of Pringles and a few green grapes.

She didn't give up easily. In fact, I don't feel she gave up at all. She stayed here for so long, I imagine she must have stuck around for the entire appointed meeting time. She never got impatient and she never looked disappointed. She didn't sit there, drumming her fingers. She didn't check her phone to hunt people down. She sat. She nibbled. She read. Then she packed everything back in her bags, wiped the table clean, and walked out. She didn't look sad to me at all. She might have even had a faint smile on her lips.

After she left the Starbucks, she stopped. Right out front, on the other side of the glass directly in line with my table...she stopped. Sitting on the pavement there was one of the city's many indigent. You know, a homeless guy. A bum. The book club lady reached in her bag and began to give. She gave him the cookies and the chips. She handed over crackers and cake. She took the grapes out of the tupperware and gave those too. She stood on the sidewalk and gifted this man with all her food; the food meant for her book club full of no-shows.

I wasn't the only one who noticed her generosity. A whole group of girls who had noticed her earlier stood to marvel at her through the window. It really was stirring. The book club lady and the bum.

My eyes watered and welled. Her actions--her presence--they moved me. It was sad, beautiful, and joyful all at once. I'm so glad I was here to see it. I hope her next event has a warmer turnout. I hope she has a fulfilling night. Mine feels more fulfilled for having had her in it. Thanks, mysterious book club lady.