After you read the column ("La Dolce Musto"), you often come across a little note demanding you swing over here to the blog ("La Daily Musto"). Well, now that you're here, I'm begging you to get right back to the column! (It's called cross-pollination, folks. You can do both. After all, I did both—and I'm not even tired.) This week, the column's particularly dripping with creative and other juices, seeing as it's the first half of "the Daddy Diaries: Hot Sex in the Golden Years," about my own sexploits as an aging, raging stud in adult diapers. See, some time ago, I finally decided to cash in on my mid-level notoriety and get some unspeakably raunchy action out of it. It felt like my last chance to do so, so I gamely started dropping all sorts of defenses (and other things) and letting it fly with a vengeance. And now, having had so much remarkable late-life sex in public, I've decided to bring my whoring to an even wider audience by writing about it in scintillating detail. The least you can do is add to my humiliation by reading it!
People are getting so antsy for Hillary to get the fuck out of the race already that this quest has even inspired a slew of epic poems. Well, all right, just one epic poem. But I have it right here for you, in all of its passion and ire, and it'll SEEM like a bunch of epic poems because it says everything that needs to be said about how extremely over the Hill we are. As an extra bonus, it's inspired by the Dr. Seuss classic, "Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now!"—but I'm sure you knew that.
So I wanted to clear the air about my departure from the withering 'Hot Mess' party [Sundays at Porky's]. I saw it written in some gay rag that I was fired for stealing money. Actually, I was the first of a long list of people to quit the party. Acid Betty, Logan, Preston, and now James Coppola have quit without getting paid. That almost happened to me too, but I went into the register and got my pay before leaving."
So before you all call someone a hot mess for getting out of Hot Mess, please check out the REASONS why they went into the register.
I've now had a few hours to get myself off the floor and re-review the Tony nominations announced this morning and realize that, seeing as I got 44 out of 56 right, they MUST be pretty spot-on. It's a respectable, inclusive batch of nominees—yay for August: Osage County, Gypsy, In The Heights, and Mary McCormack—though, of course, the seething omissions are what I always love to dwell on. Somehow there was no Kevin Kline, who always opens too early in the season to be remembered for his textured brilliance. Nothing for the black Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, which was an interesting mess, but without one outstanding factor for nominators to seize on. Not much love for the divinely challenging Top Girls, which was a love/leave proposition. Utter hatred for Young Frankenstein, which only got three nominations thanks to a backlash against Mel's $450 ego. (Even its original songs lost out to the ones for The Little Mermaid). Cold contempt for A Catered Affair, which was squeezed out in Best Musical by the much livelier Cry-Baby. (By the way, hooray for Cry-Baby. The show was unfairly compared to Hairspray, though it's a funfest all its own.) And nothing for the ineligible flop Glory Days—or as drag stars Mimi Imfurst and Eve Starr call it, Glory DAY.
Kudos to the Tony comittee for not automatically going for any big name who would beef up the public interest in the telecast. They resolutely didn't nominate Morgan Freeman, Terrence Howard, Frances McDormand, James Earl Jones, Laura Linney, or Megan Mullally. As a result, the Tony show may have toilety ratings, but it'll have integrity, and that's the main thing you need in the the-ah-ter (in addition to hard candies without wrappers that make a lot of noise)!
Does anyone understand one thing scarily talented comeback-kid Robert Downey Jr. says in Iron Man? As he mumblingly tosses off remarks, trailing off at the end of every sentence, he makes it all sound vaguely witty, so everyone has assumed it absolutely must be. But what the fuck is he saying? (And I will not accept “Give me my drugs NOW!” as a serious answer.)
Ellis Nassour's exhaustive book, Patsy Cline: Honky Tonk Angel, has gotten even more exhaustive. It's being rereleased in a matter of moments with some extra material which Nassour has tracked down in his tireless quest to present 100% of the pioneering country queen who went so "Crazy" she was often found "Walking After Midnight" looking for more hit records.
As Nassour tells me: "I had access to 25 letters Patsy wrote to a beloved friend, and in vivid detail in several of them she talks about the mental and physical abuse inflicted on her by [hubby] Charlie Dick. However, in spite of her sister's constantly telling people that Patsy was planning to divorce Charlie, in the last letter Patsy writes that's he seems to be changing and is better to her. So I guess there was hope.
"Also, two women from different parts of the country came forward to say that their fathers were actually Patsy's father. With all my research, I have concluded that the first woman's father is actually Patsy's father and that the marriage of Patsy's mother Hilda to Sam Hensley was basically a sham marriage [that he might actually have been paid to marry her]. Patsy was born six days after the wedding! Also, a bit darker, it seems that Sam did or tried to do some hanky panky on Patsy!
And, re: the second woman's claims, it appears that 'Saint' Hilda, while married to Sam with Patsy about a year to two-years-old, continued to see this woman's father, a very wealthy West Virgina gent."
Honey, I'm more confused than a trailer-park girl who's just found out her father is her brother, but honey, I'm gonna get the new book and go "crazy" lapping up all this grand new old dirt!
Janice Dickinson stopped by Hiro Ballroom last night to mix with her target demographic, the gays. I greeted the irrepressible minx by the bathroom, where we chatted, naturally, about how great we both looked. When I told her my secret is Vitamin E oil, Janice said, "But Colacello's an Italian name. It must be OLIVE oil." As she pranced into the loo, I realized the kook had thought I was writer Bob Colacello the whole time! She re-emerged about 10 minutes later, by which time she'd seen the light (no doubt in addition to hundreds of gays peeing and doing coke). "I know you're not Bob Colacello!" Janice purred, graciously removing her pedicured foot from her lacquered mouth. A nice gesture—but AM I Bob Colacello? If the original supermodel says so, I'm starting to think it must be true.
A friend of mine with an unerring sense of what's going to top the charts swears that the next big thing—this summer's "Umbrella," as it were—will be "I Kissed a Girl" by 23-year-old Californian pop rocker Katy Perry. The song has Perry drunkenly smooching a babe and liking it, while hoping her boyfriend doesn't whoop her ass. It's a nice sentiment, certainly better than her last one, "Ur So Gay," which engaged in that awful trend popularized by Kelly Osbourne—the one where the g word is used as an epithet. So check out Perry's song and see it you feel blissfully kissed by her or if it's too gay and she should stick to penises.
More important than who gets the silly, old Democratic nomination is who will nab the TONY nominations (which will be announced tomorrow; you'll know it when all theater queens suddenly start shrieking, crying, and saying "What the fuck?"). So here are my seasoned guesses—though I may be at a pronounced disadvantage because I've actually seen the shows.
I was just looking through some of the blurbs from the villagevoice.com homepage describing my recent columns. (Yes, I actually write a column, folks. This blog is sort of a side venture—like trapping moths.) It occurred to me in a stroke of brilliant observation that so very many of the blurbs don't have much to do with neurosurgery or international politics. In fact, they generally are concerned with celebrity genitals and the filthy things they do with them. I was horrified as I glanced at the turdy blurbs, which literally hit below the belt as they aimed to lasso readers in the crassest, most dehumanizing way imaginable. Among the lowest ones:
I was all set to complain to the bigshots here about the LCD-ing of my work, until realizing (a) These blurbs perfectly capture the column. (b) They DO ensnare people to click. And (3) I wrote them myself! So bravo to me and my prolific pussy! Give me ideas for some other ones!
At one point, I got a NICE letter from the home, saying they still had some of dad's things and I should come pick them up. I schlepped all the way down there and had to wait 30 tedious minutes for them to find someone to get the stuff—mostly useless T shirts—out of storage. The emerging pain in my ass—uncovered by insurance—was getting more pronounced than ever. Months later, I got a whole other note saying there were yet more of dad’s belongings to pick up! After confirming this unlikely scenario with a phone call, I once again trekked all the way to south Brooklyn, only to sit there whimpering for almost an hour as the inept employees engaged in a comic scramble to find the haul. They weren’t even sure what it was! They couldn’t even find the woman who’d sent the notice! And she never responded to my messages, nor did the home’s director!
Alas, there was no trace of the stolen money either, but a letter came about that too. Not surprisingly, it said they’d looked around and couldn’t seem to find it. "The investigation involved a search of Mr. Musto’s room, closet, and surrounding areas," said the notice. Yeah, that’s how they stole it in the first place!
Note to self: Get hit by a truck on 70th birthday. Make sure it’s a clean hit.
Montgomery Clift was the original Lindsay Lohan—he was the first uninsurable actor in Hollywood! On top of that, Marilyn Monroe said he was the only person more screwed up than she was, and that was extremely screwed up, folks. He, of course, was the brooding, beautiful star of films like From Here to Eternity and A Place in the Sun who was deeply tortured and who suffered for his craft (not to mention from a car accident). So there's no doubt that Monty's life would make for a riveting drama. And sure enough, here comes the play: The Rarest of Birds, coming to the Wings Theatre starting June 1.
Says the release: “He spoke six languages. Elizabeth Taylor begged him to marry her. He was friends with Picasso, Matisse and Gertrude Stein... HE was Montgomery Clift, the subject of an upcoming play penned by playwright and actor John Lisbon Wood and starring Omar Prince...The show is a must see for students of cinema, the Golden Era of Hollywood, movie buffs and historians, archivists of gay life and all theater aficionados.” And even some straight people!
I ran into the legendary Harvey Fierstein on the street in the theater district and told him I was looking for a place to eat. "Go to Ciro," he recommended. "Ask for Massimo," he added, smirking. "Give him a blow job and you'll get dessert.". . .
Instead, I ended up at a Drama Desk event where I met the woman who plays Miranda's maid on Sex and the City. (She's Lynn Cohen, according to a comenter below. Thanks for the info that google didn't provide!) Cohen told me she's preparing to do a stage revival of Uncle Vanya with Peter Dinklage. "He's an old friend," she related. "Eventually, all friends get together. There's only 10 of us, you know..."
Meanwhile, my old friend Gina Gershon bravely includes Showgirls in her bio for Broadway's Boeing Boeing. As well she should—she rocked as Crystal! And now, back to Massimo.
No, wait, before dessert, we have to deal with the entree that everyone sent back. It was Glory Days, which closed on opening night, and while no one's rejoicing about it, it IS kind of fun to have an old-style flop, the kind they don't have anymore now that shows are so expensive they're carefully tested and marketed before they hit Broadway. What were they thinking with this one? It was written by and starred 20-somethings and was billed as young-young-younger-than-springtime, but the script's treatment of the "gay problem" was so stale and cobwebby it might have been written by 90-year-olds. And NOW back to Massimo.
Then came the bills—which we paid—and then the duplicate bills, which subtly strained to look new and unattended, but you can’t fool THIS cheapo. Next came a lab bill which said the insurance wouldn’t cover it—though they bizarrely had the wrong insurance company listed in tiny type! Then (let’s call it) Lutheran sent another bill, but I called and informed them we had already paid that amount. They obviously weren't listening because a collection agency then sent a notice demanding the very same sum. I wrote them back saying that I had the fucking canceled check in hand! They promptly dropped that, but sent a bill for a whole other amount—one that had never been brought up before! I sent them a letter asking for an explanation, but all I got in return was Lutheran coming up with a whole OTHER fee! Strangely, this was the first time they’d mentioned THIS whopping amount in the seventh months since my parents had left the place! And then came yet another all-new bill, plus they had someone calling us about that old amount—the one I had the canceled check for! If the folks had to deal with all these scams and loopholes on their own, they’d probably be homeless by now—but at least they’d be eligible for Medicaid.
Once the gays stopped going to South Beach, it became necessary for tropical-shirted homos to schlepp all the way to Fort Lauderdale for an occasional gathering of fruitcakes. So why not celebrate Gay Pride there? Can you bear to miss New York's Pride parade with its gogo boys, faded dance stars, and showboating politicians, not to mention the moment of silence for AIDS (which my friend always talks through)? No, you can't—but you weren't going to go anyway. So head to Lauderdale, hon. It's warm and festive and very inviting. In fact, they want you there so badly they've even sent me a press release BEGGING you to come. (So much for pride.)
It was inevitable, folks. Someone has spoofed my spoof of Lindsay Lohan's spoof of Marilyn Monroe. And it's brilliant! Feast your eyes on Glace Chase as Michael Musto as Lindsay Lohan as Marilyn. I have no idea who Glace Chase is, but he certainly has balls, and he wisely doesn't bother to hide them. And now the field is wide open for all you daredevil copycats out there. Come on, all freaks and fetishists. Do YOU have the cojones to serve the world You as Glace as Me as Lindsay as Marilyn? As if!
A week later, it became clear that dad was gonna finally get out of the nursing center—basically because the insurance wouldn’t pay up anymore. They'd obviously done SOME quality work for him to have exultantly made it to freedom, but the social worker claimed it was illegal that the staff hadn’t first checked the house to see if he’d be safe there. Fine, I could add that to my imaginary 100-page lawsuit—the one I’d file if I weren’t teetering on emotional collapse myself.
Emergency 24-hour aid, paid for by charity, was sent—for my folks, not for me—and I was thrilled. But they stopped coming after three days because my parents weren’t eligible for Medicaid! (Sidebar: To qualify for that, you have to either piss away all your assets or hide them away and act poor. You must be either a sad old loser or a tricky old codger—and there are lawyers instructing you on exactly how to do so. They’ll even help you along on that goal by taking very large fees!)
The social worker’s organization promptly sent over someone with a handy list of their approved home-care agencies that charge big bucks to keep you company. Desperate, I called one of the agencies, but they informed me, “We’re not licensed to do any lifting. He would have to get up and walk by himself.” But he can barely move! That’s why we need help! Another firm said their workers will not under any circumstance perform hygiene-related tasks. I guess they could talk you through it, though. (“Go on, wipe your heinie. Come on, move your ass to the bathroom and grab some paper...”) I finally found a place with helpers who supposedly did lifting, cleaning, and everything else—for your entire life’s fortune. I started keeping my coat on at nightclubs to save a few dollars a night.
Anyone else getting a little queasy over the way Hillary's reinvented herself as an advocate for the everyday working Joe who's having trouble filling that grocery bag and gas tank with what's left of the week's pay? As if this isn't just a pose designed to get her into the White House (either now or in four years) so she can rub noses with all the bigwigs and payback receivers she's longing to get in bed with! And besides, if America is the land of opportunity and hope, as Hill keeps saying, why are those who've benefited from that and actually achieved their goals--i.e. successful people--portrayed by her as negligible or sometimes plain evil beings who need to be milked or brought down? Because they don't constitue that many popular votes?...On a lighter note, who in the hideous McGreevey battle are we supposed to root for? He, who seized on wifey as a beard to further his political cause, banging her occasionally to either procreate or to get closer to the man in the three-way? Or she, who aligned herself to a rising star to live a pampered life in the spotlight, then claimed complete ignorance when she finally got the memo the entire world had already digested? I say they should both go to hell! And I'm sure Hillary, in her "bring down the prosperous" campaign, would totally agree!
Britney Spears' life would surely make for a fabulous Greek tragedy—even though HER idea of one is a Greek salad with too much feta cheese—but can the pop tart's bizarre plight constitute a tragiCOMEDY? Maybe, if the facts are altered a little bit for a more dramatically pleasing arc and a professional actress plays the role.
That's what's apparently happened with Steven Levenson's Girls Day, or Britney and Tara Stare Into the Void and the Void Stares Back, the play with the unwieldy title, coming to Ace of Clubs (9 Great Jones Street) starting May 11.
The plot? Well, in case you haven't picked up a tabloid in the last year and taken drugs and used your imagination, here goes: "Dateline: L.A. March 21, 2007. Britney Spears checks out of Promises Treatment Center after a one-month stint. So what's next for the derailed pop princess? GIRLS DAY, natch! Britney calls up gal pal Tara Reid to join her for one special, unforgettable day. An American tragedy, with special guest appearances by Jayden James, Sean Preston, a publicist, a social worker and, of course, K-Fed."
They had me until that last part. While I suspect off-Broadway is just where Britney belongs (and actually started, in a musical called Ruthless), I fear it's way too good for Mr. FedEx!
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