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.

Fuzz

I don't freaking know.

Transition transition. I'm starting to think that life is composed completely of transitions with no solid states in between.

Kay, anyway.

Everything is dangerous. I'm looking for something dangerous because everything is also far too safe.

Let's hope my brain is less swiss-cheesy somewhat soon.

Gobbledy Achoo

God laughs at me or karma bites me in the ass or something. The very day I bragged that I hadn't been sick in a couple of years...yeah, I gots a cold. The whole coughing, stuffy head thing. No fever (thank goodness). Robitussin has become my friend. I might need to run out for another bottle shortly. But then that would entail braving the cold and I'm not too keen on that foray.

During therapy last week, well, almost at the end of the session, which is wholly appropriate for me, I asked the real question: What's going on with me? Of course it took me almost the whole session to get there. Asking the right question at the right time isn't one of my skills. Well, sometimes it is, but not when it pertains to me.

So, what's going on with me? I don't know. Nothing bad...nothing good...nothing much happening...but not stagnation. I don't know. It's been chalked up to my "Saturn Returns" or merely the trapeze of transition, but that seems a titch glib. Although, maybe that's just it. Maybe there isn't really anything. It's just transition.

Okay, then. Transition sucks. I need a road map or something. I'm tired of trying to navigate blindfolded.

Someone want to loan me a housekeeper for a weekend?

Picture Peek

Finally got back to NY. Took the redeye (not recommended) on JetBlue (unreliable), although this time I only sat on the runway for 45 minutes rather than 10 and 1/2 hours. Being in the JetBlue terminal at JFK was total PTSD, though.

I worked the Oscar swag suites last Thursday and Friday. That was certainly interesting. It's so easy to get caught up in it all but thank god I kept a bit of cynical distance. What a trip. I was better at it than I thought I would be, but at least my lips didn't get chapped from too much ass-kissing. Granted, I was nicer than I authentically felt towards a few of the "celebs". But I guess that's the game. Some, especially the younger girls, were actually sweethearts. Only one was a royal pain in the ass (I'm talking to you, former Laverne & Shirley cast member. You're just plain mean lady.)

But the point of this post is the pictures. Wow, that was some alliteration there. Most of these are Joie photos, of course, as I was mainly documenting the migration. I'm not posting any of his show photos. You can see those over on Joie's blog. So here we go:

Forgot to post this one from the Maryland airport. Still can't believe we went to frigging Maryland in order to fly to L.A. Kee-razy.

Tuggin' luggage.

He looks all suspicious in the doorway

Texty in the Starbucksy

Out with my friends. Little Lindsay is getting married! To a great guy, Jason, who is sitting on the left there. After this photo we went to go see Jason play at the Viper room. Liked the venue a lot. Better than the Whiskey, that's for sure. You know what? They confiscated my gum at the Whiskey! My gum! Dangerous gum...

I seriously don't remember where I took this picture.

Pre-gig. Watching Joie do his eyeliner in the parking lot across from the Rainbow was hee-larious.

I like this photo. All moody and junk.

I've never seen anyone get so lounge-y and comfy in a passenger seat.

I think I've created a Carl's Jr. monster. Nah, he's probably back to staying away from fast food and carbs already.

I'm all teary-eyed behind the sunglasses. Thank god for sunglasses.

He's carting all his worldly possessions into his new place.

While I sit in the car and mope.

He keeps carting.

And I keep moping.

Moooooooopppppppee.

One last photo, with my eyes all glassy from crying.

And he waves bye-bye...

This is proving to be a difficult adjustment. I'm in grief right now. I'm a little (a little) surprised at how hard it was and is. I thought that after so many days together, we'd probably drive each other totally nuts and I'd be glad to go. But instead it was easier and more fun every day (even with my periodic crankiness or daily dose of eye-tearing). So, yeah, it's a toughie.

But I love my friend, and I want for him what makes him happy.

Heroic Stoic I'm Not

Crying easily and frequently and I don't like it. Not one little bit.

It feels out of control although I know it's not and it's natural. But really the only thing that is easy right now are those ready tears.

People, to me, are more than just their individual selves. Especially the men. Each man is not just a singular entity, but also representative of so much more. Not just other men, but also hopes, dreams, emotions...

So often they represent what is missing and not what is.

But is it really that they represent the lack? Perhaps it is instead that their presence serves to highlight what is in fact not present. I'm present...but very little else is.

And others? Others are miles and decades away. They're in the future or in the past: two states which I am guilty of frequenting as well. But not now. Now...I may not know where I am, but at least I know when.

Your questions are hard, sometimes; and sometimes they're not so nice. But yes, those things that are missing... Well, they are they are. That's not to say I'm incomplete. Maybe I am incomplete. I'm not looking for something else to fill that, though. I am looking for something else, but... Oh Christ I'm tripping over my own tongue (my own typing?) and hardly making any sense.

I had other things to say. I even wrote them down. Suddenly I'm clamming up. I wear my heart on my sleeve and my emotions are written all over my face in thick Sharpie. I wish I were a better liar.

I gently coax others out of stoicism; but right now I see their point.

Photo Update

The story so far (in photos)

Trapped on a plane for 11 hours...trapped in an airport for 29. We went from hostages to refugees.

We camped.

And camped.

And slept. I love this photo.

Shocked as shit to be in L.A. and already texting.

Going to my folks' house or going to the prom?

Rock star times two.

Is it happiness or delirium?

A little overtired and not even there for 4 hours yet and we're already headed out.

Never thought I'd see pale East Village boy on the beach. He's actually starting to get a little color.

I nullify veto power. Cuz I LIKE this pic.

Spooooky.

Wonder what tomorrow will bring...

What A Long Strange Trip It Still Is

I have pictures pictures pictures But not yet not yet not yet.

That's the problem with this house...my laptop to internet connection kinda blows.

You know what else kinda blows? The fact that I was stuck on the runway at JFK for almost eleven hours. Yeah, ya heard me. Joie and I were on one of those horrible JetBlue flights. JetBlows. Then we spent the night on the floor of the airport. Mmmm...JFK carpet. THEN we spent the next morning fighting through more lines (the lines the lines oh god so many lines). We gave up eventually and headed back to my place. Got some sleep thanks to Benadryl and then headed out in the cover of darkness for Maryland. Maryland! Because THAT WAS THE ONLY FLIGHT WE COULD GET. We went from Maryland to LAX. Fiasco is one word. Dumbass is another.

You've never lived until you've heard a pilot announce over the intercom:

Uh, folks? Our toilet tanks are at about 99% capacity right now. So, if you don't mind...anything less than "Number Two", PLEASE DON'T FLUSH.

Dude.

But we made it. I think my bodyclock is still adjusting. It's not even jetlag. It got to a point where my entire sense of time and place was fucked. Time was just a number. (Age ain't nothin' but a number, man.)

But now we're in LA LA Land. Strange place, this. Strange stuff, this. Here I am helping my friend do what I don't want him to do. I don't want him to move. Not at all. I want him to stay in NY and be my friend and live happily ever after. But what am I going to do, throw roadblocks in his path? No. I want the people I love to be happy, even if their choice is not my choice. So I'm helping. It's a bit of a mindfuck, though.

We've done so much already and we've only been here two and a half days. And there's still so much to do. Plus now my own opportunities to explore. I'll be sittin' with swag at the Kodak theatre Thursday and Friday. And I'm more determined than ever to develop the next workshop. The standalone.

But there are multiple conundrums. Conundri? Priorities and timelines are kicking my ass a little bit. Then we get into the essence of it altogether: what the fuck is it, even? Because I don't know what I'm working towards and it sure as hell don't spark me. Sometimes it does. Little sparks. Glimpses of the sparkly possibilities. But just...not.

Time and time again I've said that I don't care
That I'm immune to gloom, that I'm hard through and through
But every time it matters all my words desert me
And anyone can hurt me
And they do
So what happens now?
So what happens now?
Where am I going to?
Where am I going to?
Call in three months' time and I'll be fine, I know
Well maybe not that fine, but I'll survive anyhow
I won't recall the names and faces of this sad occasion
But that's no consolation here and now
So what happens now?
So what happens now?
Where am I going to?
Where am I going to?

Okay, that's not exactly appropriate and it's not exactly the whole song, but there are a few lines in there that fit really fucking well. See if you can figure out which ones. You get a lollipop if you guess right.

Practice Makes Possible

This has been a most interesting time. I feel in a way like I'm in rehearsal. This is practice for something else later on. I'm doing the prep work, that's for sure

I do believe that I'm setting the energetic stage - on more than just one level, too. Let's hope I'm not just spinning my wheels and that there is something else coming my way. I've grown far past effusive navel-gazing and intellectual masturbation. Well, maybe not the latter. I am writing this, after all.

But this better not be another pointless act. There's only so many times I can stomach that.

So. Working towards something, then? Oh bloody hell. What? Fuck the vision board, though, at least. That kind of claptrap makes me so frustrated. Perhaps its the cynical mind talking, but I just don't see how I would find it inspirational. It sounds demanding to me. Demanding of me.

You know what? The only thing I want right now is everything. That's not too much, is it? Or perhaps at the very least, my own table. My own space. Sometimes that IS too much to ask, though, I'm finding.