Something Smells Musto

You know how you have this thing you like but you forget about it? Like a certain restaurant or listening to classical music or a friend who never calls, but when you do see her, you have the best time? That's how I am with Michael Musto. I love his column. He cracks my shit up, for real, yo. But I don't read the Village Voice anymore, and I forget that it's online. So, there I am, floating through life, missing the wit and bile that is "La Dolce Musto," until I happen upon a link to the Voice and think, hey! The only thing I like in this rag is Musto! And then I laugh, laugh, laugh. I also feel like my life is terribly boring and I'm a big old nobody. I mean, if you want to be somebody, you've got to be cool enough to be mentioned by Michael Musto. Even if he insults you, at least he knew you were there. And that's something.

I walked by him on the street once and was struck by the fact that he was wearing a striped scarf in summer. Then I saw him at a party for Paper magazine that the planner helped me crash. I tried to stand in his sightline and look interesting, but that was lame, and I was more interested in watching Sandra Bernhard scream at the milling trendoids to shut up so she could sing. I want to scream at trendoids. That would be a dream come true.

Speaking of seeing and being seen, I'm venturing out to the land of smoke-free club life on Friday for Contempt. I even bought a feathery, sequined purple mask for the occasion ($6.48, beat that!). I can only hope that the good people of Jekyll & Hyde have come up with some loophole (read: will look the other way) so I can enjoy my Newports with impunity. I don't know what I'll do if I come home not smelling like an ashtray. It's all too healthy for me. Bah.